illustration: frontispiece. sir filmer hopewell.] village annals, containing austerus and humanus. a sympathetic tale. [illustration] embellished with fine engravings. _philadelphia_: published by johnson & warner, no. 147, market street. griggs & dickinsons, printers. 1814. village annals. [illustration] [sidenote: skaiting.] [sidenote: village ale-house.] it was in that season of the year when nature wears an universal gloom, and the pinching frost arrests the running stream in its course, and gives a massy solidity to the lake that lately curled with every breeze, that sir filmer hopewell, having lost his road in the dale of tiviot, was met by two youths that swiftly skimmed the surface of the slippery brook, and sought an antidote against the inclement cold in the wholesome though dangerous exercise of skaiting. of these hale and ruddy young villagers he enquired his road, or where he might meet with a lodging for the night, for the sun was declining in the shades of evening fast encompassing the dale. they directed him to the summit of a neighbouring hill, on the declivity of which there stood a small village, where probably he might meet with accommodation. though wearied and fatigued, this information gave him vigour, and he hastened up the hill, and soon beheld with pleasure, beheld the sign of the lion and dog; that on a lofty post invited to the village ale-house. he entered it a seasonable and salutary asylum from the wintry blast, and was conducted into a neat little parlour, with a cheerful fire. being seated, his host quickly made his appearance, with such refreshment as his house afforded. sir filmer, on his first entering, immediately perceived there was _character_ in his countenance; a quick dark eye and sharp features that gave him that appearance of intellect, which is seldom found to be belied upon further acquaintance. he therefore gave him an invitation to spend an hour or two with him; which he accepted without hesitation: and after taking a bumper to the health of his guest, entertained him with numerous anecdotes of the village. [sidenote: the landlord.] [sidenote: scenes of distress.] [illustration] "you must, at this inclement season," said sir filmer, "witness many scenes of distress, and have many calls upon your humanity." "yes," replied the worthy man, the tear glistening in his eye, "to weep with those that weep, to lighten the burden of human woe, and to administer comfort to the dejected soul, are offices, to the exercise of which, we have frequent calls. having lived here for some years, and being well known, i am sometimes called to the houses of neighbouring peasants, in which poverty and affliction seem to have taken up their abode; yet, believe me, sir, i never return from those houses with greater pleasure, or with more heart-felt satisfaction, than when i think i have contributed my share in wiping away the falling tear, or whispering peace to the troubled breast. [sidenote: two opposite characters.] "small, however, sir, as the village is, it produces two characters, as opposite almost in their natures, as the darkness of a stormy night is to the splendour of meridian day. these characters as they are unknown to you, allow me to introduce to your acquaintance, under the names of _austerus_ and _humanus_; the former a man of callous soul; the latter one who thinks, and feels while he thinks. [sidenote: character of austerus.] "_austerus_ possesses a fortune of three thousand pounds a-year, has an elegant house, and keeps a large retinue. "his lands yield abundant crops, and his flocks are heard bleating on the neighbouring hills. his tenants are pretty numerous, and his dependants many. "one would imagine," says sir filmer, "this man was destined by heaven, as a blessing to the part of the country in which he lives; that the families around him, would hail him as their liberal benefactor, and that his domestics would bless the hour in which they entered his spacious hall." [sidenote: lordly oppression.] "however natural this conclusion, sir," replied the host, "it is far from being well founded. extremely passionate, he rages and storms; and even after the storm has subsided, his face bespeaks the anger which he can ill conceal. sour and austere, haughty and overbearing, he is dreaded by his servants, and despised by all. his tenants, whose lands are rented to the full, barely subsist, and regret the moment they were so unfortunate as to tread the ground of hard oppression; one of which--poor man!--how often have i witnessed the tear drop from his eye, on the approach of quarter-day, when, with the spade in his hand, he ceased from toil, to awaken bitter reflections over the sad state of a destitute family. [illustration] [sidenote: hard treatment of the poor.] "but what adds an indelible stain to the character of _austerus_, is that he is hard-hearted to the poor, and unfeeling to the sons of distress. it is a painful truth, that his cane has been lifted up over the head of poverty, as it approached his lordly door to beg a pittance. what! o hardened _austerus_! were riches given thee to indulge thy pampered carcase, and to steel thy heart against thy poorer _brethren_? for the shivering beggar at the gate is still thy brother! [sidenote: distressed family.] "this i have frequently witnessed with a poor old woman, who travels round the country with laces and other little things, and asks the boon of the wealthy, to enable her to exist; while his children, who dare not, with his knowledge, assist her, let down trifles from their chamber window, to relieve this poor old creature, bent with the winters that have past over her head. "besides the poor, sir, the afflicted, who are tossed on the bed of sickness, implore his assistance in vain. pity is even denied them. [illustration] "i ventured once to recommend to him a peasant's family, in the neighbourhood, on whom affliction's rod had suddenly fallen, by sad accident. as they were boiling their frugal meal of potatoes, the vessel upset, and scalded the father and one of the children most dreadfully. "while i related these circumstances to him, a tear, some how or other, had forced its way down my cheek. [sidenote: hard heartedness.] "he heard me with a shocking indifference; said _he would think of it_, and turned away rudely from me, though i assured him (what was too true, and aggravated his shame) that they resided in a corner of his own estate, and that their situation admitted of no delay. as he retired, i could perceive that he was indignant at my freedom." here the good landlord's looks betrayed his detestation of this unfeeling conduct; and while he thought of the miseries of this unfortunate family, he exclaimed with the patriarch, "cursed be his anger, for it was fierce; and his wrath, for it was cruel!" i envy not his crimson bed of state, nor his faring sumptuously every day, while he possesses an unfeeling heart and a niggardly soul. [sidenote: pleasures of a liberal mind.] "better (says he) infinitely better, is that man, who, though his share of wealth may be more scanty, is blessed with a noble, a liberal heart; and such is humanus. [illustration] [sidenote: character of humanus.] "humanus honours me with his acquaintance and his confidence. i know his heart and his feelings almost as well as he knows them himself. descended from worthy ancestors, he retains no small portion of their virtues. possessing a moderate fortune, he has no idea of extravagance. he lives in a neat little house, adjoining a small freehold-farm, which descended to him from his father, and which has been held by one family for many years, at a rent that enables them to live comfortable, and to till the land with pleasure. unlike the tenants of austerus, this family is always cheerful; and the father, while he ploughs his fields, is frequently visited by his little prattlers, whom he looks upon with the greatest pleasure, while he stops his well-fed horses to mount them on his plough. [sidenote: benignity.] "nor is it only among those with whom humanus is immediately connected, that his benevolence is felt: he seems to walk about doing good, and is never so happy as when he sees all nature rejoice, and when, as is his custom, he is seen with his grandson, feeding the parent hen and her chickens: his benign countenance seems to say, the poor and needy, how should i like to shelter you under my wing, as the hen sheltereth her chickens. [illustration] [sidenote: the afflicted cottage.] "his charity is indeed wonderful. it often puts me to the blush, when i reflect how far i fall short of it. it was but the other day that he said, "come, let us make a short excursion." i followed him. we entered a thatched cottage; i shall never forget the sight, nor the part the good humanus acted on that occasion. [sidenote: toil of the villager.] "on a low bed lay the very picture of wretchednes, that seemed to say, "i fly to the grave as the end of my sorrows." the feeling humanus, whose very soul is sympathy, with soft steps approached the bed of the sufferer, his eyes full of tears, his heart oppressed with grief: "live, (cried he) heaven is kind! who can tell what happiness is in reserve for you! i go to send for the physician, and shall immediately return. humanus hurried home to give directions to his servant, and came quickly back. his attentions were now renewed to the afflicted mother, for she was the wife of a poor thresher, who rises at the crowing of the cock, and toils till the going down of the sun, to maintain a numerous family. [illustration] [sidenote: the reward of virtue sure.] [sidenote: effects of beneficence.] "he now ordered some wine, which he had brought with him, to be administered with success: and the arrival of the doctor, who expressed hopes of her recovery, changed, i could perceive, the face of my friend; the joy of his heart shone forth in his countenance; and never did he appear in my eyes more worthy and more amiable. happy humanus! said i to myself; the rewards of virtue are sure. thou already enjoyest those within thy own breast, and heaven has still greater ones in store for thee. may thy laudable example become more universal! he repeated, frequently his visits to the humble dwelling; nor were those visits dropped till he saw there was little occasion for them: and the wife of the poor thresher is now recovered from a dangerous fever, as much through the sympathy of the good humanus, as through the skill of the physician, his tender heart prompted him to send to her aid. she now lives useful to children; and her poor little betty is no longer seen weeping on the village green, for the distressed state of her suffering mother. the flail of the father now awakens echo with the dawn of the morning, and he goes on with his work rejoicing; and the whole family is often heard to pray heaven's richest blessing on the head of their compassionate friend and benefactor. such are the charming effects of beneficence, and, such the disposition of humanus!" [sidenote: conclusion.] so finished our landlord his tale, and sir filmer prepared for bed. i shall only ask my young reader whether, upon a review of the two characters, he would be an austerus, or an humanus?--a sordid, selfish being, or one who possesses a generous, a heaven-born soul? if he would wish to be the latter, let him endeavour to make all around him happy, and frequently call to mind the distresses of human life--the solitary cottage, and the weeping orphan--for graceful in youth is the tear of sympathy, and benign its influence on the sons of affliction. [illustration: finis] the cozy lion frances hodgson burnett the cozy lion as told by queen crosspatch by frances hodgson burnett author of "little lord fauntleroy" with illustrations by harrison cady the century co. new york copyright, 1907, by the century co. published october, 1907 printed in u. s. a. i am very fond of this story of the cozy lion because i consider it a great credit to me. i reformed that lion and taught him how to behave himself. the grown-up person who reads this story aloud to children must know how to roar. the cozy lion i shall never forget the scolding i gave him to begin with. one of the advantages of being a fairy even quite a common one is that lions can't bite you. a fairy is too little and too light. if they snap at you it's easy to fly through their mouths, and even if they catch you, if you just get behind their teeth you can make them so uncomfortable that they will beg you to get out and leave them in peace. of course it was all the lion's fault that i scolded him. lions ought to live far away from people. nobody likes lions roaming about--particularly where there are children. but this lion said he wanted to get into society, and that he was very fond of children-little fat ones between three and four. so instead of living on a desert, or in a deep forest or a jungle he took the large cave on the huge green hill, only a few miles from a village full of the fattest, rosiest little children you ever saw. he had only been living in the cave a few days, but even in that short time the mothers and fathers had found out he was there, and everybody who could afford it had bought a gun and snatched it up even if they saw a donkey coming down the road, because they were afraid it might turn out to be a lion. as for the mothers, they were nearly crazy with fright, and dare not let their children go out to play and had to shut them up in top rooms and cupboards and cellars, they were so afraid the lion might be hiding behind trees to jump out at them. so everything was beginning to be quite spoiled because nobody could have any fun. of course if they had had any sense and believed in fairies and had just gone out some moonlight night and all joined hands and danced slowly around in a circle and sung: fairies pink and fairies rose fairies dancing on pearly toes we want you, oh! we want you! fairy queens and fairy slaves who are not afraid of lions' caves please to come to help us, then it would have been all right, because we should have come in millions, especially if they finished with this verse: our troubles we can never tell but if _you_ would come it would all be well par-tic-u-lar-ly silverbell. but they hadn't sense enough for that--of course they hadn't--_of course they hadn't_! which shows what loonies people are. but you see i am much nicer than _un_-fairy persons, even if i have lost my nice little, pink little, sweet little temper and if i am cross. so when i saw the children fretting and growing pale because they had to be shut up, and the mothers crying into their washtubs when they were washing, until the water slopped over, i made up my mind i would go and talk to that lion myself in a way he wouldn't soon forget. it was a beautiful morning, and the huge green hill looked lovely. a shepherd who saw me thought i was a gold and purple butterfly and threw his hat at me--the idiot! of course he fell down on his nose-and very right and proper too. when i got to the cave, the lion was sitting outside his door and he was crying. he was one of these nasty-tempered, discontented lions who are always thinking themselves injured; large round tears were rolling down his nose and he was sniffling. but i must say he was handsome. he was big and smooth and had the most splendid mane and tail i ever saw. he would have been like a king if he had had a nicer expression. but there he sat sniffling. "i'm so lonely," he said. "nobody calls. nobody pays me any attention. and i came here for the society. no one is fonder of society than i am." i sat down on a flowering branch near him and shouted at him, "what's the use of society when you eat it up?" i said. he jumped up and lashed his tail and growled but at first he could not see me. "what's it for _but_ to be eaten up?" he roared. "first i want it to entertain me and then i want it for dessert. where are you? who are you?" "i'm queen crosspatch--queen silverbell as was," i said. "i suppose you have heard of _me_?" "i've heard nothing good," he growled. "a good chewing is what _you_ want!" he _had_ heard something about me, but not enough. the truth was he didn't really believe in fairies--which was what brought him into trouble. by this time he had seen me and he was ignorant enough to think that he could catch me, so he laid down flat in the thick, green grass and stretched his big paws out and rested his nose on them, thinking i would be taken in and imagine he was going to sleep. i burst out laughing at him and swung to and fro on my flowery branch. "do you want to eat me?" i said. "you'd need two or three quarts of me with sugar and cream--like strawberries." that made him so angry that he sprang roaring at my tree and snapped and shook it and tore it with his claws. but i flew up into the air and buzzed all about him and he got furious--just furious. he jumped up in the air and lashed his tail and _thrashed_ his tail and crashed his tail, and he turned round and round and tore up the grass. "don't be a silly," i said. "it's a nice big tufty sort of tail and you will only wear it out." so then he opened his mouth and roared and roared. and what do you suppose _i_ did? i flew right into his mouth. first i flew into his throat and buzzed about like a bee and made him cough and cough and cough--but he couldn't cough me up. he coughed and he houghed and he woughed; he tried to catch me with his tongue and he tried to catch me with his teeth but i simply made myself tinier and tinier and got between two big fierce white double ones and took one of my fairy workers' hammers out of my pocket and hammered and hammered and hammered until he began to have such a jumping toothache that he ran leaping and roaring down the huge green hill and leaping and roaring down the village street to the dentist's to get some toothache drops. you can just imagine how all the people rushed into their houses, and how the mothers screamed and clutched their children and hid under beds and tables and in coalbins, and how the fathers fumbled about for guns. as for the dentist, he locked his door and bolted it and barred it, and when he found _his_ gun he poked it out of the window and fired it off as fast as ever he could until he had fired fifty times, only he was too frightened to hit anything. but the village street was so full of flashes and smoke and bullets that mr. lion turned with ten big roars and galloped down the street, with guns fired out of every window where the family could afford to keep a gun. when he got to his home in the huge green hill, he just laid down and cried aloud and screamed and kicked his hind legs until he scratched a hole in the floor of his cave. "just because i'm a lion," he sobbed, "just because i'm a poor, sensitive, helpless, orphan lion nobody has one particle of manners. they won't even sell me a bottle of toothache drops. and i wasn't going to touch that dentist--until he had cured me and wrapped up the bottle nicely in paper. not a touch was i going to touch him until he had done that." he opened his mouth so wide to roar with grief that i flew out of it. i had meant to give him a lesson and i'd given him one. when i flew out of his mouth of course his beautiful double teeth stopped aching. it was such a relief to him that it made quite a change in his nature and he sat up and began to smile. it was a slow smile which spread into a grin even while the tear-drops hung on his whiskers. "my word! how nice," he said. "it's stopped." i had flown to the top of his ear and i shouted down it. "i stopped it," i said. "and i began it. and if you don't behave yourself, i'll give you earache and that will be worse." before i had given him his lesson he would have jumped at me but now he knew better. he tried to touch my feelings and make me sorry for him. he put one paw before his eyes and began to sniff again. "i am a poor sensitive lonely orphan lion,' he said. "you are nothing of the sort," i answered very sharply. "you are not poor, and heaven knows you are not sensitive, and you needn't be lonely. i don't know whether you are an orphan or not--and i don't care. you are a nasty, ill-tempered, selfish, biting, chewing thing." "there's a prejudice against lions," he wept. "people don't like them. they never invite them to children's parties--nice little fat, tender, children's parties--where they would enjoy themselves so much--and the refreshments would be just what they like best. they don't even invite them to grown-up parties. what i want to ask you is this: has _one_ of those villagers called on me since i came here--even a tough one?" "nice stupids they would be if they did," i answered. he lifted up his right paw and shook his head from side to side in the most mournful way. "there," he said. "you are just as selfish as the rest. everybody is selfish. there is no brotherly love or consideration in the world. sometimes i can scarcely bear it. i am going to ask you another question, and it is almost like a riddle. who did you ever see try to give pleasure to a lion?" i got into his ear then and shouted down it as loud as ever i could. "who did you ever see a _lion_ try to give pleasure to?" i said. "you just think over that. and when you find the answer, tell it to _me_." i don't know whether it was the newness of the idea, or the suddenness of it, but he turned pale. did you ever see a lion turn pale? i never did before and it was funny. you know people's skins turn pale but a lion's skin is covered with hair and you can't see it, so his hair has to turn pale or else you would never know he was turning pale at all. this lion's hair was a beautiful tawny golden color to begin with and first his whiskers turned white and then his big mane and then his paws and then his body and last his long splendid tail with the huge fluffy tuft on the end of it. then he stood up and his tail hung down and he said weakly: "i do not know the answer to that riddle. i will go and lie down in my cave. i do not believe i have one friend in this world." and he walked into his cave and laid down and sobbed bitterly. he forgot i was inside his ear and that he carried me with him. but i can tell you i had given him something to think of and that was what he needed. this way of feeling that nothing in the world but a lion has a right to be comfortable--just because you happen to be a lion yourself--is too _silly_ for anything. i flew outside his ear and boxed it a little. "come!" i said. "crying won't do you any good. are you really lonely--really--really--really so that it gives you a hollow feeling?" he sat up and shook his tears away so that they splashed all about-something like rain. "yes," he answered, "to tell the truth i am--i _do_ like society. i want friends and neighbors--and i don't only want them for dessert, i am a sociable lion and am affectionate in my nature--and clinging. and people run as fast as they can the moment they hear my voice." and he quite choked with the lump in his throat. "well," i snapped, "what else do you expect?" that overcame him and he broke into another sob. "i expect kindness," he said, "and invitations to afternoon teas--and g-g-arden parties----" "well you won't get them," i interrupted, "if you don't change your ways. if you _eat_ afternoon teas and garden parties as though they were lettuce sandwiches, you can't expect to be invited to them. so you may as well go back to the desert or the jungle and live with lions and give up society altogether." "but ever since i was a little tiny lion--a tiny, tiny one--i have wanted to get into society. i _will_ change--i will! just tell me what to do. and do sit on my ear and talk down it and stroke it. it feels so comfortable and friendly." you see he had forgotten that he had meant to chew me up. so i began to give him advice. "the first things you will have to do will be to change your temper and your heart and your diet, and stop growling and roaring when you are not pleased.' "i'll do that, i'll do that," he said ever so quickly. "you don't want me to cut my mane and tail off, do you?" "no. you are a handsome lion and beauty is much admired." then i snuggled quite close up to his ear and said down it, "did you ever think how _nice_ a lion would be if--if he were much nicer?" "n-no," he faltered. "did you ever think how like a great big cozy lovely dog you are? and how nice your big fluffy mane would be for little girls and boys to cuddle in, and how they could play with you and pat you and hug you and go to sleep with their heads on your shoulder and love you and adore you--if you only lived on breakfast foods and things-and had a really sweet disposition?" he must have been rather a nice lion because that minute he began to look "kind of smiley round the mouth and teary round the lashes"--which is part of a piece of poetry i once read. "oh! aunt maria!" he exclaimed a little slangily. "i never thought of that: it _would_ be nice." "a lion could be the coziest thing in the world--if he would," i went on. he jumped up in the air and danced and kicked his hind legs for joy. "could he! could he! could he?" he shouted out. "oh! let me be a cozy lion! let me be a cozy lion! hooray! hooray! hooray! i would like it better than being invited to buckingham palace!" "little children would just _flock_ to see you and play with you," i said. "and then if they came, their mothers and fathers couldn't be kept away. they would flock too." the smile of joy that spread over his face actually reached his ears and almost shook me off. "that _would_ be society!" he grinned. "the very best!" i answered. "children who are _real_ darlings, and not imitations, come first, and then mothers and fathers--the rest just straggle along anywhere." "when could it begin? when could it begin?" he panted out. "not," i said very firmly, "until you have tried some breakfast food!" "where shall i get it? oh! where? oh! where?" "_i_ will get it, of course," was my answer. then i stood up on the very tip of his ear and put my tiny golden trumpet to my lips. (and oh! how that lion did roll up his eyes to try to catch a glimpse of me!) and i played this tune to call my fairy workers: i'm calling from the huge green hill, tira-lira-lira, the lion's cave is cool and still. tira-lira-lira. the lion wishes to improve and show he's filled with tender love and _not_ with next door neighbor. the lion wishes to be good. to fill him _full_ of breakfast food will aid him in his labor. bring breakfast food from far and near --he'll eat a dreadful lot i fear. oh! tira-lira-lira-la and tira-lira-ladi. a lion learning to be good needs everybody's breakfast food. you workers bring it--tira-la and tira-lira-ladi. then the fairy workers came flying in clouds. in three minutes and three quarters they were swarming all over the huge green hill and into the lion's cave, every one of them with a little sack on his green back. they swarmed here and they swarmed there. some were cooks and brought tiny pots and kettles and stoves and they began to cook breakfast foods as fast as lightning. the lion sat up. (i forgot to say that he had turned un-pale long before this and was the right color again.) and his mouth fell wide open, just with surprise and amazement. what amazed him most was that one out of all those thousands of little workers in their green caps and smocks was the least bit afraid of him. why, what do you think! my little skip just jumped up and stood on the end of the lion's nose while he asked me a question. you never saw anything as funny as that lion looking down the bridge of his nose at him until he squinted awfully. he was so interested in him. "does he take it with sugar and cream, your royal silver-cross-bell-ness?" skip asked me, taking off his green cap and bowing low. "try him with it in both ways," i said. when the workers had made a whole lot of all the kinds together they poured it into a hollow stone and covered it with sugar and cream. "ready, your highnesses!" they all called out in chorus. "is that it?" said the lion. "it looks very nice. how does one eat it? must i bite it?" "dear me, no," i answered. "lap it." so he began. if you'll believe me, he simply reveled in it. he ate and ate and ate, and lapped and lapped and lapped and he did not stop until the hollow stone was quite clean and empty and his sides were quite swelled and puffed out. and he looked as pleased as punch. "i never ate anything nicer in my life," he said. "there was a sunday school picnic i once went to." "a sunday school picnic!" i shouted so fiercely that he blushed all over. the very tuft on his tail was deep rose color. "who invited you?" he hung his head and stammered. "i was not exactly _invited_," he said, "and didn't go _with_ the school to the picnic grounds--but i should have come back with it-at least some of it--but for some men with guns!" i stamped on his ear as hard as ever i could. "never let me hear you mention such a subject again," i said. "nobody in society would speak to you if they knew of it!" he quite shook in his shoes--only he hadn't any shoes. "i'll never even think of it again," he said. "i see my mistake. i apologize. i do indeed!" now what _do_ you suppose happened at that very minute? if i hadn't been a fairy i should have been frightened to death. at that very minute i heard little children's voices singing like skylarks farther down on the huge green hill--actually little children a whole lot of them! "it--it sounds like the sunday school pic----" the lion began to say--and then he remembered he must not mention the subject and stopped short. "has your heart changed?" i said to him. "are you sure it has?" "i think it has," he said meekly, "but even if it hadn't, ma'am, i'm so _full_ of breakfast food i couldn't eat a strawberry." it happened that i had my heart glass with me--i can examine hearts with it and see if they have properly changed or not. "roll over on your back," i said. "i will examine your heart now." and the little children on the huge green hill side were coming nearer and nearer and laughing and singing and twittering more like skylarks than ever. he rolled over on his back and i jumped off his ear on to his big chest. i thumped and listened and looked about until i could see his great heart and watch it beating--thub--thub--thub--thub. it actually had changed almost all over except one little corner and as the children's voices came nearer and nearer and sounded like whole nests full of skylarks let loose, even the corner was changing as fast as it could. instead of a big ugly dark red fiery heart, it was a soft ivory white one with delicate pink spots on it. "it has changed!" i cried out. "you are going to be a great big nice soft cozy thing, and you couldn't eat a picnic if you tried-and you will never try." he was all in a flutter with relief when he got up and stood on his feet. and the laughing little voices came nearer and nearer and i flew to the cave door to see what _was_ happening. it was really a picnic. and goodness! how dangerous it would have been if it had not been for me. that's the way i am always saving people, you notice. the little children in the village had grown so tired of being shut up indoors that about fifty of them who were too little to know any better had climbed out of windows, and slipped out of doors, and crawled under things, and hopped over them, and had all run away together to gather flowers and wild peachstrawberines, and lovely big yellow plumricots which grew thick on the bushes and in the grass on the huge green hill. the delicious sweet pink and purple ice-cream-grape-juice melons hung in clusters on trees too high for them to reach, but they thought they would just sit down under their branches and look at them and sniff and hope one would fall. and there they came--little plump girls and boys in white frocks and with curly heads--not the least bit afraid of anything: tumbling down and laughing and picking themselves up and laughing, and when they got near the cave, one of my working fairies, just for fun, flew down and lighted on one little girl's fat hand. she jumped for joy when she saw him and called to the others and they came running and tumbling to see what she had found. "oh! look--look!" she called out. "what is he! what is he! he isn't a bird--and he isn't a bee and he isn't a butterfly. he's a little teeny, weeny-weeny-weeny-weeny wee, and he has little green shoes on and little green stockings, and a little green smock and a little green hat and he's laughing and laughing." and then a boy saw another in the grass--and another under a leaf, and he shouted out, too. "oh! here's another--here's another." and then the workers all began to creep out of the grass and from under the leaves and fly up in swarms and light on the children's arms and hands and hats and play with them and tickle them and laugh until every child was dancing with fun, because they had never seen such things before in their lives. i flew back to the lion. he was quite nervous. "it is a picnic," i said. "and now is your chance. can you purr?" "yes, i can." and he began to make a beautiful purring which sounded like an immense velvet cat over a saucer of cream. "come out then," i ordered him. "smile as sweetly as you can and don't stop purring. try to look like a wriggling coaxing dog--i will go first and prevent the children from getting frightened." so out we went. i was riding in his ear and peeping out over the top of it. i did not let the children see me because i wanted them to look at the lion and at nothing else. what i did was to make them remember in a minute all the nicest lions they had ever seen in pictures or in the circus. many of them had never seen a lion at all and the few who had been to a circus had only seen them in big cages behind iron bars, and with notices written up, "don't go near the lions." when my lion came out he was smiling the biggest, sleepiest, curliest, sweetest smile you ever beheld and he was purring, and he was softly waving his tail. he stood still on the grass a moment and then lay down with his big head on his paws just like a huge, affectionate, coaxing dog waiting and begging somebody to come and pet him. and after staring at him for two minutes, all the children began to laugh, and then one little _little_ girl who had a great mastiff for a friend at home, suddenly gave a tiny shout and running to him tumbled over his paws and fell against his mane and hid her face in it, chuckling and chuckling. that was the beginning of the most splendid fun a picnic ever had. every one of them ran laughing and shouting to the lion. it was such a treat to them to actually have a lion to play with. they patted him, they buried their hands and faces in his big mane, they stroked him, they scrambled up on his back, and sat astride there. little boys called out, "hello, lion! hello, lion!" and little girls kissed his nice tawny back and said "liony! liony! sweet old liony!" the little little girl who had run to him first settled down right between his huge front paws, resting her back comfortably against his chest, and sucked her thumb, her blue eyes looking very round and big. she _was_ comfy. i kept whispering down his ear to tell him what to do. you see, he had never been in society at all and he had to learn everything at once. "now, don't move suddenly," i whispered. "and be sure not to make any loud lion noises. they don't understand lion language yet." "but oh! i am so happy," he whispered back, "i want to jump up and roar for joy." "mercy on us!" i said. "that would spoil everything. they'd be frightened to death and run away screaming and crying and never come back." "but this little one with her head on my chest is such a _sweetie_!" he said. "mayn't i just give her a little lick--just a little one?" "your tongue is too rough. wait a minute," i answered. my fairy workers were swarming all about. they were sitting in bunches on the bushes and hanging in bunches from branches, and hopping about and giggling and laughing and nudging each other in the ribs as they looked on at the lion and children. they were as amused as they had been when they watched winnie sitting on the eggs in the rook's nest. i called nip to come to me. "jump on to the lion's tongue," i said to him, "and smooth it off with your plane until it is like satin velvet--not silk velvet, but satin velvet." the lion politely put out his tongue. nip leaped up on it and began to work with his plane. he worked until he was quite hot, and he made the tongue so smooth that it was _quite_ like satin velvet. "now you can kiss the baby," i said. the little little girl had gone to sleep by this time and she had slipped down and lay curled up on the lion's front leg as if it was an arm and the lion bent down and delicately licked her soft cheek, and her fat arm, and her fat leg, and purred and purred. when the other children saw him they crowded round and were more delighted than ever. "he's kissing her as if he was a mother cat and she was his kitten," one called out, and she held out her hand. "kiss me too. kiss me, liony," she said. he lifted his head and licked her little hand as she asked and then all the rest wanted him to kiss them and they laughed so that the little little girl woke up and laughed with them and scrambled to her feet and hugged and hugged as much of the lion as she could put her short arms round. she felt as if he was her lion. "i love--oo i love oo," she said. "tome and play wiv us." he smiled and smiled and got up so carefully that he did not upset three or four little boys and girls who were sitting on his back. you can imagine how they shouted with glee when he began to trot gently about with them and give them a ride. of course everybody wanted to ride. so he trotted softly over the grass first with one load of them and then with another. when each ride was over he lay down very carefully for the children to scramble down from his back and then other ones scrambled up. the things he did that afternoon really made me admire him. a cozy lion is nicer to play with than anything else in the world. he shook ice-cream-grape-juice melons down from the trees for them. he carried on his back to a clear little running brook he knew, every one who wanted a drink. he jumped for them, he played tag with them and when he caught them, he rolled them over and over on the grass as if they were kittens; he showed them how his big claws would go in and out of his velvet paws like a pussy cat's. whatever game they played he would always be "it," if they wanted him to. when the tiniest ones got sleepy he made grass beds under the shade of trees and picked them up daintily by their frocks or little trousers and carried them to their nests just as kittens or puppies are carried by their mothers. and when the others wanted to be carried too, he carried them as well. the children enjoyed themselves so much that they forgot about going home altogether. and as they had laughed and run about every minute and had had _such_ fun, by the time the sun began to go down they were all as sleepy as could be. but even then one little fellow in a white sailor suit asked for something else. he went and stood by the lion with one arm around his neck and the other under his chin. "can you roar, old lion?" he asked him. "i am sure you can roar." the lion nodded slowly three times. "he says 'yes--yes,'" shouted everybody, "oh! do roar for us as loud as ever you can. we won't be frightened the least bit." the lion nodded again and smiled. then he lifted up his head and opened his mouth and roared and _roared_ and roared. they were not the least bit frightened. they just shrieked and laughed and jumped up and down and made him do it over and over again. * * * * * now i will tell you what had happened in the village. at first when the children ran away the mothers and fathers were all at their work and did not miss them for several hours. it was at lunch time that the grown-ups began to find out the little folks were gone and then one mother ran out into the village street, and then another and then another, until all the mothers were there, and all of them were talking at once and wringing their hands and crying. they went and looked under beds, and tables and in cupboards, and in back gardens and in front gardens, and they rushed to the village pond to see if there were any little hats or bonnets floating on the top of the water. but all was quiet and serene and nothing was floating anywhere--and there was not one sign of the children. when the fathers came the mothers all flew at them. you see it isn't any joke to lose fifty children all at once. the fathers thought of the lion the first thing, but the mothers had tried not to think of him because they couldn't bear it. but at last the fathers got all the guns and all the pistols and all the iron spikes and clubs and scythes and carving knives and old swords, and they armed themselves with them and began to march all together toward the huge green hill. the mothers _would_ go too and _they_ took scissors and big needles and long hat pins and one took a big pepper-pot, full of red pepper, to throw into the lion's eyes. they had so much to do before they were ready that when they reached the huge green hill the sun was going down and what do you think they heard? they heard this---"ro-o-a-a-arh! ro-o-a-a-rh! ro-o-a-a-arrh!" almost as loud as thunder. and at the same time they heard the shouts and shrieks of the entire picnic. but _they_ did not know that the picnic was shouting and screaming for joy. so they ran and ran and ran--and stumbled and scrambled and hurried and scurried and flurried faster and faster till they had scrambled up the huge green hill to where the lion's cave was and then they gathered behind a big clump of bushes and the fathers began to cock their guns and the mothers to sharpen their scissors and hat pins. but the mother with the pepper-pot had nothing to sharpen, so she peeped from behind the bushes, and suddenly she cried out, "oh! oh! oh! oh! look! look! and don't fire a single gun, on any account." and they all struggled to the front to peep. and _this_--thanks to me--_was what they saw_! on the green places before the lion's cave on several soft heaps of grass, the tiniest children were sitting chuckling or sucking their thumbs. on the grass around them a lot of others were sitting or standing or rolling about with laughter and kicking up their heels-and right in front of the cave there stood the lion looking absolutely angelic. his tail had a beautiful blue sash on it tied just below the tuft in a lovely bow, he had a sash round his waist, and four children on his back. the little little girl was sitting on his mane which was stuck full of flowers, and she was trying to put a wreath on the top of his head and couldn't get it straight, which made him look rather rakish. on one side of him stood the little boy in the sailor suit, and on the other stood a little girl, and each one held him by the end of a rope of pink and white wild roses which they were going to lead him with. the mother of the little little girl could not wait one minute longer. she ran out towards her, calling out:---"oh! betsy-petsy! oh! betsy-petsy! mammy's lammy-girl!" and then the other mothers threw away their scissors and hat pins and ran after her in a crowd. what that clever lion did was to carefully lie down without upsetting anybody and stretch out his head on his paws as if he was a pet poodle, and purr and purr like a velvet cat. the picnic simply shouted with glee. it was the kind of picnic which is always shouting with glee. "oh! mother! mother! father! father!" it called out. "look at our lion! look at our lion! we found him ourselves! he's ours." and the sailor boy shouted, "he'll roar for me, mother!" and the rest cried out one after another, "he'll sit up and beg for me!" "he'll carry me by my trousers!" "he can play tag!" "he'll show you his claws go in and out!" "mother, ask him to take you on his back to get a drink." "may he go home and sleep with me, mother?" it was like a bedlam of skylarks let loose this time, and the lion had to do so many tricks that only determination to show how cozy he was kept up his strength. he was determined to prove to the fathers and mothers that he _was_ cozy. and he did it. from that time he was the lion of the village. he was invited everywhere. there never was a party without him. birthday parties, garden parties, tea parties, wedding parties--he went to them all. his life was one round of gaiety. he became _most_ accomplished. he could do all the things lions do in hippodromes--and a great many more. the little little girl gave him a flute for a present and he learned to play on it beautifully. when he had an evening at home he used to sit at his cave door and play and sing. first he played and then he sang this--- my goodness gracious me! this _is_ socier-tee! my goodness gracious mercy me! this _is_ socier-ier-tee! it _is_ socier-tee! he had composed it himself. the next story i shall tell you is about my spring cleaning. that will show you how i have to work when the winter is over and how, if it were not for me, things would never be swept up and made tidy for the summer. the primroses and violets would never be wakened, or the dormice called up, or anything. it is a busy time, i can tell you. file was made using scans of public domain works in the international children's digital library.) the one moss-rose. [illustration: "stop, stop,--don't cut it!"] [illustration] the one moss-rose. by rev. p. b. power, m.a. [illustration: emblem] london: t. nelson and sons, paternoster row; edinburgh; and new york. 1872. [illustration] the one moss-rose. [illustration: l]eonard dobbin had a humble cottage upon squire courtenay's estate; but although the cottage was humble, it was always kept neat and clean, and was a pattern of everything that a poor man's dwelling should be. the white-washed walls, the smoothly raked gravel walk, and the sanded floor, were so many evidences that leonard was a careful and a thrifty man; and while some of his poorer neighbours laughed, and asked where was the use of being so precise, they could not help respecting dobbin, nevertheless. the great, and, indeed, almost the _only_ pleasure upon which the labourer allowed himself to spend any time, was the little flower garden in front of the house. the garden was dobbin's pride; and the pride of the garden was a moss-rose tree, which was the peculiar treasure of the labourer's little crippled son, who watched it from the window, and whenever he was well enough, crept out to water it, and pick off any stray snail which had ventured to climb up its rich brown leaves. no mother ever watched her little infant with more eager eyes than jacob dobbin did his favourite rose; and no doubt he thought all the more of it because he had so few pleasures in life. jacob dobbin had no fine toys, he could not take any long walks, nor could he play at cricket, or any such games, therefore his rose tree was all the more precious; in fact, in his estimation there was nothing to compare with it in the world. there was a great difference between poor jacob's lot and that of squire courtenay's son. james courtenay had plenty of toys; he had also a pony, and a servant to attend him whenever he rode out; when the summer came, he used often to go out sailing with the squire in his yacht; and there was scarce anything on which he set his heart which he was not able to get. with all these pleasures, james courtenay was not, however, so happy a youth as poor jacob dobbin. jacob, though crippled, was contented--his few pleasures were thoroughly enjoyed, and "a contented mind is a continual feast;" whereas james was spoiled by the abundance of good things at his command; he was like the full man that loatheth the honeycomb; and he often caused no little trouble to his friends, and, indeed, to himself also, by the evil tempers he displayed. many a time did james courtenay's old nurse, who was a god-fearing woman, point out to him that the world was not made for him alone; that there were many others to be considered as well as himself; and that although god had given him many things, still he was not of a bit more importance in his sight than others who had not so much. all this the young squire would never have listened to from any one else; but old aggie had reared him, and whenever he was laid by with any illness, or was in any particular trouble, she was the one to whom he always fled. "god sometimes teaches people very bitter lessons," said old aggie one day, when james courtenay had been speaking contemptuously to one of the servants; "and take care, master james, lest you soon have to learn one." jacob dobbin had been for some time worse than usual, his cough was more severe, and his poor leg more painful, when his father and he held a long conversation by the side of their scanty fire. leonard had made the tea in the old black pot with the broken spout, and jacob lay on his little settle, close up to the table. "father," said jacob, "i saw the young squire ride by on his gray pony to-day, and just then my leg gave me a sore pinch, and i thought, how strange it is that there should be such a difference between folk; he's almost always galloping about, and i'm almost always in bed." "poor folk," answered jacob's father, "are not always so badly off as they suppose; little things make them happy, and little things often make great folk _un_happy; and let us remember, jacob, that whatever may be our lot in life, we all have an opportunity of pleasing god, and so obtaining the great reward, which of his mercy, and for christ's sake, he will give to all those who please him by patient continuance in well-doing. the squire cannot please god any more than you." "oh," said jacob, "the squire can spend more money than i can; he can give to the poor, and do no end of things that i cannot: all i can do is to lie still on my bed, and at times keep myself from almost cursing and swearing when the pain is very bad." "exactly so, my son," answered leonard dobbin; "but remember that patience is of great price in the sight of god; and he is very often glorified in the sufferings of his people." "the way i should like to glorify god," said jacob, "would be by going about doing good, and letting people see me do it, so that i could glorify him before them, and not in my dull little corner here." "ah, jacob, my son," replied old leonard dobbin, "you may glorify god more than you suppose up in your little dull corner--what should you think of glorifying him before angels and evil spirits?" "ah, that would be glorious!" cried jacob. "spirits, good and bad, are ever around us," said old leonard, "and they are watching us; and how much must god be glorified before them, when they see his grace able to make a sufferer patient and gentle, and when they know that he is bearing everything for christ's sake. when a christian is injured, and avenges not himself; when he is evil spoken of, and answers not again; when he is provoked, yet continues long-suffering: then the spirits, good and bad, witness these things, and they must glorify the grace of god." that night jacob dobbin seemed to have quite a new light thrown upon his life. "perhaps," said he to himself, as he lay upon the little settle, "i'm afflicted in order that i may glorify god. i suppose he is glorified by his people bearing different kinds of pain; perhaps some other boy is glorifying him with a crippled hand, while i am with my poor crippled leg: but i should like to be able even to bear persecution from man for christ's sake, like the martyrs in father's old book; as i have strength to bear such dreadful pain in my poor leg, i daresay i might bear a great deal of suffering of other kinds." * * * * * the spring with its showers passed away, and the beautiful summer came, and jacob dobbin was able to sit at his cottage door, breathing in the pure country air, and admiring what was to him the loveliest object in nature--namely, one rich, swelling bud upon his moss-rose tree. there was but one bud this year upon the tree,--the frosts and keen spring winds had nipped all the rest; and this one was now bursting into beauty; and it was doubly dear to jacob, because it was left alone. jacob passed much of his time at the cottage door, dividing his admiration between the one moss-rose and the beautiful white fleecy clouds, which used to sail in majestic grandeur over his head; and often he used to be day-dreaming for hours, about the white robes of all who suffered for their lord. while thus engaged one day, the young squire came running along, and his eye fell upon jacob's rose. "hallo," cried he with delight--"a moss-rose! ha, ha!--the gardener said we had not even one blown in our garden; but here's a rare beauty!" and in a moment james courtenay had bounded over the little garden gate, and stood beside the rose bush. in another instant his knife was out of his pocket, and his hand was approaching the tree. "stop, stop!" cried jacob dobbin; "pray don't cut it,--'tis our only rose; i've watched it i don't know how long; and 'tisn't quite come out yet,"--and jacob made an effort to get from his seat to the tree; but before the poor little cripple could well rise from his seat, the young squire's knife was through the stem, and with a loud laugh he jumped over the little garden fence, and was soon lost to sight. the excitement of this scene had a lamentable effect upon poor jacob dobbin. when he found his one moss-rose gone, he burst into a violent fit of sobbing, and soon a quantity of blood began to pour from his mouth--he had broken a blood-vessel; and a neighbour, passing that way a little time after, found him lying senseless upon the ground. the neighbouring doctor was sent for, and he gave it as his opinion that jacob could never get over this attack. "had it been an ordinary case," said the doctor, "i should not have apprehended a fatal result; but under present circumstances i fear the very worst; poor jacob has not strength to bear up against this loss of blood." for many days jacob dobbin lay in a darkened room, and many were the thoughts of the other world which came into his mind; amongst them were some connected with the holy martyrs. "father," said he to his aged parent as he sat by his side, "i have been learning a lesson about the martyrs. i see now how unfit i was to be tried as they were; if i could not bear the loss of one moss-rose patiently for christ's sake, how could i have borne fire and prison, and such like things?" "ah, jacob," said the old man, "'tis in little common trials such as we meet with every day, that, by god's grace, such a spirit is reared within us as was in the hearts of the great martyrs of olden time;--tell me, can you forgive the young squire?" "the blessed jesus forgave his persecutors," whispered jacob faintly, "and the martyrs prayed for those who tormented them--in this at least i may be like them. father, i do forgive the young squire; and, father," said jacob, as he opened his eyes after an interval of a few minutes' rest, "get your spade, and dig up the tree, and take it with my duty to the young squire. don't wait till i'm dead, father; i should not feel parting with it then; but i love the tree, and i wish to give it to him now. and if you dig up a very large ball of earth with it, he can have it planted in his garden at once; and--;" but poor jacob could say no more; he sank back quite exhausted, and he never returned to the subject again, for in a day or two afterwards he died. * * * * * when old leonard dobbin appeared at the great house with his wheel-barrow containing the rose tree and its ball of earth, there was no small stir amongst the servants. some said that it was fine impudence in him to come troubling the family about his trumpery rose, bringing the tree, as if he wanted to lay jacob dobbin's blood at their young master's door; others shook their heads, and said it was a bad business, and that that tree was an ugly present, and one that they should not care to have; and as to old aggie, she held her tongue, but prayed that the child she had reared so anxiously might yet become changed, and grow up an altered man. old leonard could not get audience of the squire or his son; but the gardener, who was in the servants' hall when he arrived with his rose, told him to wheel it along, and he would plant it in master james's garden, and look after it until it bloomed again; and there the rose finally took up its abode. meanwhile the young squire grew worse and worse; he respected no one's property, if he fancied it himself; and all the tenants and domestics were afraid of imposing any check upon his evil ways. he was not, however, without some stings of conscience; he knew that jacob dobbin was dead--he had even seen his newly-made grave in the churchyard on sunday; and he could not blot out from his memory the distress of poor jacob when last he saw him alive; moreover, some of the whisperings of the neighbourhood reached his ears; and all these things made him feel far from comfortable. as day after day passed by, james courtenay felt more and more miserable: a settled sadness took possession of his mind, varied by fits of restlessness and passion, and he felt that there was something hanging over him, although he could not exactly tell what. it was evident, from the whispers which had reached his ears, that there had been some dreadful circumstances connected with poor jacob dobbin's death, but he feared to inquire; and so day after day passed in wretchedness, and there seemed little chance of matters getting any better. at length a change came in a very unexpected way. as james courtenay was riding along one day, he saw a pair of bantam fowls picking up the corn about a stack in one of the tenants' yards. the bantams were very handsome, and he felt a great desire to possess them; so he dismounted, and seeing the farmer's son hard by, he asked him for how much he would sell the fowls. "they're not for sale, master," said the boy; "they belong to my young sister, and she wouldn't sell those bantams for any money,--there isn't a cock to match that one in all the country round." "i'll give a sovereign for them," said james courtenay. "no, not ten," answered jim meyers. "then i'll take them, and no thanks," said the young squire; and so saying, he flung jim meyers the sovereign, and began to hunt the bantams into a corner of the yard. "i say," cried jim, "leave off hunting those bantams, master, or i must call my father." "your father!" cried the young squire; "and pray, who's your father? you're a pretty fellow to talk about a father; take care i don't bring my father to you;" and having said this, he made a dart at the cock bantam, that he had by this time driven into a corner. "look here," said jim, doubling his fists. "you did a bad job, young master, by jacob dobbin; you were the death of him, and i won't have you the death of my little sister, by, maybe, her fretting herself to death about these birds, so you look out, and if you touch one of these birds, come what will of it, i'll touch you." "who ever said i did jacob dobbin any harm?" asked james courtenay, his face as pale as ashes; "i never laid a hand upon the brat." "brat or no brat," answered jim meyers, "you were the death of him; you made him burst a blood-vessel, and i say you murdered him." this was too much for james courtenay to bear, so without more ado, he flew upon jim meyers, intending to pommel him well; but jim was not to be so easily pommelled; he stood upon his guard, and soon dealt the young squire such a blow between the eyes that he had no more power to fight. "vengeance! vengeance!" cried the angry youth. "i'll make you pay dearly for this;" and slinking away, he got upon his pony and rode rapidly home. it may be easily imagined that on the young squire's arrival at the hall, in so melancholy a plight, the whole place was in terrible confusion. servants ran hither and thither, old aggie went off for some ice, and the footman ran to the stable to send the groom for the doctor, and the whole house was turned upside down. in the midst of all this, james courtenay's father came home, and great indeed was his rage when he heard that his son had received this beating on his own property, and from the hands of a son of one of his own tenantry; and his rage became greater and greater as the beaten boy gave a very untrue account of what had occurred. "i was admiring a bantam of meyers," said he to his father, "and his son flew upon me like a tiger, and hit me between the eyes." squire courtenay determined to move in the matter at once, so he sent a groom to summon the meyers--both father and son. "i'll make meyers pay dearly for this," said the squire; "his lease is out next michaelmas, and i shall not renew it; and, besides, i'll prosecute his son." all this delighted the young squire, and every minute seemed to him to be an hour, until the arrival of the two meyers, upon whom ample vengeance was to be wreaked; and the pain of his eyes seemed as nothing, so sweet was the prospect of revenge. in the course of an hour the two meyers arrived, and with much fear and trembling were shown into their landlord's presence. "meyers," cried the squire, in great wrath, "you leave your farm at michaelmas; and as to that young scoundrel, your son, i'll have him before the bench next bench-day, and i'll see whether i can't make him pay for such tricks as these." "what have i done," asked old meyers, "to deserve being turned adrift? if your honour will hear the whole of the story about this business, i don't believe you'll turn me out on the cold world, after being on that land nigh-hand forty years." "'hear!' i have heard enough about it; your son dared to lift a hand to mine, and--and i'll have no tenant on my estate that will ever venture upon such an outrage as that;--it was a great compliment to you for my son to admire your bantams, or anything on your farm, without his being subjected to such an assault." "i don't want to excuse my boy," said old meyers, "for touching the young squire; and right sorry i am that he ever lifted a hand to him; but begging your honour's pardon, the young squire provoked him to it, and he did a great deal more than just admire my little girl's bantams.--come, jim, speak up, and tell the squire all about it." "ay, speak up and excuse yourself, you young rascal, if you can," said the angry squire; "and if you can't, you'll soon find your way into the inside of a prison for this. talk of poaching! what is it to an assault upon the person?" "i will speak up, then, your honour, since you wish it," said jim meyers, "and i'll tell the whole truth of how this came about." and then he told the whole story of the young squire having wanted to buy the bantams, and on his not being permitted to do so, of his endeavouring to take them by force. "and when i wouldn't let him carry away my sister's birds, he flew on me like a game cock, and in self-defence i struck him as i did." "you said i murdered jacob dobbin," interrupted james courtenay. "yes, i did," answered jim meyers, "and all the country says the same, and i only say what every one else says; ask anybody within five miles of this, and if they're not afraid to speak up, they'll tell just the same tale that i do." "murdered jacob dobbin!" ejaculated the squire in astonishment; "i don't believe my son ever lifted a hand to him,--you mean the crippled boy that died some time ago?" "yes, he means him," said jim meyers' father; "and 'tis true what the lad says, that folk for five miles round lay his death at the young squire's door, and say that a day will come when his blood will be required of him." "why, what happened?" asked the squire, beginning almost to tremble in his chair; for he knew that his son was given to very violent tempers, and was of a very arbitrary disposition; and he felt, moreover, within the depths of his own heart, that he had not checked him as he should. "what is the whole truth about this matter?" "come, speak up, jim," said old meyers; "you were poor jacob's friend, and you know most about it;" the squire also added a word, encouraging the lad, who, thus emboldened, took courage and gave the squire the whole history of poor jacob dobbin's one moss-rose. he told him of the cripple's love for the plant, and how its one and only blossom had been rudely snatched away by the young squire, and how poor jacob burst a blood vessel and finally died. "and if your honour wants to know what became of the tree, you'll find it planted in the young squire's garden," added jim, "and the gardener will tell you how it came there." the reader will easily guess what must have been the young squire's feelings as he heard the whole of this tale. several times did he endeavour to make his escape, under the plea that he was in great pain from his face, and once or twice he pretended to faint away; but his father, who, though proud and irreligious, was just, determined that he should remain until the whole matter was searched out. when jim meyers' story was ended, the squire bade him go into the servants' hall, and his father also, while old dobbin was sent for; and as to james, his son, he told him to go up to his bed-room, and not come down until he was called. poor old leonard dobbin was just as much frightened as jim meyers and his father had been, at the summons to attend the squire. he had a clear conscience, however; he felt that he had not wronged the squire in anything; and so, washing himself and putting on his best sunday clothes, he made his way to the hall as quickly as he could. "leonard dobbin," said the squire, "i charge you, upon pain of my worst displeasure, to tell me all you know about this story of your late son's moss-rose tree. you need not be afraid to tell me all; your only cause for fear will be the holding back from me anything connected with the matter." leonard went through the whole story just as jim meyers had done; only he added many little matters which made the young squire's conduct appear even in a still worse light than it had already done. he was able to add all about his poor crippled boy's forgiveness of the one who had wronged him, and how he had himself wheeled the rose tree up to the squire's door, and how it was now to be found in the young squire's garden. "and if i may make so bold as to speak," continued old leonard, "nothing but true religion, and the love of christ, and the power of god's spirit in the heart, will ever make us heartily forgive our enemies, and not only forgive them, but render to them good for evil." when leonard dobbin arrived james courtenay had been sent for, and had been obliged with crimsoned cheeks to listen to this story of the poor crippled boy's feelings; and now he would have given all the roses in the world, if they were his, to restore poor jacob to life, or never to have meddled with his flower; but what had been done could not be undone, and no one could awake the poor boy from his long cold sleep in the silent grave. "leonard dobbin," said the squire, after he had sat for some time moodily, with his face buried in his hands, "this is the worst blow i have ever had in life. i would give â£10,000 hard money, down on that table, this very moment, that my boy had never touched your boy's rose. but what is done cannot be undone; go home, and when i've thought upon this matter i'll see you again." "meyers," said the squire, turning to the other tenant, "i was hasty in saying a little while ago that i'd turn you out of your farm next michaelmas; you need have no fear about the matter; instead of turning you out, i'll give you a lease of it. i hope you won't talk more than can be helped about this terrible business. now go." the two men stood talking together for a while at the lodge before they left the grounds of the great house; and old leonard could not help wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his rough coat, as he said to meyers, "ah, neighbour, 'tis sore work having a child without the fear of god before his eyes. i'd rather be the father of poor jacob in his grave, than of the young squire up yonder at the hall." * * * * * bitter indeed were squire courtenay's feelings and reflections when the two old men had left, and, his son having been ordered off to his chamber, he found himself once more alone. the dusk of the evening came on, but the squire did not seem to care for food, and, in truth, his melancholy thoughts had taken all appetite away. at last he went to the window, which looked out over a fine park and a long reach of valuable property, and he began to think: what good will all these farms do this boy, if the tenants upon them only hate him, and curse him? perhaps, with all this property, he may come to some bad end, and bring disgrace upon his family and himself. and then the squire's own heart began to smite him, and he thought: am not i to blame for not having looked more closely after him, and for not having corrected him whenever he went wrong? i must do something at once. i must send him away from this place, where almost every one lets him do as he likes, until he learns how to control himself, at least so far as not to do injustice to others. meanwhile the young squire's punishment had begun. when left to the solitude of his room, after having heard the whole of leonard dobbin's account of jacob's death, a great horror took possession of his mind. many were the efforts the young lad made to shake off the gloomy thoughts which came trooping into his mind; but every thought seemed to have a hundred hooks by which it clung to the memory, so that once in the mind, it could not be got rid of again. at length the young squire lay down upon his bed, trembling as if he had the ague, and realizing how true are the words, that "our sin will find us out," and that "the way of transgressors is hard." at last, to his great relief, the handle of his door was turned, and old aggie made her appearance. "o aggie, aggie," cried james courtenay, "come here. i'm fit to die, with the horrid thoughts i have, and with the dreadful things i see. jim meyers said i murdered jacob dobbin; and i believe i have, though i didn't intend to do it. i wish i had never gone that way; i wish i had never seen that rose; i wish there had never been a rose in the world.--o dear, my poor head, my poor head! i think 'twill burst;" and james courtenay put his two hands upon the two sides of his head, as though he wanted to keep them from splitting asunder. aggie saw that there was no use in speaking while james courtenay's head was in such a state as this. all she could do was to help him into bed, and give him something to drink,--food he put from him, but drink he asked for again and again. water was all he craved, but aggie was at last obliged to give over, and say she was afraid to give him any more. james courtenay's state was speedily made known to his father, and in a few minutes, from old aggie's conversation with him, the groom was on his way to a neighbouring town to hasten the family physician. the latter soon arrived, and, after a few minutes with james courtenay, pronounced him to be in brain fever--the end of which, of course, no man could foresee. and a fearful fever indeed it was. day after day passed in wild delirium. the burden of all the poor sufferer's cries and thoughts was, that he was a murderer. he used to call himself cain, and to try to tear the murderer's mark out of his forehead. sometimes he rolled himself in the sheet, and thought that he was dressed in a funeral cloak attending jacob dobbin's funeral, and all the while knowing that he had caused his death. at times the poor patient would attempt to spring from his bed; and now he fancied that he was being whipped with the thorny branches of rose trees; and now that he was being put in prison for stealing from a poor man's garden. at one time he thought all the tenants on the estate were hunting him off it with hounds, while he was fleeing from them on his gray pony as fast as her legs could carry her; and the next moment his pony was entangled hopelessly in the branches of little dobbin's rose tree, and the dogs were on him, and the huntsmen were halloing, and he was about to be devoured. all these were the terrible ravings of fever; and very awful it was to see the young squire with his hair all shaved off, and vinegar rags over his head, tossing his arms about, and endeavouring at times to burst from his nurses, and leap out upon the floor. the one prevailing thought in all the sick boy's ravings was jacob dobbin's rose bush. jacob, or his rose bush in some form or other, occupied a prominent part in every vision. ah, how terrible are the lashings of conscience! how terrible the effects of sin! for what a small gratification did this unhappy youth bring so much misery upon himself! and is it not often thus? the apostle says, "what fruit had ye then in those things whereof ye are now ashamed?" and what fruit of pleasure had james courtenay from his plunder of jacob dobbin's rose? where was that rose? it had long since faded; its leaves were mingled with the dust upon which it had been thrown; yet for the sake of the transient enjoyment of possessing that flower a few days before abundance would have made their appearance in his own garden, he had brought upon himself all this woe. poor, very poor indeed, are the pleasures of sin; and when they have been enjoyed, they are like the ashes of a fire that has burned out. compare james courtenay's present troubles,--his torture of mind, his pain of body, his risk of losing his life, and the almost momentary enjoyment which he had in plundering his poor neighbour of his moss-rose,--and see how satan cheats in his promises of enjoyment from sin. dear young reader! let not satan persuade you that there is any profit in sin--momentary pleasure there may indeed be, but it is soon gone, and then come sorrow and distress. sin is a sweet cup with bitter dregs, and he who drinks the little sweet that there is, must drink the dregs also. moments of sin may cause years of sorrow. * * * * * for many days james courtenay hung between life and death; night and day he was watched by skilful physicians, but they could do very little more than let the disease run its course. at length a change for the better appeared; the unhappy boy fell into a long sleep, and when he opened his eyes his disease was gone. but it had left him in a truly pitiable state. it was a sad sight to see the once robust boy now very little better than a skeleton; to hear the once loud voice now no stronger than a mere whisper; and instead of the mass of brown curly hair, to behold nothing but linen rags which swathed the shaven head. but all this squire courtenay did not so much mind; his son's life was spared, and he made no doubt but that care and attention would soon fatten him up again, and the curly locks would grow as luxuriantly as they did before. old aggie, too, was full of joy; the boy that she had nursed so tenderly, and for whom she had had such long anxiety, was not cut off in the midst of his sins, and he might perhaps have his heart changed and grow up to be a good man. and what an opportunity was this for trying to impress his mind! old aggie was determined that it should not be lost, and she hoped that the young squire might yet prove a blessing, and not a curse, to those amongst whom he lived. there were not wanting many upon squire courtenay's estate who would have been very glad if the young squire had never recovered. they had tasted a little of his bad character, and they feared that if he grew up to inherit the property, he would prove a tyrannical landlord to them. but amongst these was not to be reckoned old leonard dobbin. true, he had suffered terribly--indeed more than any one else--from james courtenay's evil ways; but he did not on that account wish him dead--far from it. it was old leonard's great fear lest the young squire should die in his sins, and no one asked more earnestly about the invalid than this good old man. as it was necessary that the sick boy should be kept as quiet as possible, no one went near his room except old aggie and those whose services could not be dispensed with. old aggie alone was allowed to talk to the invalid, and a long time would have elapsed before she could venture to speak of the circumstances which had brought about this dreadful illness, had not the young squire himself entered on the subject. "aggie," said he one morning, after he had lain a long time quite still, "i have been dreaming a beautiful dream." this was quite delightful to the old nurse, who for many long days had heard of nothing but visions of the most frightful kind. "i saw a rose bush--" "hush, hush, master james," said aggie, terrified lest the dreadful subject should come uppermost again, and once more bring on the delirium and a relapse of the fever. "no, no, aggie, i cannot hush; it was a beautiful dream, and it has done me more good than all the doctor's medicine. i saw a rose bush--a moss-rose--and it had one bud upon it, and sitting under the bud was little jacob dobbin. o aggie, it was the same jacob that used to be down at the cottage, for i knew his face; but he was beautiful, instead of sickly-looking; and instead of being all ragged, he was dressed in something like silver. i wanted to run away from him, but he looked so kindly at me that i could not stir; and at last he beckoned to me, and i stood quite close to him; and only he looked so softly at me, i must have been dazzled by the light on his face and his silvery clothes. "i did not feel as though i dared to speak to him; but at last he spoke to me, and his voice was as soft as a flute, and he said, 'all the roses on earth fade and wither, but nothing fades or withers in the happy place where i now live; and oh, do not be anxious to possess the withering, fading flowers, but walk on the road that leads to my happy home, where everything is bright for ever and ever.' "aggie, aggie," said james courtenay, who saw his nurse's anxious face, and that she was about to stop his speaking any more, "it is no use to try to stop my telling you all about it. my head has been so strange of late, that i forget everything, and i am afraid of forgetting this dream; so i must tell it now, and you are to write it down, that i may have it to read, if it should slip out of my mind. jacob dobbin said,--'you are not now in the right road; but ask jesus to pardon your sins, and then go and love everybody just as jesus loved you; and try to make every one happy, and do good morning, noon, and night, and try to scatter some flowers of happiness in every place to which you go; and then you shall be with me in the land where all is bright.' and i thought jacob pulled the one moss-rose, and gave it to me, and said, 'this is an earthly rose; keep it as long and as carefully as you will, it will fade at last; but our flowers never fade: try, o try, to come to them.' i heard music, aggie, or something like music, or perhaps like a stream flowing along, and i felt something like the summer breeze upon my cheeks, and jacob was gone, and there i stood with the rose in my hand. "write it down, aggie," said the invalid, "exactly as i have told you;" and having said this, james courtenay dropped off into a doze again. some days intervened between this reference to what had passed and the next conversation upon the subject, in which james courtenay told aggie--who had to listen much against her will--what he thought about this wonderful dream. "i know the meaning of that dream," said james courtenay to his nurse. "i do not want any one to explain it to me; i can tell all about it. the meaning is, that i must become a changed boy, or i shall never go to heaven when i die; and all the good things which i have here are not to be compared with those which are to be had there. what jacob said was, that all these things are fading, and i must seek for what is better than anything here. "aggie," said james courtenay, "you often think i am asleep when i am not; and you think i scarcely have my mind about me yet, when i lie so long quite still, looking away into the blue sky: but i am thinking; i am always thinking, and very often i am praying--asking forgiveness for the past, and hoping that i shall be changed for the future." "but we can't do much by hoping," said aggie, "and we can't do anything by ourselves." "i mean to do more than _hope_," said james courtenay; "i mean to _try_." "and you mean, i trust, to ask god's spirit to help you?" said aggie. "yes, every day," said james. "he helped jacob, and he'll help me; and i hope to be yet where jacob is now." "ay, he helps the poor," said aggie, "and he'll help the rich. jacob had his trials, and you'll have yours; and perhaps yours are the hardest, so far as going to heaven is concerned; for the rich have a temptation in every acre of land and in every guinea they have. our lord says that ''tis hard for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of heaven.'" for many days james courtenay thus pondered and prayed, with aggie as his chief companion and instructor, and at length he was able to leave his room. but he was a different james courtenay from the one who had entered that room some months before. the young squire was still pale and thin; but this was not the chief change observable in him,--he was silent and thoughtful in his manner, and gentle and kind to every one around. the loud voice which once rang so imperiously and impatiently through the corridors was now heard no more; the hand was not lifted to strike, and often gratitude was expressed for any attention that was shown. the servants looked at each other and wondered; they could scarcely hope that such a change would last; and when their young master returned to full health and strength, they quite expected the old state of things to return again. but they were mistaken. the change in james courtenay was a real one; it was founded on something more substantial than the transient feelings of illness,--he was changed _in his heart_. and very soon he learnt by experience the happiness which true religion brings with it. instead of being served unwillingly by the servants around, every one was anxious to please him; and he almost wondered at times whether these could be the servants with whom he had lived all his life. they now, indeed, gave a service of love; and a service of love is as different from a service of mere duty as day is from night. wherever the young squire had most displayed his passionate temper, there he made a point of going, for the sake of speaking kindly, and undoing so far as he could the evil he had already done. he kept ever in mind what he had heard from jacob dobbin in his dream,--that there was not only a saviour by whom alone he could be saved from his sins, but also that there was a road on which it was necessary to walk; a road which ran through daily life; a road on which loving deeds were to be done, and loving words spoken;--the road of obedience to the mind of christ. james courtenay well knew that obedience could not save him; but he well knew also that obedience was required from such as were saved by pure grace. * * * * * altered as james courtenay undoubtedly was, and earnest as he felt to become different to what he had been in olden time, he could not shake off from his mind the sad memory of the past. his mind was continually brooding upon poor little dobbin's death, and upon the share which he had in it. for now he knew all the truth. he had seen old leonard, and sat with him for many hours; and at his earnest request the old man had told him all the truth. "keep nothing back from me," said the young squire, as he sat by old leonard's humble fire-place, with his face covered with his hands; and over and over again had the old man to repeat the same story, and to call to mind every word that his departed son had said. "what shall i do, leonard, to show my sorrow?" asked james courtenay one day. "will you go and live in a new house, if i get papa to build one for you?" "thank you, young squire," said leonard; "it was here that jacob was born and died, and this will do for me well enough as long as i'm here. and it don't distress me much, master james, about its being a poor kind of a place, for i'm only here for a while, and i've a better house up yonder." "ay," said james courtenay, "and jacob is up yonder; but i fear, with all my striving, i shall never get there; and what good will all my fine property do me for ever so many years, if at the end of all i am shut out of the happy land?" "master james, you need not be shut out," said old dobbin; and he pulled down the worn bible from the shelf; "no, no; you need not be shut out. here is the verse that secured poor jacob's inheritance, and here is the verse that by god's grace secures mine, and it may secure yours too;" and the old man read out the passage in 1 john i. 7, "the blood of jesus christ his son cleanseth us from _all_ sin." "all, all!" cried old dobbin, his voice rising as he proceeded, for his heart was on fire; "from murder, theft, lying, stealing,--everything, everything! oh, what sinners are now in glory!--sinners no longer, but saints, washed in the precious blood! oh, how many are there now on earth waiting to be taken away and be for ever with the lord! i am bad, master james; my heart is full of sin in itself; but the blood of jesus cleanseth from all sin;--and whatever you have done may be all washed out; only cast yourself, body and soul, on christ." "but how could i ever meet jacob in heaven?" murmured the young squire from between his hands, in which he had buried his face; "when i saw him, must not i feel i murdered him? ay, i was the cause of his misery and death, all for the sake of one fading, worthless flower!" "don't call it worthless, master james; 'twas god's creature, and very beautiful while it lasted; and you can't call a thing worthless that gave a human being as much pleasure as that rose gave poor jacob. but whatever it was, it will make no hindrance to jacob meeting you in heaven,--ay, and welcoming you there, too. if you reach that happy place, i'll be bound jacob will meet you with a smile, and will welcome you with a song into the happy land." "well, 'tis hard to understand," said james courtenay. "yes, yes, master james, hard to our poor natures, but easy to those who are quite like their saviour, as jacob is now. when he was upon earth he taught his followers to forgive, and to love their enemies, and to do good to such as used them despitefully; and we may be sure that, now they are with him, and are made like him, they carry out all he would have them do, and they are all he would have them be. i don't believe that there is one in heaven that would be more glad to see you, master james, than my poor boy,--if i may call him my poor boy, seeing he's now in glory." many were the conversations of this kind which passed between old leonard and the young squire, and gradually the latter obtained more peace in his mind. true, he could never divest himself of the awful thought that he had been the immediate cause of his humble neighbour's death; but he dwelt very much upon that word "all," and aggie repeated old leonard's lessons, and by degrees he was able to lay even his great trouble upon his saviour. but all that james courtenay had gone through had told fearfully upon his health. his long and severe illness, followed by so much mental anxiety and trouble, laid in him the seeds of consumption. his friends, who watched him anxiously, saw that as weeks rolled on he gained no strength, and at length it was solemnly announced by the physician that he was in consumption. there were symptoms which made it likely that the disease would assume a very rapid form. and so it did. the young squire began to waste almost visibly before the eyes of those around, and it soon became evident, not only that his days were numbered, but that they must be very few. and so they were. three weeks saw the little invalid laid upon his bed, with no prospect of rising from it again. at his own earnest request he was told what his condition really was; and when he heard it, not a tear started in his eye, not a murmur escaped his lips. one request, and one only, did the dying boy prefer; and that was, that leonard dobbin should be admitted to his room as often as he wished to see him. and this was very often; as james had only intervals of wakefulness, it became necessary that the old man should be always at hand, so as to be ready at any hour of the day or night, and at length he slept in a closet off the sick boy's room. and with leonard came the old worn bible. the good old labourer was afraid, with his rough hands, to touch the richly bound and gilt volume that was brought up from the library; he knew every page in his own well-thumbed old book, and in that he read, and from that he discoursed. the minister of the parish came now and again; but when he heard of what use old leonard had been to the young squire, he said that god could use the uneducated man as well as the one that was well-learned, and he rejoiced that by any instrumentality, however humble, god had in grace and mercy wrought upon the soul of this wayward boy. at length the period of the young squire's life came to be numbered, not by days, but hours, and his father sat by his dying bed. "papa," said the dying boy, "i shall soon be gone, and when i am dying i shall want to think of christ and of holy things alone;--you will do, i know, what i want when i am gone." squire courtenay pressed his son's hand, and told him he would do anything, everything he wished. "you remember that grandmamma left me some money when she died; give leonard dobbin as much every year as will support him; and give him my gray pony that he may be carried about, for he is getting too old to work; and"--and it seemed as though the dying boy had to summon up all his strength to say it--"bury me, not in our own grand vault, but by jacob dobbin's grave; and put up a monument in our church to jacob, and cut upon it a broken rose; and let the rose bush be planted close to where poor jacob lies--" the young squire could say no more, and it was a long time before he spoke again; when he did, it was evident that he was fast departing to another world. with the little strength at his command, the dying boy muttered old leonard's name; and in a moment the aged christian, with his bible in his hand, stood by the bedside. "read, read," whispered aggie the nurse; "he is pointing to your bible,--he wants you to read; and read quickly, leonard, for he soon won't be able to hear." and leonard, opening his bible at the well-known place, read aloud, "the blood of jesus christ his son cleanseth us from all sin." "_all, all_," whispered the dying boy. "_all, all_," responded the old man. "_all, all_," faintly echoed the dying boy, and in a few moments no sound was heard in the sick-room--james courtenay had departed to realize the truth of the words, that "the blood of jesus christ cleanseth from _all_ sin." next to the chief mourners at the funeral walked old leonard dobbin; and close by the poor crippled jacob's grave they buried james courtenay--so close that the two graves seemed almost one. and when a little time had elapsed, the squire had a handsome tomb placed over his son, which covered in the remains of poor jacob too, and at the head of it was planted the moss-rose tree. and he put up a tablet to poor jacob's memory in the church, and a broken rose was sculptured in a little round ornament at the bottom of it. and now the old hall is without an heir, and the squire without a son. but there is good hope that the squire thinks of a better world, and that he would rather have his boy safe in heaven than here amid the temptations of riches again. oh, what a wonder that there is mercy for the greatest sinners! but oh, what misery comes of sin! "the wages of sin is death; but the gift of god is eternal life through jesus christ our lord." [illustration] * * * * * transcriber's notes: obvious punctuation errors repaired. page 16, "worst? poor" changed to "worst; poor" working in the shade; or, lowly sowing brings glorious reaping by the reverend theodore p wilson ________________________________________________________________ when he wrote "frank oldfield" some ten years before this book, and won a literary prize with it, wilson showed that he was an author who could write a good story round a moral theme, and hold his readers' attention. this is just such a book. you could look at it as no more than a very hard-hitting sermon on the theme of selfishness, but it is well-written enough, with various episodes of selfishness leading to disaster, and unselfishness leading heavenwards. it is not a long book, and it will not take you long to read this book, or listen to it. it is well-written, and it will surely make a good impression upon you, and give you food for thought. nh ________________________________________________________________ working in the shade; or, lowly sowing brings glorious reaping by the reverend theodore p wilson chapter one. the new-comer. curiosity was on tiptoe in the small country-town of franchope and the neighbourhood when it was settled without a doubt that riverton park was to be occupied once more. park house, which was the name of the mansion belonging to the riverton estate, was a fine, old, substantial structure, which stood upon a rising ground, and looked out upon a richly undulating country, a considerable portion of which belonged to the property. the house was situated in the centre of an extensive park, whose groups and avenues of venerable trees made it plain that persons of consideration had long been holders of the estate. but for the last twenty years riverton park had been a mystery and a desolation. no one had occupied the house during that time, except an old man and his wife, who pottered about the place, and just contrived to keep the buildings from tumbling into ruin. the shutters were always closed, as though the mansion were in a state of chronic mourning for a race of proprietors now become extinct, except that now and then, in summer-time, a niggardly amount of fresh air and sunshine was allowed to find its way into the interior of the dwelling. as for the grounds and the park, they were _overlooked_ in more senses than one by a labourer and his sons, who lived in a hamlet called bridgepath, which was situated on the estate, about a mile from the house, in the rear, and contained some five hundred people. john willis and his sons were paid by somebody to look after the gardens and drives; and as they got their money regularly, and no one ever came to inspect their work, they just gave a turn at the old place now and then at odd times, and neither asked questions nor answered any, and allowed the grass and weeds to have their own way, till the whole domain became little better than an unsightly wilderness. everybody said it was a shame, but as no one had a right to interfere, the broad, white front of park house continued to look across the public road to franchope through its surroundings of noble trees, with a sort of pensive dignity, its walls being more or less discoloured and scarred, while creepers straggled across the windows, looking like so many wrinkles indicative of decrepitude and decay. but why did no one purchase it? simply because its present owner, who was abroad somewhere, had no intention of selling it. at last, however, a change had come. riverton park was to be tenanted again. but by whom? not by its former occupier; that was ascertained beyond doubt by those who had sufficient leisure and benevolence to find out other people's business for the gratification of the general public. it was not so clear who was to be the new-comer. some said a retired tradesman; others, a foreign princess; others, the proprietor of a private lunatic asylum. these and other rumours were afloat, but none of them came to an anchor. it was on a quiet summer's evening in july that mary stansfield was walking leisurely homeward along the highroad which passed through the riverton estate and skirted the park. miss stansfield was the orphan child of an officer who had perished, with his wife and other children, in the indian mutiny. she had been left behind in england, in the family of a maiden aunt, her father's sister, who lived on her own property, which was situated between the riverton estate and the town of franchope. she had inherited from her father a small independence, and from both parents the priceless legacy of a truly christian example, and the grace that rests on the child in answer to the prayers of faith and love. the world considered her position a highly-favoured one, for her aunt would no doubt leave her her fortune and estate when she died; for she had already as good as adopted her niece, from whom she received all the attention and watchful tenderness which she needed continually, by reason of age and manifold infirmities. but while our life has its outer convex side, which magnifies its advantages before the world, it has its inner concave side also, which reduces the outer circumstances of prosperity into littleness, when "the heart knoweth its own bitterness, and a stranger doth not intermeddle with its joy." so it was with mary stansfield. she had a refined and luxurious home, and all her wants supplied. she was practically mistress of the household, and had many friends and acquaintances in the families of the neighbouring gentry, several of whom had country seats within easy walk or drive of her home. yet there was a heavy cross in her lot, and its edges were very sharp. in her aged aunt, with whom she lived, there were a harshness of character, and an inability to appreciate or sympathise with her niece, which would have made mary stansfield's life a burden to her had it not been for her high sense of duty, her patient charity, and god's abiding-grace in her heart. misunderstood, thwarted at every turn, her attentions misinterpreted, her gentle forbearance made the object of keen and relentless sarcasm or lofty reproof, her supposed failings and shortcomings exposed and commented upon with ruthless bitterness, while yet the tongue which wounded never transgressed the bounds imposed by politeness, but rather chose the blandest terms wherewith to stab the deepest,--hers was indeed a life whose daily strain taxed the unostentatious grace of patience to the utmost, and made her heart often waver, while yet the settled will never lost its foothold. how gladly, had she consulted self, would she have left her gilded prison and joined some congenial sister, as her own means would have permitted her to do, in work for god, where, after toiling abroad, she could come back to a humble home, in which her heart would be free, and generous love would answer love. but duty said "no," as she believed. the cold, hard woman who so cruelly repulsed her was her beloved father's only sister, and she had resolved that while her aunt claimed or desired her services no personal considerations should withdraw her from that house of restraint and humiliation. pondering the difficulties of her trying position, yet in no murmuring spirit, mary stansfield, on this quiet summer's evening, was just passing the boundary wall which separated riverton park from the adjoining property, when, to her surprise and partly amusement also, she noticed a venerable-looking old gentleman seated school-boy fashion on the top rail of a five-barred gate. the contrast between his patriarchal appearance and his attitude and position made her find it difficult to keep her countenance; so, turning her head away lest he should see the smile on her face, she was quickening her pace, when she became aware that he had jumped down from his elevated seat and was advancing towards her. "miss stansfield, i suppose?" he asked, as she hesitated for a moment in her walk, at the same time raising his hat respectfully. surprised at this salutation, but pleased with the voice and manner of the stranger, she stopped, and replied to his question in the affirmative, and was moving on, when he added,-"i am a stranger to you at present, my dear young lady; but i hope not to be so long. i daresay you will guess that i am the new occupier of riverton park. i suppose i ought properly to wait for a formal introduction before making your acquaintance; but i have lived abroad in the colonies for some years past, and colonial life makes one disposed at times to set aside or disregard some of those social barriers which are, i know, necessary in the old country; so you must excuse an old man for introducing himself, and will permit him, i am sure, to accompany you as far as your aunt's lodge." there was something so frank, and at the same time so thoroughly courteous, about the old gentleman's address that miss stansfield could not be offended with him; while his age and bearing prevented her feeling that there was any impropriety in her permitting him to be her companion on the public road till she should reach the drive-gate leading up to her home. she therefore bowed her assent, and the two walked slowly forward. "you must know, miss stansfield," proceeded the stranger, "that i have both seen you before and have also heard a good deal about you, though we have never met till to-day.--ah, i know what you would say," he added, with a smile, as he noticed her look of extreme surprise and her blush of bewilderment. "you are thinking, what can i have heard about one who is leading such a commonplace, retired life as yours? i will tell you. i have been rather anxious to know what sort of neighbours i shall have round me here, so i have been getting a little reliable information on the subject--where from it matters not; and my informant has told me about an old lady whose estate adjoins riverton park, and who has a niece living with her who belongs to a class for which i have a special respect, and which i may call `workers in the shade.' do you understand me?" "perfectly," replied his companion; "only i feel utterly unworthy of being included in such a class." "of course you do. and just for this reason, because you're in the habit of burning candles instead of letting off fireworks; and so you think your humble candles aren't of much service because they don't go off with a rush and a fizz. is that it?" "perhaps it may be so," said the other, laughing. "well, do you remember what shakespeare says?" asked the old man. "`how far that little candle throws its beams, so shines a good deed in a naughty world.' "now, i want you kindly to answer me a question. it is this, are there any unselfish people in franchope or the neighbourhood?" the question was put so abruptly, and was so odd in itself, that mary stansfield looked in her companion's face with a half misgiving. he noticed it instantly. "you're a little doubtful as to the old gentleman's vanity?" he said, laughing; "but i'm quite sane and quite in earnest; and i repeat my question." "really," said the other, much amused, "it is a very difficult question to answer. i hope and believe that there are many unselfish persons in our neighbourhood, or it would be sad indeed." "ah! true," was his reply, "but hoping is one thing, and believing is another. now, i've been half over the world, and have come back to my own country with the settled conviction that selfishness is the great crying sin of our day; and it seems to me to have increased tenfold in my own native land since i last left it. so i should very much like to meet with a specimen or two of genuine unselfish people; for i have some important work to do here, and i shall stand in need of truly unselfish helpers. can you name me one or two?" "well, sir, if you mean by unselfish persons those who really work for god's glory and not their own, i freely admit that they are, and i suppose always must be, comparatively rare." "that is exactly what i _do_ mean, my dear young lady; can you help me to find a few such unselfish workers in your own rank of life, and of your own sex?" his companion was silent for a few moments, then she said slowly and timidly, "i judge, dear sir, from the tone of your questions that you are a follower of that saviour who has set us the only perfect example of unselfishness." "i trust so, my young friend," was the other's reply; "i wish at least to be so. well, i see we have only a few more steps to bring us to your aunt's lodge. we shall meet again, i have no doubt, before long; and perhaps when we do i shall have more to say to you on the same subject. farewell, and thank you." and with a courteous salutation he parted from her. chapter two. settling down. restoration and improvement went on vigorously at riverton park. the front of the house soon lost its careworn appearance; the walks laid aside their weeds, and shone with a lively surface of fresh gravel; the shutters ceased to exclude the daylight; while painters and paperers, masons and carpenters, decorators and upholsterers soon brought the interior of the dwelling into a becoming state of beauty, order, and comfort. and now the new proprietor was looked for with anxious expectation. his name had already got abroad, and all the gentry round were prepared to welcome colonel dawson when he should take possession of his newly acquired property. the colonel was an old retired officer, who had spent many years since leaving the army in one or more of the colonies. and now he was come home again, and intended to pass the rest of his days at riverton. this was all that report could confidently affirm at present. was he an old bachelor or married? and if the latter, was his wife still living, and was there any family? very conflicting rumours got abroad on this subject, but very little satisfaction came of them. all that could conclusively be gathered was that park house was to have a lady inhabitant as well as the colonel; but that only a portion of the house was to be fully furnished. the appearance of a coachman daily exercising two noble carriage-horses was also hailed as a sign that the colonel did not mean to lead an unsociable life. so franchope and its neighbourhood were content, and watched the arrivals at the station day by day with patient interest. at length, in the first week in august, it was observed that the colonel's carriage drew up at the railway office to meet the evening train from london. from a first-class carriage there emerged three persons--the colonel, an elderly lady, and a young man who might be some twenty years of age; a footman and a lady's-maid also made their appearance; and all drove off for riverton park. who could count the pairs of eyes that looked out from various windows in franchope as the carriage drove rapidly through the town? a glance, a flash, and the new-comers were gone. and now, in a few days, the whole household having twice occupied the family pews in the old parish church on the lord's day, the neighbouring gentry began to make their calls. the first to do so were lady willerly and her daughter. her ladyship had discovered that she was distantly connected with the colonel, and hastened to show her interest in him as speedily as possible. having cordially shaken hands with her and her daughter. colonel dawson turned to the lady and young man by his side and introduced them as, "my sister miss dawson; my nephew mr horace jackson." so the relationships were settled, and public curiosity set at rest. numerous other callers followed, and by all it was agreed that the family was a decided acquisition; a pity perhaps that there was not a mrs dawson and a few more young people to fill the roomy old house and add liveliness to the various parties and social gatherings among the gentry. a younger man than the colonel would undoubtedly have been more to the general taste, especially as it was soon found that the family at park house neither accepted nor gave dinner invitations, nor indeed invitations to any gatherings except quiet afternoon friendly meetings, where intercourse with a few neighbours could be enjoyed without mixing with the gaieties of the fashionable world. so good society shrugged its shoulders, and raised its eyebrows, and regretted that the colonel, who doubtless was a good man, should have taken up such strict and strange notions. however, people must please themselves; and so it came to pass that the family at riverton park was soon left pretty much to itself, just exchanging civil calls now and then with the principal neighbours, and being left out of the circle of fashionable intimacy. three families, however, kept up a closer acquaintance, which ripened, more or less, into friendship. about a mile and a half from the park, on the side that was farthest from franchope, lived mr arthur wilder, a gentleman of independent means, with a wife, a grown-up son, and three daughters. horace jackson was soon on the most intimate terms with young wilder, and with his sisters, who had the reputation of being the most earnest workers in all good and benevolent schemes, so that in them the clergyman of their parish had the benefit of three additional right hands; while their parents and brother gave time, money, and influence to many a good cause and useful institution. adjoining the riverton estate, in the direction of franchope, was, as has been already stated, the property of the elderly miss stansfield, whose niece, mary, has been introduced to our readers. the old lady was an early caller on the colonel's family, having made a special effort to rouse herself to pay the call, as she rarely left her own grounds. she at once took to colonel dawson; and, whether or no the liking was returned on his part, he frequently visited his infirm neighbour, and would spend many a quiet hour with her, to her great satisfaction. the old lady was one who wished to do good, and did it, but not graciously. so she had won respect and a good name among her dependants, but not love. the world called her selfish, but the world was wrong. she was self-absorbed, but not selfish in the ordinary sense of the term. she acted upon principle of the highest kind; her religion was a reality, but she had been used ever to have her own way, and could not brook thwarting or contradiction; while her ailments and infirmities had clustered her thoughts too much round herself, and had generated a bitterness in her manner and speech, which made the lot of her niece, who was her constant companion, a very trying one. to the north of riverton park was the estate of lady willerly. her ladyship was one of those impetuous characters who are never content unless they are taking castles by storm; she must use a hatchet where a penknife would answer equally well or better. she was a widow, and dwelt with her only child grace, a grown-up daughter, in her fine old family mansion, in the midst of her tenants and the poor, who lived in a state of chronic alarm lest she should be coming down upon them with some new and vigorous alteration or improvement. her daughter was in some respects like her mother, as full of energy, but with a little more discretion; bright as a sunbeam, and honest as the day; abounding also in good works. such were the three families who maintained an intimacy with colonel dawson, when the rest of the neighbouring gentry dropped off into ordinary acquaintances. chapter three. "the new school." when the family had occupied park house about four months, a great deal of curiosity and excitement was felt by the inhabitants of bridgepath, the little hamlet of five hundred persons in the rear of riverton park, in consequence of sundry cart-loads of bricks, stone, and lime being deposited on a field which was situated a few yards from the principal beer-shop. the colonel was going to build, it seemed,--but what? possibly a full-grown public-house. well, that would be a very questionable improvement. was it to be a school, or a reading-room? there was a school already, held in the parlour of the blacksmith's cottage, where a master attended on week-days, weather permitting, and imparted as much of the three r's as the children, whose parents thought it worth while to send them, could be induced to acquire under the pressure of a moderate amount of persuasion and an immoderate amount of castigation. the master came in a pony-cart from franchope, and returned in the same the moment the afternoon school broke up, so that his scholars had ample opportunity, when he was fairly gone, to settle any little disputes which might have arisen during school hours by vigorous fights on the open green, the combatants being usually encouraged to prolong their encounters to the utmost by the cheers of the men who gathered round them out of the neighbouring beer-shops. as for religious instruction, the master, it is true, made his scholars read a portion of the scriptures twice a week, and learn a few verses. but they would have been almost better without this; for the hard, matter-of-fact way in which he dealt with the holy book and its teachings would make the children rather hate than love their bible lesson. and what was done for the improvement, mental or spiritual, of the grown-up people? nothing. neither church nor chapel existed in the place. a few old and middle-aged people walked occasionally to the nearest place of worship, some two miles off; but nine-tenths of the villagers went nowhere on a sunday--that is to say, nowhere where they could hear anything to do them good, though they were ready enough to leave their homes on the sabbath to congregate where they could drink and game together, and sing profane and immoral songs. so bridgepath was rightly called "a lost place;" and indeed it had been "lost" for so many years, that there seemed scarcely the remotest prospect of its being "found" by any one disposed to do it good. however, even in this dark spot there was a corner from which there shone a little flickering light. john price and his family tenanted a tolerably roomy cottage at the entrance to the village, close to the horse-pond. the poor man had seen better days, having acted as steward to the young squire from the time he came into the property till he disappeared with his infant son and an old nurse who had lived for nearly two generations on the riverton estate. poor john had served the squire's father also as steward, and loved the young master as if he had been his own child; and it was known that, when ruin fell on the young man, the poor steward was dragged down also to poverty, having been somehow or other involved in his employer's ruin. but never did john price utter a word that would throw light on this subject to anyone outside his own family. all he would let people know was, that the squire had left him his cottage rent-free for his life,--which was, indeed, all that the master had to leave his faithful servant. the worthy man had struggled hard to keep himself and his family; but now he was bed-ridden, and had been so for some five or six years past. however, he had a patient wife, who made the most and best of a very little, and loving children, some of them in service, who helped him through. and he found a measure of peace in studying his old, well-worn bible, though he read it as yet but ignorantly. still, what light he had he strove to impart to those of the villagers who came to sit and condole with him; while his wife, and an unmarried daughter who lived at home, both deploring the wickedness of bridgepath, tried to throw in a word of scriptural truth now and then, for the sake of instructing and improving their heathenish neighbours. it may be well imagined, then, with what interest all the villagers, but especially the prices, including john himself, as he was propped up in bed and gazed through the casement, marked the numerous carts bringing building materials of all kinds to the village. all doubts on the subject, however, were soon brought to an end by a call from the colonel at john's house in the early part of november. after a few kind inquiries about his health and family, colonel dawson informed him that he was going to build at once a school and master's house in bridgepath, with a reading-room attached to it, and to place there a married man of thorough christian principles; one who would not only look after the ordinary teaching of the children, but would also, under the superintendence of the vicar, conduct a simple religious service on sundays for the instruction of the villagers. bridgepath had from time immemorial been under the special supervision of the proprietors of riverton park, the whole hamlet being a portion of the property. the parish to which it belonged was extensive, and the parish church some five miles distant, bridgepath being just on the borders of the next parish, in which parish the park itself was situated. so, in former days, the chaplain at the house used to look after the people of the hamlet in a good-natured sort of way, by taking food and clothing to the sick and destitute, and saying a kind word, and giving a little wholesome advice, where he thought they were needed. but being himself unhappily possessed of but little light, he was unable to impart much to others, and the spiritual destitution of poor bridgepath never seemed to occur to his mind at all. but now, for the last twenty years, neither squire nor chaplain had resided at riverton; so that a very occasional visit from the vicar--who had more on his hands nearer home than he could well accomplish, and who, with others, was living in constant expectation of some one coming to the property and bringing about a change--was all that had been done directly for the scriptural instruction and eternal welfare of the benighted inhabitants of bridgepath. now, however, a mighty change was coming, and the dwellers in the hamlet were supposed to be highly delighted, as a matter of course, with the prospect. and, certainly, the hearts of old john price and his wife and daughter did rejoice; but not so the hearts of most of the inhabitants, for they were thoroughly conscious that much of the goings on in their village would not bear looking into by those who feared god and respected human law. bridgepath had been now for a good many years a _privileged_ place in the eyes of poachers, gamblers, and sabbathbreakers, where the devil's active servants could hold their festivals, especially on the lord's day, without fear of interruption from policeman or preacher. and the women were as bad as the men; they "loved darkness rather than light, because their deeds were evil." so the new school and reading-room arose amidst the sneers and loudlyexpressed disgust of the majority of the population; the proprietors of the beer-shops being specially bitter in their denunciations of this uncalled-for innovation on the good old times and habits, so long the favoured lot of a primitive and unsophisticated people, who had been quite content when left to their own devices, and could do perfectly well without these new-fashioned schemes, if only good people would just let them alone. the good people, however, saw the matter in a different light; and so, spite of all the grumbling and outspoken dissatisfaction, the buildings were completed in the spring, and the new schoolmaster and his wife took up their abode in bridgepath. colonel dawson had chosen his man carefully, and duly warned him that he would find his post at first no bed of roses. to which the master replied that he was not afraid of encountering his share of thorns; and that he doubted not but that with prayer, patience, and perseverance, there would be both flowers and fruit in bridgepath in due time. as for opposition, he rather enjoyed a little of it, and trusted to be enabled to live it down. the colonel was satisfied, for he knew that he had chosen a man who had already proved himself to be no mere talker. so bridgepath looked on in sulky wonder; but soon was constrained to acknowledge that, in their new schoolmaster, the right man had been put into the right place. and now the colonel was very anxious to get the help of some earnesthearted christian lady, who would visit the sick and needy in the neglected hamlet, carrying with her christ in her heart and on her lips; for his sister was too old to undertake such a work. his thoughts turned to mary stansfield. he would go and have a talk with the old lady her aunt about it. chapter four. what is unselfishness? colonel dawson took a deep interest both in miss stansfield and her niece. he understood them both, and pitied them both, but for very different reasons. he pitied the old lady because she was throwing away her own happiness and crippling her own usefulness. he pitied her because she was not what she might so easily have been; because she was storing up vinegar where she might have gathered honey; and was one of those of whom dr south says that "they tell the truth, but tell it with the tongue of a viper." he pitied mary stansfield, but with a pity mingled with profound respect and admiration. he pitied her that she should have to bear those daily raspings of the spirit which her aunt, half unconsciously, perpetually inflicted on her. and yet he could not altogether regret the discipline, when he marked how the trial was daily burnishing the fine gold of her character. still, he pitied both, and was a frequent visitor at morewood court, partly because he marked how few were the friends who cared to stay at the house, and, more still, because he hoped to be of use in lightening the burden of both aunt and niece. colonel dawson was one of those who love "working in the shade." not that he was ashamed or afraid of working in the light, but he was content to pursue the less attractive and less ornamental paths of usefulness, which few comparatively cared to follow. and so he had set himself resolutely and prayerfully to the task of rearranging the character of one who, he was persuaded, was capable and desirous of doing good and great things, could she only be got to hold herself at arm's-length from herself for a little while, and see herself in the glass of god's word, and as others saw her. he felt sure that there was good, practical sense enough in her mind, and grace enough in her heart, to make her yield to conviction when he should draw her on to see and acknowledge a better way; and then he knew that, when she should have been drawn out of the old self into a better self, she would duly appreciate and love her long-suffering niece. but he was well aware that the old self would not surrender its throne without a severe struggle, and he was therefore not surprised to find the old lady's bitterness rather increase than diminish as through their conversations she was learning to become more and more dissatisfied with herself. her poor niece had to bear in consequence the burden of an increased irritability in her aunt's addresses to her. but she was greatly cheered when the colonel took an opportunity of seeing her alone, and assuring her that, spite of appearances to the contrary, the clouds were beginning to break, and that light and peace would shortly follow. it was now the month of june; the school and reading-room at bridgepath had got fairly established; the growlers and grumblers had nearly all of them subsided; and many long-benighted souls were receiving light with gladness. "pray excuse my calling so early," said the colonel, as he took his seat beside the elder miss stansfield, on a bright sunny morning. the drawing-room window was open, and the ladies were seated on either side of it--the aunt half reclining on an easy-chair, the other occupying a low stool, with the open bible from which she had been reading aloud on her lap. miss stansfield received her visitor very cordially, but it was plain that the reading of the holy book had not imparted any sunshine to her spirit, and there were traces of recent tears in her niece's eyes. the colonel saw this, but made no remark on it. for a few moments he gazed on the lovely garden, visible through the open window, without speaking; then he said abruptly, "i was thinking how selfish we naturally are; those beautiful flowers reminded me of it, and seemed to reproach me. god gives us such a profusion of colour, and harmonises it so marvellously to delight us; and yet how ready we are to pick out, as it were, the sombrest tints in his dealings with us, and to keep our eyes fixed on them." miss stansfield coloured slightly, and then said, after a pause, during which her niece did not look up, but nervously moved the leaves of her bible, "yes, i quite agree with you, colonel dawson; there is abundance of selfishness in our days, especially among young people. they seem to think of nothing but having their own way, and seldom condescend to admit that those who have been brought up in less enlightened days can have gained any wisdom by experience." "ah! i dare say," replied the other; "i've no doubt that young people, many of them at least, have a large share of this very unlovable quality. perhaps we have all of us more of it than we should like to admit to ourselves. but now, to tell the truth, i am on the look-out for one or two unselfish people;--can either of you, my dear friends, help me to find them?" "i think you will search in vain in _this_ neighbourhood," said the old lady dryly. "nay, my dear miss stansfield, are you not a little uncharitable? surely you can point me to some who love doing good, and forget themselves in doing it." "i can say `yes' to the first but not to the last part of your question," was the reply. "there are plenty who love doing good, according to the popular estimate of goodness; but they love still more to be known and praised as the doer of it." "well," rejoined her visitor, "granting this in a measure, i should still like to know of some of these popular good-doers. we must make considerable allowance for human frailty. perhaps i shall be able to pick out a real jewel, where you have believed them to be only coloured glass and tinsel." "i fear not, colonel dawson. however, i will mention a few of what i believe to be but counterfeit gems. there are the wilders, for instance. those girls are always doing good, and their brother too. you have only to look into the local papers to see what a broad stream of good works is perpetually flowing from that family. what with ecclesiastical decorations, sunday-school and day-school _fetes_, dancing at charity balls, managing coal and clothing clubs, and a hundred other things in which the world and the church get their alternate share pretty evenly, that family is a perfect pattern of good deeds for everybody to look at,--like the children's samplers, which their mothers point to with so much pride, as they hang up framed in their cottages." the colonel looked grave, and said, "then you do not consider that there are likely to be any unselfish workers in the wilder family?" "you had better ask my niece, colonel. she will give you an unprejudiced opinion." the other looked towards the younger lady, and said, "i am asking now in confidence, and with an object, not from mere idle curiosity, far less from any wish to pick holes in the characters and conduct of any of my neighbours. so, miss mary, kindly give me your opinion." thus appealed to, the younger lady replied, but evidently with much reluctance, "i fear that my aunt is right in her judgment of the wilders. i dare not recommend them to you as likely to prove, in the truest sense, unselfish workers. they are very kind and good-natured, and no one can help liking them; but--" and she hesitated. "i understand you," said the colonel; "they would not come up to my standard, you think?" "i fear not; but then i should be sorry to judge them harshly, only you asked my honest opinion." "oh, speak out, my dear, speak out," said her aunt; "they are but afflicted with the epidemic which has attacked all ranks in our day. thus, where will you find a really unselfish servant nowadays? the oldfashioned domestics who would live a generation in a family, mourn over an accidental breakage committed once in a quarter of a century, and count their employer's interest as their own, are creatures entirely of the past. and as with maid and man, so with mistress and master, old or young. `what am i to get as an equivalent if i do this or that?' seems the prevailing thought now with workers of every kind." "ah yes," said the colonel thoughtfully, "there is too much truth in what you say; only, in the darkest night we may detect a few stars, and some very bright ones too, if we will only look for them. and i am looking for stars now, but i shall be quite content to get one or two of the second or third magnitude." "i'm afraid you'll hardly be able to find any in this neighbourhood, for the clouds," said the old lady, with a smile, in which the bitter prevailed over the sweet. "nay, nay, my dear friend," cried the colonel cheerily, "don't let us talk about clouds this lovely june morning. i fear, however, that i must not look for what i want among the wilders. i can readily understand that they might be unwilling to work in the shade, where there would be nothing to repay them except the smile of him who will not let even the cup of cold water rightly given go unrewarded. what do you say to lady willerly's daughter? i have heard great things of her. they tell me she is one of the most unselfish creatures under the sun." "ay," said the old lady dryly, "when the sun shines on her; but you want workers in the shade. grace willerly will not do for that." "you think not? well, let me tell you what i have heard of her. those who know her well say that she never seems so happy as when she is doing good and making others happy. her mother calls her `my sunbeam.' she seems to take a pleasure in thwarting herself in order to gratify others. if she wants to go out for a walk, and some tiresome visitor comes in, she will laugh, and say, `i was just wanting some one to come and keep me in, for i dare say i should have caught cold if i had gone out just now.' or it may be quite the other way. she is just sitting down to draw or play, and some one calls and asks her to take a walk, and she at once leaves her occupation, jumps up, and says, `ah, how nice this is! i ought to take exercise, but felt disinclined; and you've come at the very right time, to entice me out.' in fact, her greatest pleasure seems to be to cross her own will and inclinations, that she may do what will give pleasure to others. such is the picture that intimate friends have drawn of her; and certainly it is a very charming one. what say you to it, miss mary?" "it is very beautiful, colonel dawson--" and she hesitated. "ah, then, too highly coloured, i suppose you would say. give me your candid opinion." "it is very difficult to say what i feel," replied mary stansfield, "without seeming to lay myself open to the charge of censoriousness or captiousness; and yet i cannot help seeing a shade of unreality, and even insincerity, on that bright and beautiful character,--that it wants, in fact, one essential element of genuine unselfishness." "of course it does," broke in the elder lady; "you mean that it is not free from self-consciousness and, more or less, of parade." "i fear so, dear aunt. i cannot help thinking that, as some one has said of faith, so it may be said of true unselfishness, that `it is colourless like water,'--it makes no show nor assertion of itself. but dear grace willerly is a sterling character for all that." "so then," said the colonel, after a pause, "i must give up in despair, must i? no, that will never do. now, i am wanting a quiet worker in the shade for poor bridgepath,--some young lady friend who has a little leisure time, and will go now and then and read in the cottages there the word of god, and give some loving counsel to those who need it so much. i have the good vicar's full consent and approbation; he will gladly welcome any such helper as i may find for the post. it will be a true labour of love; and, without any more words i am come to ask miss stansfield if she will spare her niece for the good work, and miss mary if she will be willing to undertake it." the reply of the two ladies, who were equally taken by surprise, was in each case made in a single word, and that word very characteristic. "impossible!" cried the old lady. "me!" exclaimed the younger one. "nay, not impossible, dear friend," said the colonel gently. "i want this service of love only once a week for an hour or two, and i am sure you can spare my young friend for that time.--and as for yourself, miss mary, i believe, from what i have seen of you, that you are just fitted for the work; and i am sure that you are too sincere to excuse yourself on the ground of an unfitness which you do not really feel." "and what am i to do?" asked the old lady bitterly. "exercise a little of this true unselfishness, dear friend. you see there are many ways in which you too can show true unselfishness in the cause of that master whom i know you truly love, though he has laid you aside from much active work for him." miss stansfield did not answer for a time; she looked pained, but the bitterness had passed away from her countenance. evading an immediate reply, she said, "i don't understand these many ways in which i can show unselfishness, colonel dawson." "do you not? may i mention some?" "yes, do," she replied earnestly. "well, bear with me then, while i make one or two suggestions which our late conversations have been leading up to. i will imagine myself in your place, and looking out to see where i may best put the stamp of the cross on my life. i am wishing to do good, i am trying to do good: but may it not be that my benevolence is sometimes rendered so ungraciously that it gives more pain than pleasure to those who receive it? ah, then, i will put the stamp of the cross here. i will try, not only to do good, but to do it graciously. perhaps, again, i am looking upon suffering and natural infirmity of temper as an excuse for harshness and hard judgment, and not as a call to exercise charity, patience, and forbearance. then let me put the stamp of the cross here also. or, once more, perhaps i am in the habit of looking for the weeds rather than the flowers, for the shadows rather than the sunshine, in my lot. well, then, here again i may place the stamp of the cross, by exercising quiet, unostentatious self-denial and unselfishness before the loving eyes of him who has made us for himself, and redeemed us that we might in all things glorify him. might i not thus, dear friend, exhibit true unselfishness, and at the same time brighten my own heart, and also the hearts of others?" no one spoke for a few moments, but the old lady bowed her head upon her hands and wept silently. then she stretched out a hand to the colonel, without raising her head, and said in a half-stifled whisper, "thank you, thank you, faithful friend. mary shall undertake the post if she will." ah yes! light had shone into that clouded spirit; the shadows were passing away. mary stansfield knelt her down by the old lady's side, and in one loving, tearful embrace, such as they had never known before, the icy barrier that had so long chilled that young and loving heart was melted, and there was peace. the colonel was more than satisfied. he knew, as he quietly stole out of the room without a further word, that he had been privileged to gain that morning two like-minded workers in the shade, instead of one. chapter five. the stamp of the cross. a few days after colonel dawson's happy interview with miss stansfield and her niece, a _fete_ was given by the wilders at their residence, holly house, partly for the entertainment of the children who belonged to the sunday-school classes taught by the misses wilder, and partly also as a means of gathering together as many neighbouring friends and acquaintances as might be at leisure to come. colonel dawson and his nephew had received a pressing invitation; and also lady willerly and her daughter, though the latter was hardly expected, as it was known how many engagements she had to tie her at home. the invitation, however, decided grace willerly to write at once and say that, although she had a very pressing engagement, she would arrange to put it off, as she felt that a good game of play with the dear children on the lawn at holly house would be just the very thing she wanted to do her good and freshen her up. so a large party assembled on the day appointed, and among them the colonel and his nephew--the former because he wished to keep on friendly terms with his neighbours, though he anticipated but little pleasure from this particular gathering. besides this, he was a little anxious to see to what extent the intimacy between the young wilders and his nephew had gone; for he had something of a misgiving that the young man might be getting entangled in the attractions of one of the young ladies, and this was the last thing he would have desired for him. as for horace jackson himself, his impression concerning the younger members of the wilder family was that they were decidedly "jolly." he had not yet consciously arrived at a warmer stage of feeling in regard to any one of them, and his estimate was tolerably correct. somebody had characterised the young ladies of holly house as "dashing girls," and such they certainly were. the eldest was now about one and twenty, a fine _manly_ young woman, with a loud voice, and very demonstrative manners, who seemed inclined to do good in the spirit of a prize-fighter, by attacking the evils which she sought to remedy with a masculine vigour, such as would drive them in terror off the field. the second daughter, clara, was of a rather less commanding appearance than her elder sister, but dressed and talked pretty much in the same fashion. the third, millicent, would naturally have been quiet and retiring, but had constrained herself to imitate her sisters. she had, however, only so far succeeded as to acquire an abrupt and off-hand style of speaking, which was calculated to shut up old-fashioned people, who had been brought up under the impression that young ladies should belong to the feminine gender. indeed, when the three misses wilder were met on the public road in their walking attire, with natty little hats on their heads, ulsters down to their feet, turn-down collars round their necks, and ridingwhips or walking-sticks in their hands, it would have been very difficult for an unpractised observer to determine to what particular sex they belonged. their brother was proud of his sisters, and matched them admirably. he was a kind-hearted, outspoken, generous young man, up to anything, from a midnight spree to a special religious service; hating everything like cant as decidedly "low," and going in for sincerity, truth, and freethought. moreover, he spent his money, or, more strictly speaking, his father's money as well as his own, on horses, dogs, and guns, and left sundry little bills to stand over till the poor creditors had lost both hope and patience. it was now four o'clock, and the children were assembling for tea, after a series of games, in which they had been joined by grace willerly with an unflagging energy, and been occasionally encouraged by a kind word from mr and mrs wilder and their daughters. "what a charming sight, isn't it?" said mrs wilder to colonel dawson, as they strolled up to the tea-tables, which had been set out under the shade of some huge elms. "how happy the dear children seem!" "yes," replied her guest; "it is indeed a pleasant sight, and i am sure we may well learn a lesson of contentment with simple pleasures from the hearty enjoyment of these young ones. what a pity that the world and its attractions should ever get a place in the hearts of these or of any of us, since god has made us for purer and higher things!" "ah! very true, colonel;--but won't you come into the house? i see our friends are gathering in the drawing-room. we shall find tea there; and clara and millicent, with grace willerly, will see that their little friends want for nothing. oh! here is your nephew.--pray, mr jackson, come in with us; i am sure you will be glad of a little refreshment." so the elder guests assembled in the drawing-room, and got through an hour of miscellaneous gossip very creditably; at the end of which all adjourned to the garden again, and strolled about in twos and threes till the school children were dismissed and it was time for the visitors to take their leave. "what a relief!" exclaimed the colonel to his nephew, as they trotted on side by side on their ride homewards. "well, it was dull work, uncle, i allow," said the young man, laughing. "but these gatherings are, i suppose, useful and necessary, if people are to keep up friendly acquaintance with one another, and do what is civil and neighbourly." "yes, perhaps so," replied his uncle; "but such an afternoon is little better than bondage and lost time--at any rate to a man of my colonial habits. however, it has given me an opportunity of seeing more of the young ladies at holly house." "and i am afraid, uncle, that you do not find them improve upon acquaintance." "just so, horace; they don't suit my taste at all." "and yet, dear uncle, with all their dash, and _brusquerie_, and fastness, they really are most kind-hearted and unselfish girls." "kind-hearted, i allow, but i doubt their unselfishness." "but why, uncle? what would you have more? they certainly don't spare themselves. they are here, there, and everywhere, when any good is to be done, and think nothing of spending any amount of time and money in making other people happy." "true, horace, but there is a pleasurable excitement in all this which more than overbalances any trouble it may cost, especially when the world's applause for their good deeds is thrown into the same scale." "but," remonstrated the young man, in rather a disturbed and anxious tone, "is not this dealing them a little hard measure? where shall we find anything that will deserve the name of unselfishness, if we weigh people's actions too rigorously?" "ah! you think me severe and uncharitable, horace. but now, it just comes to this. what do the misses wilder and their brother (for i suppose we must take him into consideration too), really forsake or give up in order to do good? i don't pretend to know the private affairs of the family generally, but certainly there are strong rumours afloat that the maxim, `be just before you are generous,' is not acted upon by the young people in their money concerns. i allowed just now that they are good-natured, but good-nature is a very different thing from unselfishness. what personal gratification do they surrender in order to do good? what worldly pleasure or amusement do they deny themselves? what extravagance do they curtail?" "i can't say much for them in that respect, certainly," replied the young man thoughtfully; "indeed, i must frankly confess that i have heard more than once from the eldest miss wilder the expression of her hope and conviction that the united good deeds of the family would be accepted, by the world at any rate, as a sort of atonement for follies and excesses which clearly could not be justified in themselves." "i can well believe it, my dear nephew: but i have something much weightier to say on the subject, and it is this. there is manifestly one great want in all the doings of these kind-hearted people at holly house, which would make me at once deny the character of unselfishness to their best deeds." "and what is that, dear uncle?" "the stamp of the cross, horace. i know that there are plenty of crosses about them,--crosses on their prayer-books, crosses round their necks, crosses on their writing-cases and on their furniture; but _the_ cross is wanting. in a word, they are not denying self, and seeking to do good to others from love to that saviour who gave up so much for them. i know that they are not without religion in the eyes of the world; but i cannot, i dare not believe that they are really actuated by love to the great master in what they may do to make others happy. am i wrong, horace?" "no, uncle, i cannot say that you are. much as i like the girls on many accounts, i should not be speaking my honest sentiments were i to say that i believed them to be doing good to others from real christian motives. and yet--" "ah, my dear nephew, i know what you would say. i know that the world would embrace such as these within its elastic band as among genuine unselfish workers, though avowedly on a lower level than that adopted by the true christian. but, after all, can god, the searcher of hearts, approve of anything as being truly unselfish which does not bear the stamp of the cross? and can anything of which he does not approve be a reality?" "i suppose not," said the other reluctantly. "still, it is difficult not to be dazzled by what looks like a reflection from the true light; and difficult, too, to detect a sham where we are willing to see a reality." "very difficult," replied colonel dawson: "and yet the world abounds in shams, and cant, and hypocrisy. the world commonly lays these things at the door of religious professors; but the truth all the while is that the sham, and the cant, and the hypocrisy are really in those who take or gain credit for a character--unselfishness, for example--which is only to be found in true christians, and hold themselves back from that genuine devotion, and self-sacrifice, and coming out to christ, without which their boasted and lauded excellences are nothing better than a delusion and an empty name." the young man did not reply, and the subject was dropped for the remainder of the ride home. chapter six. duty. mary stansfield and grace willerly were sitting together, about three weeks after the above conversation, in an arbour in the garden attached to lady willerly's house. miss stansfield had come to spend a day or two by special invitation, by way of getting a little change, which she much needed; her aunt having spared her without a murmur, and having accepted the services of a former domestic in her place. "how very kind of your aunt to spare you!" said grace to her friend; "i hardly expected it, knowing how much she depends upon you." "oh yes!" was the reply: "you cannot tell, dear grace, what a wonderful change has come over my dear aunt. and it is all owing, under god, to the loving faithfulness of our kind friend colonel dawson. i scarcely ever get a harsh word or a hard look now; and when i do, my aunt at once calls me to her, and asks me to forgive her. oh, is it not wonderful? i am sure i blush with shame to think how little i deserve it." "yes, it is very wonderful, dear mary. certainly our new neighbour is a most earnest and useful man; and he has shown his discernment, too, in getting hold of yourself to work for him in bridgepath. but i am afraid you will find it very up-hill work; you'll want the strength of a horse, the patience of job, and the zeal of an apostle in such a place as that." "certainly, i shall want the grace of an apostle," said the other quietly; "but the work is very delightful, and is more than repaying me already for any little trouble or self-denial it may cost me." "it is very good of you to say so, mary; i am afraid the work wouldn't suit me. i don't mind making sacrifices--indeed, i think i can truly say it is one of my chief pleasures to make them; but there must be something very depressing in the jog-trot sort of work you are called on to do. i don't mind anything, so long as it has a little bit of dash in it; but i am afraid i should soon grow weary of a regular grind like yours." "oh, but you are quite mistaken about my work at bridgepath," said the other, laughing. "there is nothing dull or monotonous about it; and it is such a happiness to see the light of god's truth beginning to dawn on dark and troubled hearts. and there is one particularly interesting family--i mean john price's. you have heard, i dare say, that he was steward to the squire, and that he lost almost everything by his poor master's extravagance. poor man, he is bed-ridden now, and i fear had little comfort even from his bible, for he seemed to have learned little from it but patience. but, oh! how he has brightened up, and his wife and daughter, too, now that they have been led to see that it is their privilege to work and suffer _from_ salvation instead of _for_ salvation." "i don't understand you," interrupted miss willerly. "don't you? oh, it makes all the difference. poor john price has been reading his bible, and bearing his troubles patiently, in the hope that at the end he may be accepted and saved through his saviour's merits. that is what i mean by working _for_ salvation." "and what else, dear mary, would you have him do?" "o grace! this is poor work indeed, working in view of a merely possible salvation. no! what he has learned now is to see that his saviour, in whom he humbly and truly believes, has given him a present salvation; so that he, and his wife and daughter too, can now say, `we love him, because he first loved us.' and so they work and suffer cheerfully, and even thankfully, from love to that saviour who has already received them as his own. this is what i mean by working _from_ salvation. surely we shall work more heartily for one of whom we know that he _has_ saved us, than for one of whom we know only that he has saved others, and may perhaps save us also in the end." "i see what you mean, dear mary, but i never saw it so before. such a view of god's love to us personally must take the selfishness out of our good works, because what we do will be done just simply from love to christ. it is a beautiful way of looking at god's dealings with us." "yes, grace; and as true and scriptural as it is beautiful. it is just what god sees that we need, and furnishes us with the most constraining motive to serve him, and to deny self in his service." "i see it," said miss willerly sadly and thoughtfully, after a pause. "i very much fear, dear mary, that i have been greatly deceiving myself. i have been just simply building up a monument to my own honour and glory out of my heap of little daily crosses." "nay, dear grace, you are dealing too severely with yourself." "no, i think not. at any rate, i am sadly aware that not the love of christ, but the love of human applause, has been the constraining motive in my acts of self-denial. i have made such a parade of my willingness to thwart my own will that i might please others, so that while i should have been startled to see a full-grown trumpeter at my side proclaiming my unselfishness, i have all the while been keeping in my service a little dwarf page, who has been sounding out my praises on his shrill whistle." "you judge yourself hardly, dear grace; and yet, no doubt, self does enter largely even into our unselfishness. i am sure i have felt it, oh, how deeply! and specially just lately, since i have undertaken this work at bridgepath." "you, dear mary!" "yes, indeed. and i see now how wisely our heavenly father ordered his discipline in my case. there was indeed a `needs-be' in my dear aunt's former harshness and irritability to me; but for that, and for her disparaging remarks on my conduct, i might have been more self-seeking than i am. but the discipline has been changed now, and i trust that the chastisement has not been wholly in vain. what we all want, i am sure, if we are to be true workers for god, is to lift our eyes from self, and keep them steadily fixed on him who has done so much for us." "i am sure you are right," said the other. "i know i wish to do right, and i feel a pleasure in crossing my own inclination when it will gratify others; but then my inmost look has been to the world and its approbation. `what will people say? what will people think?' or, at any rate, `what will good people say and think?' this has been the prominent thought in my heart, i fear." "well, dear grace, i suppose this is so, more or less, with us all. what we want, i think, and comparatively seldom find in these showy and surface days, is a high sense of duty, so that we just act as duty calls, let the world, or good people even, judge of us or speak of us as they please." "and yet, dear mary, i think i see a little crevice through which self may creep in even there. i have met some of your `duty' people who have flung themselves so violently against the prejudices of society, or, at any rate, of good people, crying out all the time, `duty, duty! it don't matter to us what the world thinks,' that they have given great offence where they might have avoided giving any, and have set up people's backs against what is good and true." "i dare say you have met such, dear grace, and i think you may be talking to one of the class now," said miss stansfield, laughing; "at least, my character and principles would naturally lead me in that direction, for, of course, we are all disposed to carry out our own views to an extreme, if we do not let common sense, enlightened by grace, preserve a proper balance. but, spite of this, i still feel that a high sense of duty in those who love our saviour is the surest preservative against being carried away by a subtle selfishness, and is the making of the finest and most truly self-denying characters. if i am manifestly in the path of duty, what matters it what is said of me, or who says it? i may then go forward, not, indeed, arrogantly or defiantly--that would be unlike the great master--but yet firmly and confidently, and god will set me right with the world and with his people in his own good time." "ah! i believe you are right," said her friend, with a sigh. "i wish there were more of such true unselfishness amongst us; i wish i were such a character myself." "and so you are, dear grace, in the main. no one can possibly doubt your genuineness and sincerity. you have only just to step up on to the higher platform, and, as your heart's gaze becomes more fixed on a saviour known and loved, you will cease to think about how your selfdenial looks in the eyes of others, and will feel the cross which you carry after christ in the path of duty to be easy and his burden light." "i shall not forget our conversation on this subject," said miss willerly with tears in her eyes. "i always thought that i hated selfishness, but now i see that i have been blinded to my own. i suppose it is very difficult for us to see it in ourselves as it really is, especially in these days when there are so many attractive forms of self-denial. it occurred to me the other day what an odd thing it would be to see how a number of utterly selfish people would get on if thrown together for some weeks, with not a single unselfish person amongst them, and unable to get rid of one another's company. i feel sure the result would teach an admirable lesson on the misery of a thoroughly selfish disposition." "i think so too, grace," said her companion, much amused. "what do you say to putting a story or allegory together on the subject." "capital!" cried miss willerly; "it will be something quite in my line i will set about it at once. i shall be able to give myself some very seasonable raps on the knuckles as i go on, and perhaps i may be of use to some of my acquaintance, who might be induced to look through my performance in a friendly way." "you must let me be the first to see it," said her friend. "oh, certainly; and you must give me your free and candid criticisms." "yes, i will do so; and i don't doubt i shall find profit in the reading of it, and a little bit of myself in more than one of your characters." a fortnight after this conversation miss stansfield received from her friend the promised story, which we give in the following chapter. chapter seven. the selfish islands. a certain eastern despot, whose attention had been painfully drawn to the odious character of selfishness, by finding it exhibited in a very marked manner towards himself by some who had, in looking after their own interests, ventured to thwart the royal will, was resolved to get rid of all the most selfish people out of his capital. to that end he made proclamation that on a certain day he would give a grand banquet to all the _un_selfish people in the metropolis, nothing being needed for admittance to the feast but the personal application of any one laying claim to unselfishness to the lord chancellor for a ticket. the king took this course under the firm conviction that all the most selfish people, being utterly blinded by self-esteem to their own failing, would be the very persons most ready to claim admittance to the banquet; and in this expectation he was not disappointed. but he was a little staggered to find that about a thousand persons, of both sexes and of nearly all ages, applied at the office for tickets of admission and many of them such as had not made their appearance in public for many long years past. thus, when the feast-day came, bed-ridden men and women arrived at the palace dressed out in silks and satins; gouty men hobbled in without their crutches; and multitudes who had long been incapacitated from doing anything but try the patience of their friends and indulge their own whims, made no difficulty of appearing among the guests. and it was strange, too, to see at the king's table delicate ladies and chronic invalids, who were never met with at places of worship or benevolent meetings, because the cold or the heat, or their nerves or their lungs made it a duty for them to be keepers at home. there were also present about two hundred spoilt children, whose mothers considered them to be "dear unselfish little darlings," and about an equal number of young ladies and young gentlemen, whose chief delight had consisted in spending their fathers' money, and studying their own sweet persons in the looking-glass. of course, the company behaved with due decorum at the banquet, especially as the king did them the honour of sitting down to table with them, the only exception being on the part of the spoilt children, whom not even the presence of royalty itself could restrain from personal encounters over the more attractive-looking dishes. the banquet over, the king rose and thus addressed his astonished guests:-"i have ascertained from my lord chancellor, whose secretary took down the names and addresses of you all when you applied for your tickets, that he has made careful inquiry into your several characters, and finds that you all belong to a class of persons who greatly trouble our city. you have accepted my invitation professedly as unselfish people, but your estimate of yourselves is the very reverse of that which is held by those who know you best. i have therefore resolved, for the good of the community generally, to transport the whole of you, for a period of six months, to the uninhabited island of comoro, situate in the midst of the great lake, where you will find ample means for living in health, peace, and comfort, provided you are all and each willing to lay aside your selfishness, and to find your happiness in living for the good of others. and i trust that at the end of the six months, when steamers shall call for you at comoro, you may all be spared to return to your homes improved in character, more useful members of society, and more fitted to contribute to the real prosperity of this kingdom." without waiting for a reply, which was not indeed attempted by any of the guests--for they remained for some moments speechless with amazement--the king retired from the banqueting hall; and the lord chancellor, motioning with his hand for attention, proceeded to state that each of the guests would be expected to be at the station on a day and at an hour specified on a ticket which each would receive; and that every one would be allowed to take with him or her a reasonable but limited amount of personal luggage, but no furniture or heavy and bulky articles. steamers would be in readiness, at the lakeside terminus, to convey the passengers and their goods to the island; and, as no one would be permitted to decline the journey--for all knew that the king's will was law--the guests would best consult their own interests and comfort by preparing for the removal with as little delay as possible. having made this statement, the lord chancellor withdrew, leaving the company staring one at another in blank dismay. what was to be done? nothing but to make the best of it; as for resistance, all knew that it would be useless, and remonstrance equally so. even the infirm and sickly could hope for no exemption; for as their maladies had not hindered their attendance at the banquet, these could not be now admitted as a plea for excusing them from the removal. many, indeed, of the young people were highly delighted with the prospect before them, especially the children, who were anxious to be off for comoro there and then. as for their elders, they retired from the palace with varied feelings; some indignant, some conscience-stricken, and most prepared to lay the blame on some one or more of their neighbours. indeed, two old gentlemen, who had been lodgers on different floors in the same house for years, but, in consequence of an old quarrel, had never spoken to one another for the greater part of that time, now blocked up one of the exits from the palace, as they stood face to face, furiously charging each other with being the guilty cause of the terrible calamity which had now fallen on themselves and on so many of their fellow-citizens. and now the day of departure had arrived, and the trains for the lake were duly filled with passengers; not, however, till many heartrending scenes had occurred in connection with the luggage. two young ladies, bosom friends, having hired a van to convey their joint wardrobe and other ornamental effects to the station, were informed, to their tearful despair, that only about one-tenth of the goods could be conveyed to the island. similarly, three or four fast young men entered the train in a state of desperation bordering on collapse, because the officials had peremptorily turned back a stud of hunters and half-a-dozen sporting dogs. but the most exciting scene of all occurred in the case of an old maiden lady, who, having brought a cart-load of personal necessaries and comforts, which were positively essential to her continued existence, and having been firmly refused the transmission of the greater part of them, declared with the utmost positiveness that the lord chancellor had himself expressly informed all the guests at the banquet that each was at liberty to take an unlimited quantity of goods; nor could any explanation convince her of her mistake. let them say what they pleased, she had heard the word _un_limited with her own ears: and hearing was believing. the last case which caused any serious difficulty, and which really excited the pity of the porters, was that of an elderly gentleman unfortunate enough to be troubled with a liver, who changed various colours when informed that he must leave behind him an iron-bound box containing some four or five hundredweight of patent and other medicines. at length, all the trains having reached the lakeside terminus, the entire party of temporary exiles were duly and speedily conveyed in steamers to the island of comoro, where they were put on shore with their goods. the climate of the island was delightful, and subject to but few variations, so that nothing was to be feared by the new-comers from inclemency of weather. care had been also taken by the lord chancellor, to whom the carrying out of the details had been committed, that a sufficient number of tents should be ready for the use of those who chose to avail themselves of them, while building materials and tools had been duly provided, as well as an ample store of provisions. when the last steamer had discharged its passengers and cargo, proclamation was made by a herald that a commissioner from the king would visit comoro once a month, to hear any complaints and record any misconduct; and that those who should be found guilty of any grave offence would receive condign punishment at the close of the term of banishment. the community was then left to follow its own devices. and what would these be? of course the obvious thing was for each to look after "number one;" but he soon became painfully conscious that he could not do this without the help of "number two," and that to obtain this help he must be willing to do his own part. one gentleman, indeed, apparently entirely unconscious of any other duty than that of taking care of himself, set to work at once to make himself as comfortable as circumstances would permit. having selected the most roomy and convenient tent he could find, he removed his most easily portable possessions into it, and proceeded to regale himself on some cold provisions which he had brought with him. after these were finished, he rang violently several times a hand-bell which he had brought with him, expecting that his valet would at once answer the summons; but he soon found that he could not calculate on his servant's attendance in comoro. it was true that the man had come on the same steamer as his master, having been one of the guests at the royal banquet; but he had no thought now of looking after any one but himself, and was, when his master rang for him, busily engaged in a drinking-bout with a few likeminded companions. and what could the females do? the spoilt children had, of course, their mothers with them--for none but selfish mothers would spoil their children--and these mothers with their little ones were preparing to form themselves into a distinct community; but such a frightful contention and uproar arose amongst the children themselves, that before nightfall their parents had to abandon their original idea and seek separate homes among their neighbours. as for the young ladies, they soon managed to enlist the services of the female domestics who had come to the island, and then placed themselves under the protection of two elderly maiden sisters, on the express understanding that their guardians were to be handsomely remunerated for looking after them. the young gentlemen, having no intention to exert themselves unnecessarily, lounged about with cigars in their mouths, and voted the whole thing "a bore;" while several of the elders of both sexes, suppressing for the time the exhibition of their specialities of selfishness, indulged in a prolonged chorus of grumbling and mutual condolence. but, in one way or other, all had been fed and housed before midnight, and sleep buried for a while in forgetfulness the troubles of the bewildered settlers on comoro. we pass over the first month, and how does the commissioner, on his arrival at the island, find the exiles bearing their lot? proclamation was at once made that those who had anything to complain of should meet him in a spacious marquee which he had caused to be set up on a large open piece of ground near the shore, immediately on his arrival. he was rather dismayed, however, when he found the place of hearing crowded without a moment's delay by nine-tenths of the islanders, while many were clamouring outside because unable to obtain admission. after a few moments' consideration, he ordered his officers to clear the marquee, and then to admit a hundred of the more elderly of each sex. this was done with some considerable difficulty, and the commissioner then addressed himself to a crabbed-looking old gentleman, who had elbowed his way to the front with a vigour hardly to have been looked for in one of his years and apparent infirmities. "may i request, sir, to be informed what it is you have to complain of?" asked the commissioner. "i complain of everything and everybody," was the reply. "is that _all_ you have to complain of?" the commissioner then asked. before the old gentleman could frame an answer to this second question, the judge, having paused to give a few moments for reply, exclaimed, "officer, dismiss this complainant;" and the old man was forthwith removed from the tent in a state of boiling indignation. "and now, madam," continued the commissioner, addressing a middle-aged lady of dignified mien and commanding stature, "may i ask what is your complaint?" "i complain, sir," replied the lady sternly, "of general neglect and ill-treatment." "excuse me, madam," was the judge's reply, "but i can see no evidence of this in your personal appearance. so far from it, that, having met you not unfrequently in the streets of our city, i am constrained to congratulate you on the manifest improvement in health which you have gained from a month's residence in this delightful climate.--officer, conduct this lady with all due ceremony to the outside of our court." "and you, sir," speaking to a gentleman of very severe countenance, who had been used at home to "show his slaves how choleric he was, and make his bondmen tremble,"--"let me hear what charge you have to allege." "charge, mr commissioner! charge enough, i'm sure! why, i can't get any one to mind a word that i say." "then, i am sure, sir, the fault must be wholly or for the most part your own.--officer, remove him." "has no one anything more definite to complain of?" he again asked, looking round the assembly, which by this time had begun to thin, as it became obvious to all present that no attention would be given to mere vague grumblings. "i'm sure it's very hard," sighed a knot of young ladies, who had listened from the outside to what had been going on, and were afraid to speak out more plainly. "we shall be moped to death if we're kept here any longer," muttered one or two fast young men, shrugging their shoulders. but to these remarks the commissioner turned a deaf ear; and no one coming forward to lodge any distinct charge against another, the court broke up, and the commissioner proceeded to make a tour of inspection among the islanders. he found, as he had indeed expected to find, that the necessity for exertion, and the peculiarity of the circumstances in which they were now placed, had already got rid of a good deal of the selfishness which had only formed a sort of crust over the characters of many who, in the main, were not without kind and generous feelings; so that the looking after the due supply of provisions, and the cooking of them and serving them to the different families, had been cheerfully undertaken by a duly organised body of young and middle-aged workers of both sexes,--the result of which was, not only an improvement in character in the workers themselves, but also a drawing forth of expressions of gratitude from some who formerly took all attentions as a right, but now had been made to feel their dependence on their fellows. and it was pleasant to see how cordially working men and women were united in striving for the good of the community in conjunction with those who had hitherto occupied a higher social position than themselves. some, indeed, of the lower orders, whose tastes had been of an utterly low and degraded cast, had been summarily ejected from the island after they had more than once endangered the lives and stores of the islanders in their brutal drunken sprees. they had talked big, indeed, and made at first a show of resistance; but the general body of the exiles had authorised a powerful force of young and middle-aged men to take them into custody, and convey them on a raft, constructed for the purpose, to an island some ten miles distant. here the rioters were left with a sufficient supply of provisions; a warning being given them that, should they attempt to return to comoro, they would be put in irons, and kept in custody till they could be brought up before the commissioner. the island being thus happily rid of this disturbing element, there was, at any rate, outward peace among the inhabitants of comoro, though, of course, there was yet abundance of discontent and bitterness beneath the surface in the hearts of many. as the commissioner was making his way to the shore preparatory to his return to the mainland, he passed a tent from which there issued such deep-fetched sighs that, having obtained permission to enter, he inquired of the inmate the cause of so much trouble. "ah, sir!" replied the poor sufferer, who was a man some sixty years of age, with grey hair, and a countenance whose expression was one of mingled shrewdness, discontent, and ill-temper, "our sovereign little knows the cruelty he has been guilty of in sending me all alone to a place like this." "how alone, my friend?" asked the other; "you have plenty of companions within reach." "why, sir," was the poor man's reply, "i have been torn from the best and most loving of wives--i who am so entirely dependent on her for my happiness--i who love her so tenderly;--alas! wretched man that i am, what shall i do?" "do you know this gentleman?" said the commissioner, turning to his secretary, who had accompanied him into the tent. "i know him well, your excellency," was the reply; "and a more selfish man does not exist. he tells the truth, however, when he says that he is entirely dependent on his wife for his happiness; but it was impossible for her to accompany him hither, as she is the most unselfish of women. on her he has ever made it a practice to vent his chief spleen and bitterness, exacting from her at the same time perpetual service, and rarely repaying her with anything but sneers and insults, holding her up even to the scorn and ridicule of his acquaintance." as the secretary uttered these words, a burning blush covered the face of the unhappy man, who ceased his sighs and bent his head upon his hands. "my friend," said the commissioner gently, "i am truly sorry for you; but i am in hopes that your solitude will work for your good. think over the past with contrition, and be up and joining in some useful work for the good of others; and when you return home, treat your injured, long-suffering, and admirable wife as a human being, a lady, a companion, a friend, an equal, and not, as you have hitherto done, like a slave or a brute beast." there was no reply, and the commissioner hastened to the shore. he was about to step into the boat that was to convey him to the steamer, when a young man of dandified appearance and affected manner requested to know whether he could have one moment's private interview with the commissioner before his departure. "well, sir," said the other, somewhat impatiently, "you must be brief, for i am anxious to lose no time, as business matters at home are pressing." "sir," said the young man, dropping, at the same time, his affected drawl, "my case is a hard one, and i would ask if you could not grant me a passage home in the vessel by which you are returning." "on what grounds?" asked the commissioner. "why, sir, i have an old mother and a sister, both in infirm health, who can hardly get on without me; and it is only just that i should be allowed to return, as my mother, who is a widow, has no other son." "do you know this young man?" inquired the commissioner, turning to his secretary. "far too well, your excellency; he is the clog of his home, the laughing-stock of his companions behind his back, and is despised by all wise and sensible people. he has had situation after situation offered him, in which he could have earned an honest and respectable livelihood, but he has declined one after another as not to his taste. he is far too much of a gentleman, in his own estimation, to enter upon any work that will involve any steady exertion; but he does not scruple to sponge upon his poor mother, to whose support he contributes nothing, and who has barely enough to meet her own needs, while he borrows--that is, appropriates--the savings of his delicate sister, who, though in feeble health, has undertaken tuition, because this brother of hers is too fine a gentleman to live in anything but idleness, and spends those hardearned savings of hers as pocket-money on his own elegant pleasures and follies." "contemptible wretch!" exclaimed the commissioner with flashing eyes; "stay where you are, and learn, if it is possible, by the end of these six months, to see that you have a duty to others as well as to your own despicable self." amazed at this exposure and reply, the young man dropped his eye-glass from his eye, and his cigar from his mouth, and stood staring in bewilderment at the commissioner as he sprang into the boat and made for the steamer which was to convey him home. only one other incident worth recording happened during the commissioner's subsequent visits; for the discipline involved in their banishment had produced the good result of making the various exiles feel the necessity of bearing and forbearing, giving and taking, and of each doing his and her part in contributing to the comfort and happiness of the whole. the incident referred to happened during the commissioner's third monthly visit. soon after his arrival he received a respectful note from the secretary of a ladies' working committee, requesting him to receive a deputation from their society at the place of audience. this request having been graciously acceded to, and the deputation received by his excellency in due form, the spokeswoman of the party, a young lady in spectacles, expressed the conviction, on behalf of herself and companions, that a sad but no doubt unintentional mistake had been made by his majesty in including themselves in the party sent to comoro. they were associated, and had been so for years past, as workers together for many benevolent objects and therefore this sending of them to the "selfish island" was a double wrong; for it not only threw a slur on their society, whose members were banded together for the purpose of working for the good of others, but it also deprived many suffering ones at home of the help and comfort they had been used to derive from the united and self-denying efforts of these their true and loving friends. the commissioner having listened with due politeness and attention to this address, assured the deputation that the king would be sorry to have done them any wrong, should such prove to have been the case, and that he would duly report the matter to his majesty. he could not, however, release them on the present occasion; but he hoped, after having made full inquiry into the case on his return, that he should be able to bring them, on his next monthly visit, the welcome permission to leave the island. having returned to comoro in due time, his first care was to request the ladies' working committee to meet him again by deputation. this was accordingly done, and the commissioner addressed them as follows:-"i exceedingly regret, ladies, that i cannot promise you any shortening of your time of banishment. his majesty has received your complaint, and has caused due investigation to be made; and the result of that investigation has not led him to make any relaxation in your case. for it has been clearly ascertained that the good works and charitable deeds of which you informed me on my last visit, consisted in your attending to work to which you were not called, to the neglect of duties which plainly belonged to you; and that for any seeming sacrifice you made in the bestowal of your time and labour, you more than repaid yourselves in the applause which you managed to obtain from a troop of ignorant or interested admirers. it would, in fact, appear that your benevolence and labour for others involved no real self-denial in it, but was only, after all, another but less obvious form of selfishness. his majesty admires and respects nothing more than genuine co-operation in working for the benefit of the suffering and the needy; but in your case this stamp of genuineness is found to be wanting. we trust, however, that your present work may prove to be of a better character, and that at the expiry of your exile you will return home prepared to do good from truly pure and unselfish motives." murmurs followed, as they had accompanied, this speech, but the commissioner was inexorable. and now at last the six months had come to an end, and the exiles of comoro flocked to the steamers which were to convey them back to the mainland. the discipline had been with most very salutary. roughing it for the first time in their lives had been the means with many of smoothing out the wrinkles of grosser selfishness from their characters. others had learned to look at things through their neighbours' eyes, and thus had come to think less about themselves and about consulting their own pleasure merely. some also who had moved up and down in a groove all their previous lives, and had made all about them miserable or uncomfortable by their unbending and ungracious habits, had learned the wisdom, and happiness, too, of bending aside a little from the path of their own prejudices to accommodate a neighbour. many likewise, having been forced to do things of which, on their first landing on comoro, they had loudly proclaimed themselves physically incapable, now found, to no one's surprise so much as their own, that their former impossibilities could henceforth be performed by themselves with ease. while a few, who had been in the habit of glorying in unselfishness as their strong point, had come to detect their own weakness when they got little or no credit from their neighbours for their ambitious acts of self-denial. and one thing was specially worthy of remark,--so far from suffering in health, everyone returned home greatly improved in looks and vigour by this compulsory stay in the clear and bracing atmosphere of comoro. as for the hypochondriacal gentleman, who had felt so keenly the refusal to be allowed to take his packing-case of medicines with him, he had returned in such a state of spirits that he at once sold his extensive stock of drugs by auction, and gave the money to an hospital for incurables. and, indeed, so great was the gain to the metropolis, in the first place by the absence of the exiles, and afterwards by their altered character, for the most part, on their return to their homes, that the king, when talking over the matter with the commissioner,--whom he had selected for the post as, by general acknowledgment, the most upright, downright, straightforward, honest-minded man in his kingdom,-declared that he should like to try the atmosphere of comoro himself some day, as it was proved to be so healthy and improving. "i most heartily advise your majesty to do so," said the commissioner, somewhat bluntly; "and if your majesty will only take the entire cabinet with you, i have little doubt but that the benefit to yourself and your ministers will be most heartily acknowledged and thoroughly appreciated by your subjects on your majesty's auspicious return." chapter eight. a little mysterious. mary stansfield pursued her quiet work at bridgepath amongst the poor, being welcomed by all, but by none so cordially as by john price and his family, who seemed quite different people now from what they used to be. and why? just because they had exchanged resignation for god's peace. their characters and conduct were outwardly the same; but there was a new light in them and reflected from them, even the light that shines in hearts where jesus dwells as a saviour known and loved, a light which brightens the heavy clouds of earthly sadness and spans them with a rainbow of immortal hope. and not only so, but, in consequence of the entrance of this purer light, a change for the better was taking place in the bodily health of the poor bed-ridden man--for a wounded spirit had had a good deal to do with his physical infirmities--so that there seemed a likelihood that he would be able in time to leave his sick-bed and go forth once more, not indeed to laborious work, but to fill some light post which the colonel had in store for him. it was on a lovely afternoon that he was sitting up in his arm-chair, dressed in clothes which he had never thought to put on again. he was listening to the gentle but earnest voice of mary stansfield, as she read to him from the word of god, and spoke a few loving and cheering words of her own upon the passage she had selected. a shadow fell across her book; she looked up. the colonel and his nephew stood in the open doorway. "don't let us interrupt you, miss stansfield," said the former; "i was only looking round with my nephew, who has not been here before, to see how things are going on in bridgepath. we will call again!" they passed on, and miss stansfield resumed her reading. but somehow or other john price's attention seemed to wander--he looked disturbed, and fidgeted in his chair; and so his visitor, thinking that he had been read to as long as he could hear with comfort and profit in his weak state, closed the book, and rose to leave. "oh, don't go, miss!" cried the old man in a distressed voice. "i'm so sorry; but something as i can't exactly explain just took away my thoughts and troubled me when the colonel came to the door. but go on, go on, miss; i'm never tired of hearing the good news from your lips." "no, john," replied miss stansfield; "i think we shall do for to-day. you are not strong enough yet to bear much strain of mind or body; and colonel dawson will be coming in directly, and will like to have a word with you, and so, i am sure, will mr horace; so i will say good-bye." the other looked scared and bewildered, and made no reply. "poor john!" said his kind visitor to herself, as she left the cottage and went on her way; "i am afraid i have tired him. and yet i think there must be something more than that which troubles him." a few minutes later the colonel and his nephew entered john price's house. "come in, horace," said colonel dawson; "you have not yet been introduced to one who will, i hope, be spared to be a great helper in the good work in bridgepath, though he does not look much like a worker at present. but the lord has been doing great things for him already, and, i doubt not, means to do greater things for him yet." the young man stepped forward up to the old man's chair, and held out his hand to him. john price grasped it eagerly with both his own thin, wasted hands, and looking at him with a half-astonished, half-distressed gaze, said abruptly, in a hoarse, choking voice, "what's your name?" "my name?" said the young man, smiling at his earnestness. "my name, old friend, is horace jackson." "horace--horace!" muttered the other in a tone of great excitement; "it must be--nay, it cannot be--and yet it must be. are you sure, sir, your name's jackson?" the young man, surprised at such a question, was about to reply, when the colonel, coming forward, stooped over the old man and whispered a few words in his ear. the poor invalid immediately sank back in his chair, and covered his eyes with his hand for a moment; then he sat up again, and took part in the conversation, but in a dreamy sort of way, keeping his face steadily turned away from his younger visitor. but as the colonel and his nephew were leaving the cottage, he fixed upon the latter a look so full of anxiety and interest, that it was quite clear that horace jackson had opened unwittingly a deep spring of feeling in john price's heart, which the old man found it almost impossible to repress. as his visitors retired, colonel dawson, looking back, put his finger on his lips, to which sign john price slowly bent his head. in a few minutes the colonel returned alone. "i have left my nephew at the school," he said, "to give the children a questioning on what they have been lately learning; and now, john, i shall be able to clear up your doubts and fears, and to set your mind at rest on a subject which i see affects you deeply." a long and interesting communication was then made by the colonel to his humble friend, at the close of which the invalid seemed as if he could have sprung out of his chair for very gladness, while the tears poured from his eyes, and his lips murmured words of thankfulness. as colonel dawson was leaving, he turned and said with a smile, "remember, john, not a word to any one at present--not till i give you leave." "all right, sir; you may depend upon me. the lord be praised!" was the reply; and as the old man said the words, every wrinkle in his careworn face seemed running over with light. but for the present horace jackson did not call at his cottage again, though he now and then appeared in the village, and was to be seen on more than one occasion accompanying miss stansfield on her return from bridgepath. and now it began to be rumoured about in the neighbourhood that an attachment was springing up between the colonel's nephew and mary stansfield; and all true-hearted people rejoiced, knowing what a blessing the union of two such earnest workers would prove, as, of course, they would one day, if spared, succeed to the riverton estate. the world, however, was both surprised and disgusted, having hoped "better things" of the young man. as for the wilders, they were full of dark and bitter sayings on the subject--the younger mr wilder especially, who was never tired of remarking to his acquaintance, when the subject was broached, that "miss stansfield had contrived to play her cards well." this observation was not lost on the busy-bodies and scandal-mongers who abounded in franchope, as they do in most countrytowns, where there is not so much of active business stirring as will furnish sufficient material for gossip to those who love to act as unpaid news-agents in publishing their neighbours' real or supposed more private doings from house to house. there happened to live at the outskirts of the little town an elderly lady possessed of singular activity in all her members, especially that most unruly one, the tongue. give her a little bit of local news or a hard saying to report, and she would never rest till she had distributed the information throughout her entire acquaintance, with a little garnish of her own to the savoury dish, according to the taste or appetite of her hearers. loved by none, feared by all, her calls were received with apparent cordiality, partly from a natural relish in many for questionable news, and partly from a desire to stand well with one who had the reputations of her neighbours and associates more or less in her power. young wilder's remark on miss stansfield's engagement was a choice morsel of scandal to old mrs tinderley, and was duly reported in every house to which she had access. but that was not all. meeting mary stansfield herself one day near her aunt's house, mrs tinderley grasped her warmly by the hand--though hitherto they had never done more than just exchange civil greetings by word of mouth--and congratulated her upon her happy prospects. miss stansfield, who knew the old lady's character well, was about to pass on, after a word or two of civil acknowledgment, but the other would not let her part from her so hastily. "my dear," she exclaimed in an earnest half-whisper, "isn't it really shameful that people should say the ill-natured things they do, calling you a hypocrite, and selfish of all things in the world? and young mr wilder too--to think of his saying that `you've played your cards well.' really, it's too bad. but, my dear miss stansfield, if i were you i wouldn't mind it." the old lady paused, expecting to see a blush of vexation and annoyance on her young companion's face; but she was disappointed. "thank you, mrs tinderley," replied mary stansfield. "i suppose you mean well by repeating to me these foolish remarks. i can assure you that i do _not_ mind them, as my conscience quite acquits me in the matter, and my happiness in no degree depends on the judgment of those who have made or reported them." so saying, she went quietly on her way, leaving poor mrs tinderley in a state of utter bewilderment. to colonel dawson the attachment, which was soon avowed on his nephew's part, was a matter of the sincerest satisfaction; as it was also to the elder miss stansfield, who had learned to take great pleasure in the society of horace jackson, and to see in him those excellences of a true christian character which would make him a suitable husband to her invaluable niece. she was pained, however, at the hard things which had been said on the subject, as reported to her by an acquaintance of mrs tinderley's, and spoke to the colonel on the subject. "i am sure, colonel dawson," she said, "dear mary is without blame in this matter. the idea of _her_ acting selfishly or `playing her cards,' such a thing is altogether preposterous. i cannot imagine how people can be so wicked as to make such cruel and unjust remarks." "ah, my dear friend," replied the colonel, smiling, "let it pass, the world will have its say. i am sure your dear niece will have no wish, as i know she has no need, to vindicate her character from such aspersions. she has just gone straight forward in the path of duty, and has met horace while in that path; and to my mind there would be somewhat of selfishness, or, at any rate, of undue self-consciousness, on her part were she to trouble herself, or to allow her friends to trouble themselves, to defend her conduct in this matter. we are, of course, as christians, to abstain from all appearance of evil, and to give no handle to the enemies of the truth against us or our profession; but it does not, therefore, follow that we are to decline a path which plainly opens before us in god's providence, just because that path may be a smooth one, or may lead to a position of wealth and influence. to choose another path which will gain us high credit for self-denial, because we turn away from that which is naturally more attractive to ourselves, may after all be only another though subtler form of selfishness. surely the right course is just to go in honesty of purpose unreservedly where god's hand is plainly guiding us and he will take care both of our character and of his own cause in connection with that character, as he orders everything else that is really essential to the welfare and usefulness of each of his own dear children." chapter nine. ruby grigg. horace jackson had come to take a deep interest in the inhabitants of bridgepath, especially since his engagement; for mary stansfield's heart was thoroughly in her work in that once benighted place, and she was only too glad to lead one now so dear to her to concern himself in the truest welfare of those in bridgepath who were still living without thought of any world but this. things had indeed greatly improved through the diligent and loving exertions of the excellent schoolmaster, who was evidently determined to tread down all opposition that came in his way by the firm and weighty, though gentle, steps of a steady and consistent christian walk. his task, it is true, was no easy one, for parents and scholars seemed for a time to be in league against all endeavours on his part to remove existing abuses. it was all very right, they allowed, that he should teach the children head-knowledge--this they were content to put up with; but as for his influencing the heart, or inducing them to change their conduct, and thereby to give up the pleasures of sin in which they had so long delighted, this was not to be tolerated; they were determined not to submit to it. and so the boys, when they could no longer carry on their encounters and settle their differences with the fist after school without interruption and remonstrance from the master, revenged themselves for this interference with their privileges by a thousand little sly tricks and bits of mischief at his expense, and with the full approbation, or, at any rate, connivance, of their friends. as for the grown-up people generally, they gave the good master and his loving wife to understand, when they paid friendly visits to the parents of the scholars, that the inhabitants of the hamlet could do just as well if left to themselves; that they were too old now to go to school; and as for the master's religious teaching, they had already quite as much religion amongst them as was necessary for their comfort and wellbeing: in fact, the schoolmaster and his wife would best consult their own interests and the peace of the place by being keepers at home and looking after their own household out of school hours. nor was this all. the good man having, in one of his sunday evening addresses in the schoolroom, spoken some very plain though kindly words against sinful courses too prevalent in bridgepath, an assault was made on his little garden one night during the following week, so that when he looked over his flower-beds next morning he found them all trampled over, his rose-trees cut down, and the flower roots torn up and thrown about in all directions. as he rose from the examination of what remained of a favourite tree, his eyes encountered those of one of his most determined opponents in the village. the man was staring over the wall, and when his eyes met those of the schoolmaster, he inquired with a grin how his roses were getting on. with a slight flush on his face, but yet with a smile on his lips, the master replied very slowly, "i shall have to kill some of you for this." before the evening this little sentence had been reported in every house in bridgepath. "so you're a-going to kill some of us, master. i thought you was one of them peaceable christians," sneered a man to the schoolmaster as he was passing by the door of one of the beer-shops, before which a number of men were assembled with their pipes and pots. there was a general scornful laugh at this speech. nothing dismayed, however, the schoolmaster stood still, and facing his opponent, said, "yes, i said i would kill some of you, and i mean it; and if you will come up to the schoolroom to-night at eight o'clock, i will tell you all how and why." "let's go and hear him," said one of the drinkers. "ay, let us," said another. by eight o'clock the schoolroom was half filled with men, women, and children. the master was standing at his desk ready to receive them, and when the school clock had struck the hour, began as follows:-"now, my friends and neighbours, i feel sure that you'll give me a quiet hearing, as you have come that you may know why i said i must kill some of you. you've done me harm, some of you, but i've done you none; so the least you can do is to listen to me patiently." "ay, ay," said one or two voices, and there was a hush of earnest attention. the master then unlocked his desk, and taking out a printed paper, read it out clearly and with due spirit and emphasis. it was the admirable tract entitled "the man who killed his neighbour." when he had finished reading there was a general murmur of satisfaction, and all were deeply attentive as he went on to say, "now, dear friends, that's the way i mean to kill some of you: i mean to do it by patience, by kindness, and by returning good for evil, as the good man in the tract did. i'm sorry of course, that my roses have been cut down and my flower-beds trampled on. but let that pass; i shan't fret over it, nor try to find out who did it. but i do want to get you to believe that my great desire and aim is to do you good; and if i can manage, by god's help, to persuade you of this, i shall have killed the enemy that is living in your hearts against me, and we shall be happy and good friends." no one offered any reply, and the meeting broke up; but the master had gained his object. many who had been set against him were now thoroughly ashamed of themselves; nearly every door was gladly opened to himself and his wife; and one morning, when he came out into his garden, he found that some unknown hands had planted new rose-trees in the place of those which had been destroyed. so the good man was making a way steadily for the spread of the truth. nevertheless, the evil one had still many devoted followers, especially among the tipplers. as one of these unhappy men was one day emerging from a beer-shop in bridgepath, with flushed face and uncertain step, he ran against horace jackson, who was just then passing through the village. uttering a loud oath, the man was about to move on, when horace, catching him by the arm, compelled him to stand still, while he sharply reproved him for his drunkenness and profanity. a little staggered and abashed, the man muttered something that sounded half like an apology; and then, shaking himself free from horace's grasp, pointed with his pipe across the green, and said scoffingly, "'tain't of no use speaking to me. if you wants a good hard piece to try your hand on, see what you can do with ruby grigg yonder;" saying which, he plunged back into the beer-shop. vexed and annoyed at this encounter, horace was just about to hasten on, when his eyes fell on the man to whom the poor drunkard had referred him; and who was seated not far-off on the other side of the green, upon the steps of a large travelling van. the young man's heart died within him as he gazed at the strange uncouth being to whom he was invited to try and do some good. reuben gregson, popularly known as "ruby grigg," was anything but a jewel in appearance. he wore at this time a very long coat, whose original colour, whatever it might have been, had now faded into a yellowish dirty brown in those parts which still remained unpatched. trousers just reaching a little below the knee, and repaired here and there with remnants of staring blue cloth of various shapes and sizes, were succeeded by yellowish grey stockings, and by shoes which, if they ever enjoyed the luxury of blacking, must have last done so at a very remote period. a hat, which had once been black and of some definite shape, but was now rimless, distorted, and of the same faded hue as the coat, being stuck on one side, only partially covered a tangled mass of greyish hair, which radiated wildly in every direction. beneath the foremost locks were two eyeballs, the one sightless, the other black and piercing, and ever on the move, having to do double duty. a rough, stubbly, and anything but cleanly beard, which was submitted to the razor only on festal occasions, gave an additional wildness to a countenance which was furrowed across the forehead and down either cheek with deep lines blotched and freckled. as for the mouth, it was a perfect study in itself. usually pretty tightly closed, it displayed when open a small remnant of teeth at irregular intervals, and now grown old and decayed by long service. but, whether open or shut, there was an expression of amused consciousness and cunning about that mouth, as though the owner were living in a chronic state of self-satisfaction at having fairly outwitted somebody. such was ruby grigg in his personal appearance. his caravan, also, was a very original and peculiar structure, manifestly built more for use than ornament, and combining both shop and dwelling. it was formed of boards of various lengths and widths, some painted and others bare, the business part being in front, and arched over with a stout framework which was covered with a tight-fitting tarpaulin; while at the back a square little house, painted uniformly a sober green, and protected by a sloping roof of brown-coloured woodwork, and lighted by two little windows, served as parlour, bedroom, and kitchen to ruby and his wife. mrs gregson, or sally grigg as she was usually styled, was not a noticeable person, keeping out of the way as much as possible; and devoting her time and energies to seeing to the due feeding of her husband, his horse and dog, and herself--these forming the entire family, for they had no children--and also to taking care of, and tidying up from time to time, the very miscellaneous wares which were offered for sale in the caravan. ruby's affections seemed pretty equally divided between his horse, his dog, and his wife--the two first having probably the best place in his heart. the horse, like its owner, had no external beauty to boast of, and must have numbered many years since the days of its foalhood. there was something rather knowing about its appearance, as though it had contracted a measure of cunning from constant companionship with its master. the dog, whose name was grip, was one of those nondescript animals which seem to have inherited a mixture of half-a-dozen different breeds, and had a temper as uncertain as its pedigree. while journeying, his place was beneath the caravan, to which he was attached by a light chain, in which position he was a terror to all who might venture near the caravan without his master's company or permission. when the little party rested for a day or so, grip had his liberty; which he occasionally abused by appropriating to himself the meals intended for his fellow-dogs, none of whom, however superior to him in size or strength, durst for a moment resist him. such were the old man and his establishment. his business was that of a miscellaneous salesman, the difficulty being rather to say what he did not than what he did offer to his various customers. the front part of his van was hung with all sorts of hardware, inside and out; but, besides this, there were, within, secret drawers and cupboards containing articles which would not bear exhibition to the public--such as smuggled goods, both wearable and drinkable, which ruby knew how to procure at a very low price, and could always part with confidentially for a sum which both suited the pockets of the purchasers, and also brought considerable profit to himself. among his secret wares were also immoral songs, and impure and infidel books, for which he had many eager buyers, especially in such places as bridgepath. he had his regular rounds, and his special customers, and was in the habit of attending all the feasts and fairs for many miles round. it need hardly be said that poor ruby knew nothing and cared nothing about better things; his heart was wholly in the world, and in making money as fast as he could, by hook or by crook,--and in this he was succeeding. for though the poor man and his wife were utterly godless, and even profane, yet ruby was no drunkard; he loved his glass, it is true, but he loved money more, and so he always contrived to keep a clear head and a steady eye and hand. he also took good care of his horse and dog for his own sake, as he wanted to make the best and the longest of their services, and was shrewd enough to know that you cannot get out of anything, whether animate or inanimate, more than is put into it. so self and wife, and horse and dog were all well fed and cared for, and worked harmoniously together. this was the man to whom the poor drunkard pointed his pipe and sneeringly invited horace jackson to try and do him good. the young man shrunk at first instinctively from coming in contact with old reuben. surely there was abundance of self-denying work in looking after the inhabitants of the hamlet itself; why then need he concern himself about a man who was only a passer through, and had no special claim on his attention? half-satisfied with these thoughts, horace jackson was about to proceed homewards, when it seemed to him that a voice, as it were, said within him, "accept the work; it may not be in vain." though still reluctant, he now felt that he could no longer hang back; so he crossed the green, and greeted the old hawker kindly. ruby looked up at him with a comical twinkle in his one eye, and, knocking out the ashes from his pipe, observed, "so you be the young gent as is turning all things topsy-turvy in this here village--you and the colonel between you. i've heard all about it; and a precious mess you'll make of it, i doubt." "my friend," said horace, now perfectly relieved from all feeling of disinclination to encounter the old man, "you make a little mistake there: when we came here we _found_ things topsy-turvy already, and we are just trying, by god's help, to set them upright and straight." "and i suppose you think as you're going to do it," said the other scornfully. "yes, i hope so," was the reply. "come, my friend, now tell me honestly, isn't it happier for the people of this village to have a good school and a good schoolmaster set down amongst them than to be living as they used to do, without proper instruction for the children, and without any knowledge of god and a better world?" "can't say as to that," said ruby grigg doubtfully, and a little sulkily; "there's lots of people here as likes the old ways better." "perhaps so," said horace; "but they may be wrong in what they like. now, i ask you again--tell me honestly--don't you see a change for the better yourself in bridgepath?" "well, i don't know," replied the old man, fidgeting about; "it's been a worse change for me. i ain't done anything like the business this time as i use doing here, leastways in some things." horace had now seated himself by the old man, spite of a deep growl from grip, whose nearer approach was cut short by a backhanded slap from his master. "look there now, old friend," continued the young man. at this moment the school doors were thrown open, and out poured a stream of boys and girls, tumbling one over another in their excitement, and singing gaily as they began to disperse over the green. but all suddenly stopped, for the schoolmaster made his appearance, and all clustered round him. school was over, and what was going to happen now? in former days the sight of the master would have been a signal for every boy and girl to slink out of reach of his observation; but now the master's coming was hailed with a happy shout, and the young ones vied with one another in getting near him, while the youngest clung to his dress, and all looked up at him with bright and happy smiles. horace turned towards the old man, and marked a flush on his worn and weather-beaten features. "that's a sight worth seeing, my friend," he added; "i think it used not to be so." reuben made no answer. his eye seemed to be gazing at something beyond the busy scene before him. "you've never had any children of your own, it may be," said horace, noticing his absent look. slowly the old man turned towards his companion, his face was now quite pale, and tears began to steal down its deep furrows. "i've never a child now," he said in a hoarse and troubled voice, "but i had once--a blessed little 'un she were, but she died." "it may be, friend," said the young man gently, "that the lord took her in mercy from the evil to come. did she die very young?" reuben gregson seemed unable to reply for a while, then he said slowly, and apparently with a great effort, "ay, sir, very young, and she were all the boys and girls i ever had. she were but five year old when she died, but she died happy, poor thing. it's more nor thirty years now since she left us." "and she died happy, you say?" asked horace, deeply touched. "did she know anything of her saviour?" "i believe you," replied the other earnestly, "yes. there were a good young lady--she ain't living now--as seed her playing about by the roadside one day, and gave her this book." ruby drew out from his breast-pocket a large faded leathern case, and from its inmost depths brought out a small picture-book full of coloured scripture prints. the frontispiece represented our saviour hanging on the cross, and was much worn, as with the pressure of little fingers. "there, sir," continued the old man, "the young lady showed her them pictures, and talked to her about 'em, and particular about him as was nailed to the cross. we was staying on a common near her house for a week or more, and each day that young lady came and had a talk to our little bessy. and she never forgot what the lady said to her. and so, when she were took with the fever, some weeks arter that, when we was far-off from where the lady lived, her last words was, `daddy, i'm going to jesus, 'cos he said, "suffer the little children to come to me."' there, sir, i've told you now what i haven't spoken to nobody else these thirty years." "and won't you follow your dear child to the better land?" asked horace kindly; "there's room in our saviour's heart and home for you too." "i don't know, i don't know," said the other gloomily; "these things ain't in my line. besides, i'm too old and too hard now; it's no use for such as me to think about 'em." horace said nothing immediately, but taking out a little new testament, he read out, without any comment, the parables of the lost sheep and the lost piece of silver. then he said, "old friend, i am so glad we have met. will you accept this little book from me? it will tell you better than i can all about the loving saviour, who has taken that dear child to himself, and wants you and your wife to follow her." without saying a word ruby clutched the testament, thrust it into his breast-pocket and then, rising hastily, said, "i wish you good day, sir; maybe we shall meet again. thank you kindly for the little book." "farewell for the present," said horace. "yes, i believe we shall meet again," and he turned his steps homewards, deeply thankful that he had not declined the work which was so unexpectedly thrust upon him. chapter ten. a rough jewel polished. some months had passed since horace jackson's brief conversation with ruby grigg on the green at bridgepath, and the good work was making steady progress in that hamlet. a few of the adversaries continued rather noisy and troublesome; but it was observable that these avoided, as by common consent, one particular beer-shop, which used to be a favourite resort of the roughest and most dissolute characters, while the publican himself who kept this house was to be seen, at first occasionally, and now regularly at the service which was held in the schoolroom on the sunday evenings. news of this happy change had reached horace from several quarters, and gave the sincerest pleasure to himself and his uncle. meditating thankfully on these things, the young man was passing one afternoon down a by-lane which led to bridgepath. it was a lonely spot, far from any house. on either hand the lane was closed in by tall hedges, and a broad belt of turf skirted the rugged road on each side, affording pasture to any stray beasts which might wander thither unbidden. wild flowers and singing birds filled the untrimmed bushes; while the lowing of cattle, faintly heard from some far-off farm or pasture, added depth to the solitude. with his face turned in the direction of bridgepath, horace had just crossed the top of another and narrower lane, which joined at right angles that along which he was walking, and had passed the opening about a hundred yards, when he was startled by hearing a voice behind him shouting out, "hi! hi! hi! mister!" he looked back, and the sight that met his eye was not reassuring. a tall figure, bareheaded and without a coat, was striding after him, tossing its arms about, and brandishing in the right hand a long whip. the thought at once suggested itself to horace that this must be some poor lunatic escaped from an asylum, and the idea of a solitary encounter in that lonely spot was not an agreeable one, especially as the young man had no other weapon with him than a thin walking-cane, and he was well aware that these poor creatures, when excited and at liberty, often exhibited great strength of limb, and made use of it without scruple to the detriment of any they might fall in with; so he took no heed of the outcry, and hastened his pace onwards. but this had only the effect of exasperating his pursuer, who bawled out to him to stop, and then began to make after him with a shuffling sort of run. so when horace looked back, and saw the presumed lunatic thus quickening his speed, and also wildly flourishing his whip, he fairly broke into a run himself, considering that, under the circumstances, "discretion was," undoubtedly, "the better part of valour." he was, however, arrested in his flight by a roaring burst of laughter from the supposed madman, which made him pause for a moment and turn full round; and then he became convinced that the cause of his anxiety, who was now leaning his back against a bank, and still laughing vociferously, was none other than the old caravan hawker, ruby grigg. as soon as he could recover himself, the old man began to walk quietly forward, motioning to the other to come and meet him. horace did this, though with some little reluctance, not feeling sure that the old man's excitement might not be caused by either insanity or drink. but he was soon satisfied that all was right on that score, as the two drew nearer together. "so you took me for a highwayman or a madman, mr horace!" said the old man, still laughing. "eh! i don't wonder; you must have thought it very strange. but i never thought how it'd look when i hollered arter you; i were only afeard you'd get out of hearing, and i've something to tell you as'll make your heart right glad, i know." "what is it, my friend?" "well, can you spare me a few minutes, and i'll tell you? my van's just a few yards down the lane you crossed a minute ago. you didn't look that way as you passed, and i didn't take it in at first that it was yourself; and when my wife said, `there's mr horace jackson just gone by,' i ran to the top of the lane just as i was, whip and all, and shouted arter you. can you come with me for a minute?" "with all my heart," replied the other. so they turned back, and soon reached the van, which was drawn up by the hedge-side, grip and the old horse strolling about at leisure, and mrs gregson being engaged in cooking something savoury in an iron pot which was suspended over an open-air fire, gipsy fashion. when horace had seated himself on the bank, the old hawker plunged into his travelling shop, and having returned with something in his right hand, seated himself by his young companion. "it's this here little testament as has been and gone and done it," he said abruptly, opening his hand at the same time and disclosing the book which horace had given him at their last meeting. greatly surprised and touched at these words, horace looked earnestly into reuben's face for an explanation, and as he did so, it struck him that the old expression of cunning had given place to one of gentleness and peace. "i'll tell you all about it, sir," proceeded the other. "you must know as i haven't been easy in my mind for some time past--never since that new schoolmaster at bridgepath said a few words to me last feast-day. you know i often come to the village, 'cos i've some good customers there, and i never used to miss the feast. well, i'd heard a deal about the new goings on there long afore i set my own eyes on any on 'em, and i weren't best pleased, nor weren't my best customers neither, you may be sure. but still, down in my heart, i couldn't help feeling as things were being changed for the better; yet it didn't quite suit my pocket that they should be, and so i were very cross, and ready to take everything by the wrong handle. so when the schoolmaster came and spoke to me, i were as grumpy at first as a bear with a sore head, as the saying is. but he wouldn't see it--no, not a bit, and talked to me as pleasant as if i'd been all the while looking sugar and honey at him; and i began to feel very uneasy all over. then, too, i couldn't help seeing as the boys and girls were as different as possible from what they used to be. many was the time as i've sworn with a big ugly oath as i'd set grip at them, when they came up and plagued me and wanted to meddle with my goods. but there weren't no need for it now. yet i stuck out for all that, and talked it over with the keepers of the beershops; and we all agreed as it were a great nuisance setting up this new school and reading-room. but we didn't really think so, except that it began to hurt our trade; for this was where the shoe pinched. and then it was, when my mind was a-playing at `see-saw,' first up on this side, and then up on the other, that you was sent that day to have a talk about the children and my own blessed little 'un, and to give me the testament. when you was gone, i grumbled to myself at first, `precious humbug this! what's the use of a testament to me? i ain't a-going to pull a long face and sing psalms,' and i were half in the mind to throw it away." "and what stopped you, old friend?" asked horace. "i'll just tell you, sir," replied the other. "when you gave it me, i stuck it in my coat-pocket, next my little girl's picture-book: and when i took it out again, t'other little book came with it, and i couldn't for the life of me do it any harm. so i put 'em both back again side by side; and the next time as we camped in a quiet place, i took the testament out and began to read a bit out loud. and sally heard me, and she came and listened with her mouth and eyes wide open, and then asked me what the book was and where i'd got it. i told her all about it; and then she asked me if i thought i could find in the book them last words which our dear little 'un spoke. i told you, sir, you'll remember, as she said, `jesus said, "suffer the little children to come unto me."' them was her last words, poor thing! well, we sat on these steps day after day and hunted for them words between us; and we found 'em at last. but we found something else as we hadn't been looking for. we found a couple of miserable old sinners, ruby and sally grigg, as was going along the broad road to destruction." he paused, for his voice had become choked and troubled. "and did you find nothing more?" asked horace, deeply interested. "ay, to be sure we did, sir. we found jesus christ was willing to have us; and we found peace--not at first, nor all at once, but by degrees, and after a while. sally were the first to get a firm hold: but i believe i've grasped it myself now, and by god's help i mean not to let go." "this is indeed joyful news, dear friend," said horace jackson, when he could trust himself to speak. "who would have thought it?" "ay, who indeed?" said reuben warmly. "and now," he added, "i want a bit of advice, sir, from you, for it ain't all grass and gravel with me now; there's some deepish ruts and some stony roads before me, and that's why i were so anxious to stop you just now, sir, that i might tell you all about it, and get a word or two from yourself to give us a bit of encouragement." "i am truly thankful--i can't tell you how thankful," replied the young man. "the lord has indeed done great things for you, and i shall be only too happy to be helpful to you in any way that i can." "thank you, sir, kindly; 'tain't worldly help as i wants from you. i've earned enough for me and sally to last us as long as we live; and it's almost time as i sold the old van, and settled down somewheres for the rest of my days. but it's just this, sir--i want to do some work for the lord, who's been and done so much for sally and me. now i could, as i said just now, sell the old van and settle down; but then i mightn't be able to do much good, and my old limbs would get stiff for want of my regular exercise, and i should just be snoozing away the rest of my time in a big arm-chair. now i ain't quite used up, nor sally neither. so i could keep on the move from place to place, dropping a word for christ here, and a word there, where i've been used to drop scores of words for the devil; and if you'd put me in the way, i could take a lot of testaments and other good books with me, and sell 'em instead of the poisonous trash as i used to carry. now, what do you advise me?" "you couldn't do better, old friend," replied horace; "you would be showing then your colours, and doing real work for the master--better far than you could if you settled down." "well, i think so too, sir; and you must know that i've begun to do a bit for the lord already, though in a poor sort of way. i used to sell smuggled goods on the sly, and bad songs and bad books, but i've dropped all that now. you may look my van through, drawers and cupboards and all, every corner of it, and you'll not find a scrap of the bad sort now. eh! how some of my old customers do stare, and how some on 'em do jeer, when i tells 'em as i've done selling the old things as they delight in. but it don't matter. i've made up my mind, and they're beginning to find that out. they call me an old humbug, and tell me as sally and i shall end our days in the union. but i ain't afeard; it ain't the likes of them as can send me there, and i know i'm safe in the lord's hands." "that's very true," said horace; "you'll be taken good care of while you are in the path of duty, and you will have many a noble opportunity of helping on the good cause as you go from place to place. many will get a word from you which they might not be in the way of hearing otherwise, and the very fact of such a change in the hearts and lives of your wife and yourself must tell on the consciences of many who see what you are now and know what you were in times past." "i believe you sir," said the old man. "now, there's one who's been touched already--jim grimes, who keeps `the old fighting-cocks' at bridgepath. he were mightily surprised at first when he seed as i'd given up my old ways; he wouldn't believe as it were the true thing, and he were for chaffing me out of it. but he found out after a bit as i was real. 'tain't for me to boast--it were the lord's doings, not mine--but when he came to be persuaded as i had taken to the better way in earnest, he couldn't make it out at first; but now he has come to set his feet on the right road, too, i trust, and this has made me think as there's work for the lord for me to do in a quiet way without giving up the van--in a quiet way, i say, sir, for i don't want to be put in a `mag.'" "put in a `mug,' old friend!" exclaimed horace, in amused surprise; "what can you mean? is it slang for putting you in prison? why should any one put you in prison for such a work as you are purposing to carry on? if any one tries to get you into trouble, come or send to me; they shan't interfere with you." "nay, nay, sir," replied ruby grigg, with a laugh. "thank you kindly for what you say; but you've not got hold of my meaning. what i'm driving at is this: i don't want people to put me in a `mag,'--mag's short for `magazine,'--one of them monthly or weekly papers as is full of pictures, and serves as town-crier to all the good deeds as is being done." "ah, i understand you now," said horace, smiling in return; "you want to work quietly for christ in the shade, and not to be made a public character of." "that's just it, sir; i wouldn't be put in a `mag' for all the world. i've knowed many a good man spoilt by being put in a `mag.' it blows 'em up with pride; and then them as don't get put in the `mag' is fit to burst with envy and jealousy." "i believe, my friend," said horace, "that there may be a great deal of truth in what you say. a good man's usefulness may be injured by his being dragged into public notice; for no sin needs such watchfulness on the part of christians, especially those at the beginning of their course, as pride. there is too much of this trumpeting in our day; it spoils the simplicity and reality of many a character." "i've seen it, sir," replied reuben. "i used to laugh at it formerly, but i grieve over it now. at any rate i'm sure, sir, as you won't put me in a `mag.' i don't want to see myself in a couple of picturs, one with me and my van as they was, and t'other with the likeness of mister reuben gregson in a brand new suit of clothes and a white choker, looking for all the world like a regular parson. 'twouldn't do me no good. i just want to do a little work in a quiet way--to jog along, telling how the lord has done great things for me, and just to mix up a few bibles, and testaments, and tracts as i'm selling my goods. and i don't want no reward here, and no notice, leastways no public notice. i've had more reward nor i deserve already; and if i make a few kind friends, such as yourself and the colonel maybe, i'd rather do it, mr horace, in a quiet way, and then i shall feel as i'm doing the work for the lord himself out and out." "well, dear old friend," said horace, "it shall be as you say, so far as i am concerned, and i can answer for my uncle too. and i feel sure that you are right, i understand now how the change has taken place in james grimes. yes, the lord honours steady consistent example, and i do heartily thank him that he has seen fit to enlist you in the increasing and noble army of `workers in the shade.'" chapter eleven. a surprise. mr horace jackson has completed his twenty-first year, and the day is to be marked by a grand gathering in the grounds in front of park house. the persons invited on the occasion were all the tenants on the estate, the two misses stansfield, and lady willerly and her daughter. ruby grigg also and his wife sally were present by special invitation. the colonel had never formally declared that his nephew was to be his heir, though it had been generally understood that such was to be the case. and now the proceedings at riverton park were to be of so quiet a character, that people began to question whether after all this celebration of the young man's coming of age might not merely be an ordinary keeping of the majority of one who might not in the end turn out to be the real heir to the property. such was the conjecture of the public as the preparations were watched and commented upon. "and yet who can tell?" exclaimed ungratified curiosity reproachfully, "for the colonel never does anything like other people." there was, however, one person who was abundantly satisfied, and that was old john price; but nothing could be got from him, though a host of questioners assailed him as he made his way down to the house, on the morning of the birthday gathering, seated on an old pony as prudent and impenetrable as himself. it was a glorious day, and, after a hearty noonday meal, all the guests were collected on the lawn in front of the mansion. the colonel, his sister, and their nephew, having dined with the company, now occupied the centre of a group which had gathered on the steps of park house, consisting of the ladies invited and old john price. scarce a sound was heard but the rustling of the leaves of some of the noble trees, as all sat waiting for what was to come next, for certainly something special was expected by all, though they could scarce have told why. at last the colonel stood forward, and, raising his hat from his venerable head, just closed his eyes for a moment and murmured a few words to himself and then, his voice trembling at first with emotion, spoke as follows-"my dear friends, i am about to bring strange things to your ears, but i trust not disagreeable ones. and first of all, let me introduce to you, under a new name, mr horace walters, the only son and only child of your late squire, and the present and, i trust for many happy years to come, future proprietor of the riverton estate." he paused as the whole company rose to their feet and vociferously cheered the young master. looks of astonishment and perplexity were then exchanged by many as they resumed their seats, but these soon gave place to most earnest attention to colonel dawson, who thus proceeded-"you may some of you be wondering, dear friends, how i can have permitted your dear young squire to have assumed and carried with my sanction a name among you that is not really his own; but i shall soon show you what will, i am sure, be perfectly satisfactory to you all on this point. what i am now going to tell you is not a mere tale to gratify curiosity. i have a sacred duty to perform in telling it; for it was the earnest request that i should do so of one who had a right to claim it of me--i mean your late squire, the father of my dear young friend here, whom i shall never cease to call my dear nephew. "you must know, then, that some twenty-five years have now passed since i retired from the army. i was living at that time in a quiet way in my native county, when a cousin of mine, who used to be my special companion and friend when we were boys, died, and left me, to my considerable surprise, a large property in australia, in which country he had been living for many years as an extensive sheep-farmer. believing that property has its duties as well as its profits, i resolved to go over and see what my new acquisition was like, and what i had best do with it. i had no thoughts at first of settling in the colony. but i found when i got there a great deal to do and a great deal to undo before things could be set properly in order; and by the time i had got things into shape i had got so used to colonial life, and so well satisfied with its freedom from many of those fetters which society imposes on us in many of her usages in the old mother country, that i made up my mind to settle, for a time at any rate, in my adopted land. "i had a house of my own in melbourne, and used to visit my country estate from time to time as i found it necessary. one day, as i was walking along one of the principal streets of the city, when i had been settled in the colony a few years, i noticed a little boy of rather superior appearance, who was neatly but plainly dressed, walking slowly past the shops with a very sad expression on his face and his poor eyes full of tears. i stopped him, and asked what was the matter. he was reluctant at first to tell me; but on my getting his confidence by the sincere interest he saw i took in him, the little fellow told me that his dear old nurse was very ill, and he was afraid she would die before his father came back. "i went with him at once to his home, which was a very humble one in a side street, and found the poor woman, the child's nurse, quite sensible, yet manifestly near her end. the neighbours had been kind, and had done what they could; but it was too plain that human skill would not avail to restore the old woman to health or prolong her life. but she was quite able to listen to me; and when i had offered a prayer by her bedside, she evidently felt that she could confide her sorrows and troubles to me. "she told me that her master, the little boy's father, was called william jackson; that he had come from england a few years before, after the death of his wife, to try his fortune in the colony, having lost his property in england. she herself, having known him from his infancy, and always having lived in his family, came with him to australia to take care of horace, his only child, who was then an infant. her master had found employment in the city, but was anxious to see if he could not meet with success at the gold-diggings. he therefore had left her and his little son three months since, and they had only heard from him once. horace was now six years old, and was going to a day-school in the city; and as mr jackson had left a sum of money with her which was not yet exhausted, she was not in want as regarded herself or the child, and was now anxiously looking for the father's return. but it had pleased god to lay her low with sickness; and feeling that her time must be short, she was deeply concerned as to what was to become of her little charge, whom she loved as dearly as if he had been her own. "i told her not to distress herself on this subject, but to cast this burden on the lord, and that i would see what could be done. her poor face lighted up when i said these words; and from the reply which she made, i concluded that she was a pious woman and knew where to lay her cares. so i went home, and after giving the necessary directions for the poor nurse's comfort, i began seriously to consider what was to be done for the poor child; and after putting the matter before the lord, i resolved to take him into my own house, and treat him as my own till his father should turn up. and so a week later, when the faithful old nurse was buried, i took the little horace to live with me, and we have never been long separated from that day to this. "but what of william jackson, his father? months rolled on, and no tidings--a year, and no tidings. horace had learned to call me uncle, and i to call him and speak of him as nephew: and though friends and neighbours at first perfectly understood that this was only a loving mode of address, not at all intended to deceive anybody, yet in process of time it became so completely a matter of course with us, that we can hardly either of us believe that this relationship does not really exist between us, and so i shall be `uncle dawson' to him, and he will be `nephew horace' to me till death parts us. horace was now seven years old, and i felt only too thankful to mark in him the evidences of a real love to that saviour whom his good old nurse had taught him to know and serve in his childish way. and so the boy was twining himself tight round my heart, and, to tell the honest truth, i began to dread the father's return, and almost to hope he might never come back to claim his child. "it was one beautiful day in february. you must remember, dear friends, that february is one of our hot months in the southern hemisphere. horace was at school, and i was sitting by an open window in my private room, which looked on to the garden at the back of my town house. something came between me and the light. i looked up from my writing. a man stood by the open window, and did not move away as he saw my eyes fixed on him. he wore a broad palm leaf hat, which rather shaded from my view his full features; but i could see a noble countenance, which was rendered strikingly picturesque by the profusion of beard and moustache, which had evidently been long untrimmed. his upper clothing consisted of a faded blouse, fastened round the neck by a black silk handkerchief. he had also coarse duck trousers on, bound round his waist by a leathern belt, and well-made boots on his feet, which were remarkably small for one of his robust make. "my heart sank within me for a moment or two, for i divined at once who he must be; but, recovering myself, i asked him if he wished to speak with me. `yes; he should be glad to do so,' he replied in a sad voice, but with the greatest courtesy of manner. "he was soon seated opposite to me, and came at once to the point by saying, `how can i ever discharge my debt of gratitude to you, colonel dawson, for your most generous treatment of my poor boy, who might have been lost or ruined but for your kindness?' "`pray, don't say anything more on the subject, mr jackson,' i replied. `it has been a happiness to me to have been led to befriend your child; and, indeed, he has become so dear to me, that i know not how to part with him. but, of course, as he is yours, not mine, you are at liberty to take him when you will, or to leave him with me till you can provide a settled home for him.' "my visitor was greatly moved, and grasped my hand most warmly. `i know,' he said, `the best recompense i can make to one who has acted towards me as you have done, is to lay myself under still deeper obligation to you; and i will do so. i may tell you thus much about myself--i am not what i seem. i have a great object which i am seeking to accomplish, and i am, i think, on the road to success. i shall be most thankful to leave my boy in your hands, at any rate, for the present, and shall be most happy to charge myself with all his expenses at home and at school.' "`nay, mr jackson,' i replied; `while he remains with me it shall be my privilege to supply him with all that he needs, as i can well afford to do, and i shall be further truly happy to be of personal service to yourself if i can.' "`i accept your offer with gratitude,' he replied. `you _can_ help me, i dare say. i want employment as a clerk or book-keeper. dare you trust me yourself, or dare you recommend me to another? i dare myself affirm that i will not disappoint an employer who may trust me.' "there was a frankness and sincerity in his manner which completely disarmed me of all suspicion or hesitation; whatever colonial _prudence_ might suggest, i _could_ not distrust him. so i offered him at once a place in my own office with a moderate stipend. he accepted it without hesitation, and lived in my house as a member of the family; and never did employer have a more intelligent and faithful worker. as for the child, his father never in the least interfered with my management of him, though i brought him up after my own utterly unfashionable, or perhaps more properly speaking, old-fashioned ideas. on the contrary, he warmly approved of my system. "`i cannot tell you,' he said one day, soon after he had come to live with me, `how truly grateful i am to see you forming my dear boy's character in the way you are doing. i want him to be the very opposite to what i was myself at his age, and to what the generality of children are now. i was brought up just to please myself and to have my own way--to be, in fact, a little incarnation of self-will and selfishness. i was allowed to ask for everything i liked at the table, no restriction being put upon my self-indulgence. i went where i liked, and did what i liked, and was never checked except when i was in the way, or had become intolerably troublesome. i was placed under no regular discipline, and was allowed to thrust myself and my opinions forward amongst my seniors and those who were my superiors in everything but worldly position; and as i grew older, and became inconveniently self-asserting, i was alternately snubbed and humoured according to the whim or temper of those who claimed authority over me. and what was the result? alas! early reckless extravagance followed by ruin, and a character which might have been moulded into something noble, now for a long time shapeless and distorted. and my boy--well, i am only too thankful that he has fallen into your hands out of his unworthy father's.' he spoke these words with deep emotion. "`i am truly glad, mr jackson,' i said, `that you are able to look at things in this better and clearer light. i quite agree with you about the present bringing up of children. for a few years they are treated as little idols by parents, who are too selfish to give themselves the pain and trouble of correcting and disciplining them, and this, too, even in cases where the parents themselves are true christians; and then, when they begin to get unbearable, and have passed out of the winning ways of early childhood, they are too often thrown back upon themselves, and made to suffer the penalty of neglect of discipline and training, which ought properly to be inflicted on the parents, who have not done their duty towards them.' "`it is so. i have seen it; i have felt it, colonel dawson,' he replied warmly; `and so i just leave horace's education entirely in your hands.' "and thus it was that i brought up my dear nephew, as i still continued to call him, in my own way--that is to say, to eat what was given him, to do what was told him, to go where i allowed him, and to have as much liberty as i thought good for him; to listen when his elders were speaking, to be diligent in his lessons, early in his hours of rising and going to bed, and regular in all his habits. and he will tell you himself, i don't doubt, as he has told me over and over again, that, so far from feeling this discipline and these wholesome restraints a bondage, he was as happy as the day was long under them. and i am sure of this, dear friends, that the little, stuck-up, pampered, self-willed, selfish children which abound in our day, who are supposed to rejoice in having their own way, are really slaves to themselves, as well as a burden to their friends, and are strangers to that vigorous enjoyment which is the privilege of a childhood passed under judicious and even discipline. "well, so it was with horace; and so his father rejoiced to find it. and what made me rejoice still more was the happy conviction that a deeper work still was beginning to manifest itself in the heart and life of the dear boy. yes, you may think it strange, dear friends that i am entering into all these particulars on an occasion so public as the present, and with your young squire by my side; but i have a reason for it, as you will see by-and-by, and i am doing it with the full consent and approval of my dear nephew himself. let me, then, proceed with my story. "when horace was sixteen years of age he expressed to me his earnest desire to engage in some special work for the spread of the gospel, which he had learned himself to prize above all earthly things. his father at this time was not residing with me in the town, but held the post of manager of my country estate and sheep-farm, which flourished admirably under his most vigorous and faithful superintendence; for he was a born ruler of others, and a man of such decision of character that everything he laid his hands to fell, as it were, into order under his unflagging and indomitable energy. i knew that i had `the right man in the right place,' and was satisfied. however, when his son expressed this his heart's desire to me, we rode up together to my country house and laid the matter before mr jackson. "he seemed at first confused and embarrassed when i mentioned the subject to him, and asked me to wait for his views upon it till the following day. so we spent the night at the farm; and the next day the father and myself walked towards the neighbouring hills, and then he told me, what you may be sure i was deeply thankful to hear, that what he was pleased to call the consistent christianity which he had witnessed in our household had been blessed to himself, and that he trusted that he was now endeavouring to live as a true follower of his saviour. "`you will approve, then,' i said, `of horace's wish to be trained for direct gospel work.' "`yes and no,' he replied. `by _no_,' he added, `i mean that i do not wish him to enter the ministry. i have reasons of my own for this which just now i would rather keep to myself; but one day, and it may be before very long, i should like you to know them.' "`and what would you wish, then, horace to do?' i asked. "`i will talk the matter over with him,' he said. and he did so that day; and the result was that the young man proposed, with his father's full approbation, to pass through a course of training in medicine and surgery with a view to his becoming qualified for the post of medical missionary. so, on our return to melbourne, the necessary steps were taken; and two years ago my nephew left us for a short experimental trip to one of the islands of the pacific ocean, under the guidance of an excellent and experienced missionary. "and now i am coming to a very sad and wonderful part of my story; but as i have talked long enough now to weary myself if not to weary you, i will ask you to amuse yourselves for a while among the grounds and in the park till tea-time, and after tea i shall be happy to conclude my story, the most important part of which is yet to come." chapter twelve. cloud and sunshine. there was clearly much anxiety on the part of the guests to hear the conclusion of colonel dawson's narrative. so the bountiful tea which had been provided was speedily despatched, and every eye fixed intently on the speaker when he resumed his address, after the tables had been withdrawn and the hearers settled in their old places. "you will remember," began the colonel, "that i had sorrowful things to tell you in continuing my story: and sorrowful indeed they are, though not without a mixture of brightness. horace had been gone from the colony, on what i might call his missionary trial-trip, about a month, when i was one day sitting alone under the veranda of my country house, thinking over many things, and specially pondering the wonderful way in which i had gained two so dear to me as horace and his father. then my thoughts and heart went across the sea to my dear nephew,--when i was suddenly aroused from my day-dream by seeing just before me a stranger, who must have come up very silently, for i was quite unaware of his approach till i looked up and saw him gazing very keenly and not very pleasantly at me. it was now evening, and twilight, of which there is very little in those parts, would speedily be followed by darkness. the new-comer was dressed in bush fashion, and carried a rifle, and i could see the stocks of a brace of pistols peeping out from his blouse. the man's features and appearance altogether were most forbidding; and though a military man myself, i felt anything but comfortable with these ferocious eyes staring full upon me. however, in the bush open house is more or less a rule, and rough-looking fellows often turn up and request a night's lodging and food, which we do not think of refusing them. besides which, the wild-looking outside not unfrequently covers an honest heart beneath. so, while i did not at all like the looks of my visitor, i asked him what he wanted, and if he would sit down and take some refreshment. he replied, in a voice as rough as his appearance, that he was looking after some horses which had strayed as he was bringing them overland, and that he should be glad of a mouthful of bread and cheese and a drink. the refreshment was brought him by one of my men, whom he eyed all over; while all the time he was eating, those same fierce and restless eyes were taking in everything about the place, till he rose to go, with a muttered word or two which hardly sounded like thanks. "no sooner was he out of sight than horace's father joined me in the veranda. his voice was agitated as he asked,-"`do you know that man?' "`not that i am aware of,' i replied; `indeed i may say, certainly not; for once seen, such a man is not easily forgotten. a more villainous face i never beheld.' "`you may well say so,' said my friend. `i know that man too well; he nearly succeeded in taking my life at the diggings,--he is somewhat older-looking, of course, but there is no mistaking him. he was an escaped convict when i knew him, and belonged to the most dangerous set in the place where i was working. i don't at all like his lurking about here. you may depend upon it, his presence bodes no good.' "`i can well believe that,' i said; `so we must take proper precautions, and see that the men are on the look-out.' "`yes,' he replied, `i will see to that; and it will be as well to send a messenger to-night over to melbourne to give the police a hint, as i fancy they would not be sorry to come across this fellow, as his doings are no doubt pretty well known to them.' "nothing more occurred that night to disturb us; but the following day four horsemen might be seen riding up towards the house at a dashing gallop, just about noon. i was prepared, however, for their coming and had caused all the men about the place to take refuge in my own house, which i had made provision for barricading if necessary. i had only three or four men on the place at that time, and their wives and children. these last i brought into an inner room when i saw the horsemen in the distance. though a soldier by profession, i was exceedingly reluctant to shed blood, and had resolved on the present occasion not to do so if it could possibly be avoided. "the strangers were soon at the veranda, evidently resolved to take us by storm. foremost among them was my visitor of the day before. he sprang down from his horse in the most reckless manner, and began thundering at the door with the butt end of his rifle. my house had not been built with the view of its sustaining a siege at any time, but was constructed of rather light materials, so that the door began to groan and creak under the assaults of the bushranger, whose every movement i could see through a small opening in the shutters. "`what do you want here, friend?' i asked. "`open the door,' was the only reply. "`tell me what you want,' i said again. "`open the door,' was all that was returned in answer; and then came a thundering blow, which fairly crushed in one of the panels. "`shall i fire?' asked mr jackson, in a hoarse whisper. "`no, no! not yet, not yet,' i cried. "then came a united rush of three of the men, and the door came crashing into the outer room. the foremost villain then sprang at me, and we wrestled together, after i had knocked up his revolver. in a few minutes i had hurled him back from me, and he fell to the ground and was seized by one of my men. gasping for breath, i paused and looked about me. a pistol was presented at me by another bushranger, but before it could be fired horace's poor father had thrown himself in front of me; he received the bullet in his own breast, and fell to the ground grievously wounded. but now help was at hand; alas that it did not come sooner! a strong body of mounted police came up, and having secured all the robbers, carried them off in triumph. "but what was to be done with my dear wounded friend, who had saved my life by perilling his own? i knew enough of surgical matters to ascertain by inspection that the injury, though severe, was not likely to be mortal. so, having bandaged up the wound with the best appliances i had at hand, i drove my friend as rapidly as he could bear it to my town house, where he was at once placed under the care of the best medical skill in the city. and for some time i had every hope that he would recover, and earnestly did i pray that it might be so, if it were the lord's will. but it was not so to be. a constitution once strong, but impaired in early youth, and much tried when he was at the diggings, had not sufficient vigour remaining to enable my poor friend to regain health and strength. but he did not pass away rapidly, nor did he lose any of his power of mind in his last days. and then it was, on his dying-bed, that he opened his whole heart to me, and told me what i am about to tell you, and, as nearly as i can remember, in these words:-"`my name is really horace walters, and i am the owner of an estate called riverton park in my dear native country. but i ruined myself by my mad love for gambling, and when my poor wife died, and left me with horace a baby, and my estate was become sadly encumbered, i resolved at once that i would leave my native land, go over to australia, live a life of hard work and self-denial, and not come back again until, by the accumulated rents and by what i could earn, i could make my property absolutely and honestly my own, and leave it unencumbered to my dear child. you have seen enough of me to know that i have some strength of will in my character; and so, when i had made this resolution, i began immediately to carry it out. taking with me our old nurse, whom i bound to secrecy, i came over to this colony, got employment, and then went to the diggings. there, by diligence, perseverance, and self-denial, i managed to accumulate a large sum, which is safely deposited in the bank. i had some thoughts of going back at once to england; but on learning what had happened to horace, and about your noble and lovingcare of him, i resolved to wait a while, and to get employment in your neighbourhood--at any rate, for a time. and that resolution i have never repented of; indeed, i have felt _my_ dear horace's--ay, i will say _our_ dear horace's--position in your house such a privileged one, that i have gladly delayed taking any further steps homeward, wishing to see him all that we both could desire him to be before i let him know his real name and position. you can easily understand why i changed my name to jackson. i felt that i had brought shame and dishonour on my own name in my native land and i resolved that in this distant country i would change it for another, and not take it back again till i could do so with honour and credit to myself and my child.' "and then, dear friends, he told me how he blessed god for bringing himself to the knowledge of his truth, and me for having been the instrument--an unworthy one indeed i was--of leading him to that knowledge. of course, i told him what a privilege i felt it to have been permitted to guide him to his saviour; and i added that i would gladly do anything i could to show my gratitude to him for having sacrificed himself to save my life. "`you have done more than enough already,' was his reply; `and yet i will take you at your word. horace knows nothing yet of his real name and prospects; i had made up my mind lately that i would wait till he came of age to tell him. and now i would ask you, dear friend, to take horace with you to england and see him settled in his property when i am gone, which will be, i know, before very long. i have ample means in the bank here to meet all expenses, and will give you full power to act for me. you will understand now why i did not wish horace to be a minister. i think godly laymen are as much needed as godly clergymen; and, as he in god's providence inherits an important property, i have a strong impression that he will be more free to do his duty to his tenantry and his estate as a christian country squire, than he would be if he had taken upon himself the charge of a special sphere or parish at home or abroad. and my earnest wish and prayer is that he may soon, by his conduct as a christian landlord, blot out altogether the memory of his unworthy father.' "i stopped him here and told him that he was nobly redeeming the past, so far as it was possible for man to do so, and that i would gladly carry out what he desired. this seemed to make him quite happy; and his one great wish now was to see his son once more, and this was granted to him. horace returned to comfort him in his dying hours, and to receive his blessing, with his expressed wish that he should accompany me to england, whither i was going on his account to settle some matters of business for him. he said nothing further to his son, having already expressed his wish to me that i should first set the riverton estate in thorough order, according to my own views of what was right--with one special injunction, that i should do everything that might be in my power to recompense john price and his family for the loss they had suffered on his account. "so, after my poor friend's departure to his better inheritance, we have come over here to carry out his wishes and instructions; and you have seen, and can now see, the results. my dear nephew has been kept in ignorance of his real name and prospects till yesterday, when i laid the whole matter before him; and it is by his father's earnest dying request that i have given you this full and minute history. to-day horace walters is of full age, and to-day i surrender up all to him. "i would just add a word or two more. i have gone so fully into my story, not only because mr walters urged me to do so, but still more for two special reasons: first, because i know that rumour and fancy would be sure to put their heads together and circulate all sorts of foolish stories about your late squire, and about his dear son, your present squire, and some of these stories probably to the discredit of one or both. now i have given you the true account of all, so that you can safely put down all slanderers' gossip and tittle-tattle on the subject. and further, i have gone thus particularly into my story, because it will show you what rare jewels there were in your late squire's character, and how brightly those shone out when the black crust of evil habits had fallen away from them. and, lastly, i have wished to show you how graciously god has been ordering things for the good of you all, and has brought blessings and peace out of a strange tangle of circumstances which he has unravelled for your happiness. "and now, dear friends, having accomplished the work for which i came back to the old country, i am returning to the land of my adoption for a time. i think it will be only for a time; for my dear nephew here has got such a hold upon my heart, that i think i shall have to come back and settle near him, if i am spared. however, i have the satisfaction of knowing that i am leaving behind me two earnest, like-minded servants of the great master to preside over the good work at riverton and bridgepath. i shall not leave the country till i have seen them made one; and then i shall feel assured that in horace walters and her who will, i trust, soon become his wife, i shall leave you those who, having long been working for god separately in the shade, will work together as devotedly, hand in hand, and heart in heart, in the light." the end. note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see 29295-h.htm or 29295-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/29295/29295-h/29295-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/29295/29295-h.zip) great-uncle hoot-toot. by mrs. molesworth, author of "the palace in the garden," "'carrots': just a little boy," "the cuckoo clock," etc. illustrated by gordon browne, e. j. walker, lizzie lawson, j. bligh, and maynard brown. published under the direction of the committee of general literature and education appointed by the society for promoting christian knowledge. london: society for promoting christian knowledge, northumberland avenue, charing cross, w.c.; 43, queen victoria street, e.c. brighton: 135, north street. new york: e. & j. b. young and co. [illustration: frances and elsa.] great-uncle hoot-toot. "... what we have we prize not to the worth whiles we enjoy it; but being lack'd and lost, why then we rack the value."--_much ado about nothing._ chapter i. the master of the house. "that's geoff, i'm sure," said elsa; "i always know his ring. i do hope----" and she stopped and sighed a little. "what?" said frances, looking up quickly. "oh, nothing particular. run down, vic, dear, and get geoff to go straight into the school-room. order his tea at once. i _don't_ want him to come upstairs just now. mamma is so busy and worried with those letters." [illustration: vicky.] vic, a little girl of nine, with long fair hair and long black legs, and a pretty face with a bright, eager expression, needed no second bidding. she was off almost before elsa had finished speaking. "what a good child she is!" said frances. "what a clever, nice boy she would have made! and if geoff had been a girl, perhaps he would have been more easily managed." "i don't know," said elsa. "perhaps if vicky had been a boy she would have been spoilt and selfish too." "elsa," said frances, "i think you are rather hard upon geoff. he is like all boys. everybody says they are more selfish than girls, and then they grow out of it." "they grow out of showing it so plainly, perhaps," replied elsa, rather bitterly. "but you contradict yourself, frances. just a moment ago you said what a much nicer boy vic would have made. all boys aren't like geoff. of course, i don't mean that he is really a bad boy; but it just comes over me now and then that it is a _shame_ he should be such a tease and worry, boy or not. when mamma is anxious, and with good reason, and we girls are doing all we can, why should geoff be the one we have to keep away from her, and to smooth down, as it were? it's all for her sake, of course; but it makes me ashamed, all the same, to feel that we are really almost afraid of him. there now----" and she started up as the sound of a door, slammed violently in the lower regions, reached her ears. but before she had time to cross the room, vicky reappeared. "it's nothing, elsa," the child began eagerly. "geoff's all right; he's not cross. he only slammed the door at the top of the kitchen stair because i reminded him not to leave it open." "you might have shut it yourself, rather than risk a noise to-night," said elsa. "what was he doing at the top of the kitchen stair?" vicky looked rather guilty. "he was calling to phoebe to boil two eggs for his tea. he says he is so hungry. i would have run up to tell you; but i thought it was better than his teasing mamma about letting him come in to dinner." elsa glanced at frances. "you see," her glance seemed to say. "yes, dear," she said aloud to the little sister, "anything is better than that. run down again, vicky, and keep him as quiet as you can." "would it not be better, perhaps," asked frances, rather timidly, "for one of us to go and speak to him, and tell him quietly about mamma having had bad news?" "he wouldn't rest then till he had heard all about it from herself," said elsa. "of course he'd be sorry for her, and all that, but he would only show it by teasing." it was frances's turn to sigh, for in spite of her determination to see everything and everybody in the best possible light, she knew that elsa was only speaking the truth about geoffrey. half an hour later the two sisters were sitting at dinner with their mother. she was anxious and tired, as they knew, but she did her utmost to seem cheerful. "i have seen and heard nothing of geoff," she said suddenly. "has he many lessons to do to-night? he's all right, i suppose?" "oh yes," said frances. "vic's with him, looking out his words. he seems in very good spirits. i told him you were busy writing for the mail, and persuaded him to finish his lessons first. he'll be coming up to the drawing-room later." "i think mamma had better go to bed almost at once," said elsa, abruptly. "you've finished those letters, dear, haven't you?" "yes--all that i can write as yet. but i must go to see mr. norris first thing to-morrow morning. i have said to your uncle that i cannot send him particulars till next mail." "mamma, darling," said frances, "do you really think it's going to be very bad?" mrs. tudor smiled rather sadly. "i'm afraid so," she said; "but the suspense is the worst. once we really _know_, we can meet it. you three girls are all so good, and geoff, poor fellow--he _means_ to be good too." "yes," said frances, eagerly, "i'm sure he does." "but 'meaning' alone isn't much use," said elsa. "mamma," she went on with sudden energy, "if this does come--if we really do lose all our money, perhaps it will be the best thing for geoff in the end." mrs. tudor seemed to wince a little. "you needn't make the very worst of it just yet, any way," said frances, reproachfully. "and it would in one sense be the hardest on geoff," said the mother, "for his education would have to be stopped, just when he's getting on so well, too." "but----" began elsa, but she said no more. it was no use just then expressing what was in her mind--that getting on well at school, winning the good opinion of his masters, the good fellowship of his companions, did not comprise the whole nor even the most important part of the duty of a boy who was also a son and a brother--a son, too, of a widowed mother, and a brother of fatherless sisters. "i would almost rather," she said to herself, "that he got on less well at school if he were more of a comfort at home. it would be more manly, somehow." her mother did not notice her hesitation. "let us go upstairs, dears," she said. "i _am_ tired, but i am not going to let myself be over-anxious. i shall try to put things aside, as it were, till i hear from great-uncle hoot-toot. i have the fullest confidence in his advice." "i wish he would take it into his head to come home," said frances. "so do i," agreed her mother. they were hardly settled in the drawing-room before vic appeared. "elsa," she whispered, "geoff sent me to ask if he may have something to eat." "something to eat," repeated elsa. "he had two eggs with his tea. he can't be hungry." "no--o-but there were anchovy toasts at dinner--harvey told him. and he's so fond of anchovy toasts. i think you'd better say he may, elsa, because of mamma." "very well," the elder sister replied. "it's not right--it's always the way. but what are we to do?" vicky waited not to hear her misgivings, but flew off. she was well-drilled, poor little soul. her brother was waiting for her, midway between the school-room and dining-room doors. "well?" he said, moving towards the latter. "yes. elsa says you may," replied the breathless little envoy. "elsa! what has she to do with it? i told you to ask mamma, not elsa," he said roughly. he stood leaning against the jamb of the door, his hands in his pockets, with a very cross look on his handsome face. but victoria, devoted little sister though she was, was not to be put down by any cross looks when she knew she was in the right. "geoff," she said sturdily, "i'll just leave off doing messages or anything for you if you are _so_ selfish. how could i go teasing mamma about anchovy toasts for you when she is so worried?" "how should i know she is busy and worried?" said geoff. "what do you mean? what is it about?" "i don't know. at least i only know that elsa and francie told me that she _was_ worried, and that she had letters to write for the ship that goes to india to-morrow." "for the indian mail you mean, i suppose," said geoff. "what a donkey you are for your age, vic! oh, if it's only that, she's writing to that old curmudgeon; _that's_ nothing new. come along, vicky, and i'll give you a bit of my toasts." [illustration: her brother was waiting for her.] he went into the dining-room as he spoke, and rang the bell. "harvey'll bring them up. i said i'd ring if i was to have them. upon my word, vic, it isn't every fellow of my age that would take things so quietly. never touching a scrap without leave, when lots like me come home to late dinner every night." "elsa says it's only middle-class people who let children dine late," said vic, primly, "_i_ shan't come down to dinner till i'm _out_." geoffrey burst out laughing. "rubbish!" he said. "elsa finds reasons for everything that suits her. here, vicky, take your piece." vicky was not partial to anchovy toasts, but to-night she was so anxious to keep geoff in a good humour, that she would have eaten anything he chose to give her, and pretended to like it. so she accepted her share, and geoff munched his in silence. he was a well-made, manly looking boy, not tall for his years, which were fourteen, but in such good proportion as to give promise of growing into a strong and vigorous man. his face was intended by nature to be a very pleasing one. the features were all good; there was nobility in the broad forehead, and candour in the bright dark eyes, and--sometimes--sweetness in the mouth. but this "sometimes" had for long been becoming of less and less frequent occurrence. a querulous, half-sulky expression had invaded the whole face: its curves and lines were hardening as those of no young face should harden; the very carriage of the boy was losing its bright upright fearlessness--his shoulders were learning to bend, his head to slouch forward. one needed but to glance at him to see that geoffrey tudor was fast becoming that most disagreeable of social characters, a grumbler! and with grumbling unrepressed, and indulged in, come worse things, for it has its root in that true "root of all evil," selfishness. as the last crumbs of the anchovy toasts disappeared, geoff glanced round him. "i say, vic," he began, "is there any water on the sideboard? those things are awfully salt. but i don't know that i'm exactly thirsty, either. i know what i'd like--a glass of claret, and i don't see why i shouldn't have it, either. at my age it's really too absurd that----" "what are you talking about, geoff?" said elsa's voice in the doorway. "mamma wants you to come up to the drawing-room for a little. what is it that is too absurd at your age?" "nothing in particular--or rather everything," said geoff, with a slight tone of defiance. there was something in elsa's rather too superior, too elder-sisterly way of speaking that, as he would have expressed it, "set him up." "i was saying to vic that i'd like a glass of claret, and that i don't see why i shouldn't have it, either. other fellows would help themselves to it. i often think i'm a great donkey for my pains." elsa looked at him with a strange mixture of sadness and contempt. "what will he be saying next, i wonder?" her glance seemed to say. but the words were not expressed. "come upstairs," she said. "vicky has told you, i know, that you must be _particularly_ careful not to tease mamma to-night." geoff returned her look with an almost fierce expression in the eyes that could be so soft and gentle. "i wish you'd mind your own business, and leave mother and me to ourselves. it's your meddling puts everything wrong," he muttered. but he followed his elder sister upstairs quietly enough. down in the bottom of his heart was hidden great faith in elsa. he would, had occasion demanded it, have given his life, fearlessly, cheerfully, for her or his mother, or the others. but the smaller sacrifices, of his likes and dislikes, of his silly boyish temper and humours--of "self," in short, he could not or would not make. still, something in elsa's words and manner this evening impressed him in spite of himself. he followed her into the drawing-room, fully _meaning_ to be good and considerate. [illustration] [illustration] chapter ii. "mayn't i speak to you, mamma?" that was the worst of it--the most puzzling part of it, rather, perhaps we should say--with geoffrey. he _meant_ to be good. he would not for worlds have done anything that he distinctly saw to be wrong. he worked well at his lessons, though to an accompaniment of constant grumbling--at home, that is to say; grumbling at school is not encouraged. he was rather a favourite with his companions, for he was a manly and "plucky" boy, entering heartily into the spirit of all their games and amusements, and he was thought well of by the masters for his steadiness and perseverance, though not by any means of naturally studious tastes. the wrong side of him was all reserved for home, and for his own family. yet, only son and fatherless though he was, he had not been "spoilt" in the ordinary sense of the word. mrs. tudor, though gentle, and in some ways timid, was not a weak or silly woman. she had brought up her children on certain broad rules of "must," as to which she was as firm as a rock, and these had succeeded so well with the girls that it was a complete surprise as well as the greatest of sorrows to her when she first began to see signs of trouble with her boy. and gradually her anxiety led her into the fatal mistake of spoiling geoffrey by making him of too much consequence. it came to be recognized in the household that his moods and humours were to be a sort of family barometer, and that all efforts were to be directed towards the avoidance of storms. not that geoff was passionate or violent. had he been so, things would have sooner come to a crisis. he was simply _tiresome_--tiresome to a degree that can scarcely be understood by those who have not experienced such tiresomeness for themselves. and as there is no doubt a grain of the bully somewhere in the nature of every boy--if not of every human being--what this tiresomeness might have grown into had the fates, or something higher than the fates, not interposed, it would be difficult to exaggerate. the cloudy look had not left geoff's face when he came into the drawing-room. but, alas! it was nothing new to see him "looking like that." his mother took no notice of it. "well, geoff?" she said pleasantly. "how have you got on to-day, my boy?" he muttered something indistinctly, which sounded like, "oh, all right;" then catching sight of elsa's reproachful face, he seemed to put some constraint on himself, and, coming forward to his mother, kissed her affectionately. "are you very tired to-night, mamma?" he said. "must i not speak to you?" mrs. tudor _was_ very tired, and she knew by old experience what geoff's "speaking" meant--an hour or more's unmitigated grumbling, and dragging forward of every possible grievance, to have each in turn talked over, and sympathized about, and smoothed down by her patient hand. such talks were not without their effect on the boy; much that his mother said appealed to his good sense and good feeling, though he but seldom gave her the satisfaction of seeing this directly. but they were very wearing to _her_, and it was carrying motherly unselfishness too far to undertake such discussion with geoff, when she was already worn out with unusual anxiety. she smiled, however, brightly enough, in reply to his questions. it cheered her to see that he could consider her even thus much. "of course i can speak to you, geoff. have you anything particular to tell me?" "lots of things," said the boy. he drew forward a chair in which to settle himself comfortably beside his mother, darting an indignant glance at his sisters as he did so. "humbugging me as usual about mamma--anything to keep me away from her," he muttered. but elsa and frances only glanced at each other in despair. "well," said mrs. tudor, resignedly, leaning back in her chair. "mamma," began geoffrey, "there must be something done about my pocket-money. i just can't do with what i've got. i've waited to speak about it till i had talked it over with some of the other fellows. they nearly all have more than i." "boys of your age--surely not?" interposed mrs. tudor. [illustration: "there must be something done about my pocket-money."] "well, _some_ of them are not older than i," allowed geoff. "if you'd give me more, and let me manage things for myself--football boots, and cricket-shoes, and that sort of thing. the girls"--with cutting emphasis--"are always hinting that i ask you for too many things, and _i_ hate to be seeming to be always at you for something. if you'd give me a regular allowance, now, and let me manage for myself." "at your age," repeated his mother, "that surely is very unusual." "i don't see that it matters exactly about age," said geoff, "if one's got sense." "but have you got sense enough, geoff?" said frances, gently. "i'm three years older than you, and i've only just begun to have an allowance for my clothes, and i should have got into a dreadful mess if it hadn't been for elsa helping me." "girls are quite different," said geoff. "they want all sorts of rubbishing ribbons and crinolines and flounces. boys only need regular necessary things." "then you haven't any wants at present, i should think, geoff," said elsa, in her peculiarly clear, rather aggravating tones. "you were completely rigged out when you came back from the country, three weeks ago." geoff glowered at her. "mamma," he said, "will you once for all make elsa and frances understand that when i'm speaking to you they needn't interfere?" mrs. tudor did not directly respond to this request. "will you tell me, geoff," she said, "what has put all this into your head? what things are you in want of?" geoff hesitated. fancied wants, like fancied grievances, have an annoying trick of refusing to answer to the roll-call when distinctly summoned to do so. "there's lots of things," he began. "i _should_ have a pair of proper football boots, instead of just an old common pair with ribs stuck on, you know, like i have. all the fellows have proper ones when they're fifteen or so." "but you are not fifteen." "well, i might wait about the _boots_ till next term. but i do really want a pair of boxing-gloves dreadfully," he went on energetically, as the idea occurred to him; "you know i began boxing this term." "and don't they provide boxing-gloves? how have you managed hitherto?" asked his mother, in surprise. "oh, well, yes--there _are_ gloves; but of course it's much nicer to have them of one's own. it's horrid always to seem just one of the lot that can't afford things of their own." "and if you are _not_ rich--and i dare say nearly all your schoolfellows are richer than you"--said elsa, "is it not much better not to sham that you are?" "sham," repeated geoff, roughly. "mamma, i do think you should speak to elsa.--if you were a boy----" he added, turning to his sister threateningly. "i don't want to sham about anything; but it's very hard to be sent to a school when you can't have everything the same as the others." a look of pain crept over mrs. tudor's tired face. had she done wrong? was it another of her "mistakes"--of which, like all candid people, she felt she had made many in her life--to have sent geoff to a first-class school? "geoff," she said weariedly, "you surely do not realize what you cause me when you speak so. it was almost my principal reason for settling in london seven years ago, that i might be able to send you to one of the best schools. we could have lived more cheaply, and more comfortably, in the country; but you would have had to go to a different class of school." "well, i wish i had, then," said geoff, querulously. "i perfectly hate london; i have always told you so. i shouldn't mind what i did if it was in the country. it isn't that i want to spend money, or that i've extravagant ideas; but it's too hard to be in a false position, as i am at school--not able to have things like the other fellows. you would have made _me_ far happier if you had gone to live in the country and let me go to a country school. i _hate_ london; and just because i want things like other fellows, i'm scolded." mrs. tudor did not speak. she looked sad and terribly tired. "geoff," said elsa, putting great control on herself so as to speak very gently, for she felt as if she could gladly shake him, "you must see that mamma is very tired. do wait to talk to her till she is better able for it. and it is getting late." "do go, geoff," said his mother. "i have listened to what you have said; it is not likely i shall forget it. i will talk to you afterwards." the boy looked rather ashamed. "i haven't meant to vex you," he said, as he stooped to kiss his mother. "i'm sorry you're so tired." there was silence for a moment after he had left the room. "i am afraid there is a mixture of truth in what he says," said mrs. tudor, at last. "it has been one of the many mistakes i have made, and now i suppose i am to be punished for it." elsa made a movement of impatience. "mamma dear!" she exclaimed, "i don't think you would speak that way if you weren't tired. there isn't any truth in what geoff says. i don't mean that he tells stories; but it's just his incessant grumbling. he makes himself believe all sorts of nonsense. he has everything right for a boy of his age to have. i know there are boys whose parents are really rich who have less than he has." "yes, indeed, mamma; elsa is right," said frances. "geoff is insatiable. he picks out the things boys here and there may have as an exception, and wants to have them all. he has a perfect genius for grumbling." "because he is always thinking of himself," said elsa. "mamma, don't think me disrespectful, but would it not be better to avoid saying things which make him think himself of such consequence--like telling him that we came to live in town principally for _his_ sake?" "perhaps so," said her mother. "i am always in hopes of making him ashamed, by showing how much _has_ been done for him." "and he does feel ashamed," said frances, eagerly. "i saw it to-night; he'd have liked to say something more if he hadn't been too proud to own that he had been inventing grievances." "things have been too smooth for him," said elsa; "that's the truth of it. he needs some hardships." "and as things are turning out he's very likely to get them," said mrs. tudor, with a rather wintry smile. "oh, mamma, forgive me! do you know, i had forgotten all about our money troubles," elsa exclaimed. "why don't you tell geoff about them, mamma? it's in a way hardly fair on him; for if he knew, it _might_ make him understand how wrong and selfish he is." "i will tell him soon, but not just yet. i do not want to distract his mind from his lessons, and i wish to be quite sure first. i think i should wait till i hear from your great-uncle." "and that will be--how long? it is how many weeks since mr. norris first wrote that he was uneasy? about seven, i should say," said elsa. "quite that," said her mother. "it is the waiting that is so trying. i can do nothing without great-uncle hoot-toot's advice." that last sentence had been a familiar one to mrs. tudor's children almost ever since they could remember. "great-uncle hoot-toot" had been a sort of autocrat and benefactor in one, to the family. his opinions, his advice had been asked on all matters of importance; his approval had been held out to them as the highest reward, his displeasure as the punishment most to be dreaded. and yet they had never seen him! "i wish he would come home himself," said elsa. "i think geoff would be much the better for a visit from him," she added, with a slight touch of sharpness in her tone. "poor geoff!" said her mother. "i suppose the truth is that very few women know how to manage boys." "i don't see that," said elsie. "on the contrary, a generous-natured boy is often more influenced by a woman's gentleness than by a man's severity. it is just that, that i don't like about geoff. there is a want of generous, chivalrous feeling about him." "no," said frances. "i don't quite agree with you. i think it is there, but somehow not awakened. mamma," she went on, "supposing our great-uncle did come home, would he be dreadfully angry if he found out that we all called him 'hoot-toot'?" "oh no," said her mother, smiling; "he's quite used to it. your father told me he had had the trick nearly all his life of saying 'hoot-toot, hoot-toot!' if ever he was perplexed or disapproving." "what a _very_ funny little boy he must have been!" exclaimed both the girls together. [illustration] [illustration] chapter iii. an unlooked-for arrival. the next few days were trying ones for all the tudor family. the mother was waiting anxiously for further news of the money losses, with which, as her lawyers told her, she was threatened; the sisters were anxious too, though, with the bright hopefulness of their age, the troubles which distressed their mother fell much more lightly on them: _they_ were anxious because they saw _her_ suffering. vicky had some misty idea that something was wrong, but she knew very little, and had been forbidden to say anything to geoff about the little she did know. so that of the whole household geoff was the only one who knew nothing, and went on living in his fool's paradise of having all his wants supplied, yet grumbling that he had nothing! he was in a particularly tiresome mood--perhaps, in spite of themselves, it was impossible for his sisters to bear with him as patiently as usual; perhaps the sight of his mother's pale face made him dissatisfied with himself and cross because he would not honestly own that he was doing nothing to help and please her. and the weather was very disagreeable, and among geoff's many "hates" was a very exaggerated dislike to bad weather. about this sort of thing he had grumbled much more since his return from a long visit to some friends in the country the summer before, when the weather had been splendid, and everything done to make him enjoy himself, in consequence of which he had come home with a fixed idea that the country was always bright and charming; that it was only in town that one had to face rain and cold and mud. as to fog, he had perhaps more ground for his belief. "did you ever see such beastly weather?" were his first words to vicky one evening when the good little sister had rushed to the door on hearing geoff's ring, so that his majesty should not be kept waiting an unnecessary moment. "i am perfectly drenched, and as cold as ice. is tea ready, vic?" "quite ready--at least it will be by the time you've changed your things. do run up quick, geoff. it's a bad thing to keep on wet clothes." "mamma should have thought of that before she sent me to a day-school," said geoff. "i've a good mind just _not_ to change my clothes, and take my chance of getting cold. it's perfect slavery--up in the morning before it's light, and not home till pitch dark, and soaked into the bargain." "hadn't you your mackintosh on?" asked vicky. "my mackintosh! it's in rags. i should have had a new one ages ago." "geoff! i'm sure it can't be so bad. you've not had it a year." "a year. no one wears a mackintosh for a year. the buttons are all off, and the button-holes are burst." "i'm sure they can be mended. martha would have done it if you'd asked her," said vic, resolving to see to the unhappy mackintosh herself. "i know poor mamma doesn't want to spend any extra money just now." "there's a great deal too much spent on elsa and frances, and all their furbelows," said geoff, in what he thought a very manly tone. "here, vicky, help me to pull off my boots, and then i must climb up to the top of the house to change my things." vicky knelt down obediently and tugged at the muddy boots, though it was a task she disliked as much as she could dislike anything. she was rewarded by a gruff "thank you," and when geoff came down again in dry clothes, to find the table neatly prepared, and his little sister ready to pour out his tea, he did condescend to say that she was a good child! but even though his toast was hot and crisp, and his egg boiled to perfection, geoff's pleasanter mood did not last long. he had a good many lessons to do that evening, and they were lessons he disliked. vicky sat patiently, doing her best to help him till her bedtime came, and he had barely finished when frances brought a message that he was to come upstairs--mamma said he was not to work any longer. "you have finished, surely, geoff?" she said, when he entered the drawing-room. "if i had finished, i would have come up sooner. you don't suppose i stay down there grinding away to please myself, do you?" replied the boy, rudely. "geoff!" exclaimed his sisters, unwisely, perhaps. he turned upon them. "i've not come to have you preaching at me. mamma, will you speak to them?" he burst out. "i hate this life--nothing but fault-finding as soon as i show my face. i wish i were out of it, i do! i'd rather be the poorest ploughboy in the country than lead this miserable life in this hateful london." [illustration: vicky ... tugged at the muddy boots.] he said the last words loudly, almost shouting them, indeed. to do him justice, it was not often his temper got so completely the better of him. the noise he was making had prevented him and the others from hearing the bell ring--prevented them, too, from hearing, a moment or two later, a short colloquy on the stairs between harvey and a new-comer. "thank you," said the latter; "i don't want you to announce me. i'll do it myself." geoff had left the door open. "yes," he was just repeating, even more loudly than before, "i hate this life, i do. i am grinding at lessons from morning to night, and when i come home this is the way you treat me. i----" but a voice behind him made him start. "hoot-toot, young man," it said. "hoot-toot, hoot-toot! come, i say, this sort of thing will never do. and ladies present! hoot----" but the "toot" was drowned in a scream from mrs. tudor. "uncle, dear uncle, is it you? can it be you yourself? oh, geoff, geoff! he is not often such a foolish boy, uncle, believe me. oh, how--how thankful i am you have come!" she had risen from her seat and rushed forward to greet the stranger, but suddenly she grew strangely pale, and seemed on the point of falling. elsa flew towards her on the one side, and the old gentleman on the other. "poor dear!" he exclaimed. "i have startled her, i'm afraid. hoot-toot, hoot-toot, silly old man that i am. where's that ill-tempered fellow off to?" he went on, glancing round. "can't he fetch a glass of water, or make himself useful in some way?" "i will," said frances, darting forward. geoffrey had disappeared, and small wonder. "i am quite right now, thank you," said mrs. tudor, trying to smile, when elsa had got her on to the sofa. "don't be frightened, elsa dear. nor you, uncle; it was just the--the start. i've had a good deal to make me anxious lately, you know." "i should think i did--those idiots of lawyers!" muttered the old man. "and poor geoff," she went on; "i am afraid i have not paid much attention to him lately, and he's felt it--foolishly, perhaps." "rubbish!" said uncle hoot-toot under his breath. "strikes me he's used to a good deal too much attention," he added as an aside to elsa, with a quick look of inquiry in his bright keen eyes. elsa could hardly help smiling, but for her mother's sake she restrained herself. "it will be all right now you have come home, dear uncle," mrs. tudor went on gently. "how was it? had you started before you got my letters? why did you not let us know?" "i was on the point of writing to announce my departure," said the old gentleman, "when your letter came. it struck me then that i could get home nearly as quickly as a letter, and so i thought it was no use writing." "then you know--you know all about this bad news?" said mrs. tudor falteringly. [illustration: the arrival of great-uncle hoot-toot.] "yes; those fellows wrote to me. _that_ was right enough; but what they meant by worrying you about it, my dear, i can't conceive. it was quite against all my orders. what did poor frank make me your trustee for, if it wasn't to manage these things for you?" "then you think, you hope, there may be something left to manage, do you?" asked mrs. tudor, eagerly. "i have been anticipating the very worst. i did not quite like to put it in words to these poor children"--and she looked up affectionately at the two girls; "but i have really been trying to make up my mind to our being quite ruined." "hoot-toot, hoot-toot!" said her uncle. "no such nonsense, my dear. i shall go to norris's to-morrow morning and have it out with him. ruined! no, no. it'll be all right, you'll see. we'll go into it all, and you have nothing to do but leave things to me. now let us talk of pleasanter matters. what a nice, pretty little house you've got! and what nice, pretty little daughters! good girls, too, or i'm uncommonly mistaken. they're comforts to you, alice, my dear, eh?" "the greatest possible comforts," answered the mother, warmly. "and so is little vic. you haven't seen her yet." "little vic? oh, to be sure--my namesake." for great-uncle hoot-toot's real name, you must know, was mr. victor byrne. "to be sure; must see her to-morrow; vic, to be sure." "and geoffrey," mrs. tudor went on less assuredly. "geoff is doing very well at school. you will have a good report of him from his masters. he is a steady worker, and----" "but how about the _home_ report of him, eh?" said mr. byrne, drily. "there's two sides to most things, and i've rather a weakness for seeing both. never mind about that just now. i never take up impressions hastily. don't be afraid. i'll see master geoff for myself. let's talk of other things. what do these young ladies busy themselves about? are they good housekeepers, eh?" mrs. tudor smiled. "can you make a pudding and a shirt, elsa and frances?" she asked. "tell your uncle your capabilities." "i could manage the pudding," said elsa. "i think the days for home-made shirts are over." "hoot-toot, toot-toot!" said mr. byrne; "new-fangled notions, eh?" "no, indeed, great-uncle hoot----" began frances, eagerly. then blushing furiously, she stopped short. the old gentleman burst out laughing. "never mind, my dear; i'm used to it. it's what they always called me--all my nephews and nieces." "have you a great many nephews and nieces besides us?" asked elsa. mr. byrne laughed again. "that depends upon myself," he said. "i make them, you see. i have had any quantity in my day, but they're scattered far and wide. and--there are a great many blanks, alice, my dear, since i was last at home," he added, turning to mrs. tudor. "i don't know that any of them was ever quite such a pet of mine as this little mother of yours, my dears." "oh!" said elsa, looking rather disappointed; "you are not our real uncle, then? i always thought you were." [illustration: my blackamoor.] "well, think so still," said mr. byrne. "at any rate, you must treat me so, and then i shall be quite content. but i must be going. i shall see you to-morrow after i've had it out with that donkey norris. what a stupid idiot he is, to be sure!" and for a moment great-uncle hoot-toot looked quite fierce. "and then i must see little vic. what time shall i come to-morrow, alice?" "whenever you like, uncle," she said. "will you not come and stay here altogether?" "no, thank you, my dear. i've got my own ways, you see. i'm a fussy old fellow. and i've got my servant--my blackamoor. he'd frighten all the neighbours. and you'd fuss yourself, thinking i wasn't comfortable. i'll come up to-morrow afternoon and stay on to dinner, if you like. and just leave the boy to me a bit. good night, all of you; good night." and in another moment the little old gentleman was gone. the two girls and their mother sat staring at each other when he had disappeared. "isn't it like a dream? can you believe he has really come, mamma?" said elsa. "hardly," replied her mother. "but i am very thankful. if only geoff will not vex him." elsa and frances said nothing. they had their own thoughts about their brother, but they felt it best not to express them. [illustration] [illustration] chapter iv. foolish geoff. "is he like what you expected, elsa?" asked frances, when they were in their own room. "who? great-uncle hoot-toot? i'm sure i don't know. i don't think i ever thought about what he'd be like." "oh, i _had_ an idea," said frances. "quite different, of course, from what he really is. i had fancied he'd be tall and stooping, and with a big nose and very queer eyes. i think i must have mixed him up with the old godfather in the 'nutcracker of nuremberg,' without knowing it." "well, he's not so bad as that, anyway," said elsa. "he looks rather shrivelled and dried up; but he's so very neat and refined-looking. did you notice what small brown hands he has, and such _very_ bright eyes? isn't it funny that he's only an adopted uncle, after all?" "i think mamma had really forgotten he wasn't our real uncle," said frances. "elsa, i am very glad he has come. i think poor mamma has been far more unhappy than she let us know. she does look so ill." "it's half of it geoff," said elsa, indignantly. "and now he must needs spoil great-uncle hoot-toot's arrival by his tempers. perhaps it's just as well, however. 'by the pricking of my thumbs,' i fancy geoff has met his master." "elsa, you frighten me a little," said frances. "you don't think he'll be very severe with poor geoff?" "i don't think he'll be more severe than is for geoff's good," replied elsa. "i must confess, though, i shouldn't like to face great-uncle hoot-toot if i felt i had been behaving badly. how his eyes can gleam!" "and how he seemed to flash in upon us all of a sudden, and to disappear almost as quickly! i'm afraid there's something a little bit uncanny about him," said frances, who was very imaginative. "but if he helps to put all the money troubles right, he will certainly be like a good fairy to us." "yes; and if he takes geoff in hand," added elsa. "but, frances, we must go to bed. i want to make everything very nice to-morrow; i'm going to think about what to have for dinner while i go to sleep." for elsa was housekeeper--a very zealous and rather anxious-minded young housekeeper. her dreams were often haunted by visions of bakers' books and fishmongers' bills; to-night curry and pilau chased each other through her brain, and frances was aroused from her first sweet slumbers to be asked if she would remember to look first thing to-morrow morning if there was a bottle of chutney in the store-closet. [illustration: elsa was housekeeper.] at breakfast geoff came in, looking glum and slightly defiant. but he said nothing except "good morning." he started, however, a little, when he saw his mother. "mamma," he said, "are you not well? you look so very pale." the girls glanced up at this. it was true. they had not observed it in the excitement of discussing the new arrival, and the satisfaction of knowing it had brought relief to mrs. tudor's most pressing anxieties. "yes, mamma dear. it is true. you do look very pale. now, you must not do anything to tire yourself all day. we will manage everything, so that great-uncle hoot-toot shall see we are not silly useless girls," said elsa. geoffrey's lips opened as if he were about to speak, but he closed them again. he was still on his high horse. "geoff," said his mother, as he was leaving, "you will dine with us this evening. try to get your lessons done quickly. uncle will wish to see something of you." he muttered an indistinct "very well, mamma," as he shut the door. "humph!" he said to himself, "i suppose elsa will want to make him think i'm properly treated. but _i_ shall tell him the truth--any _man_ will understand how impossible it is for me to stand it any longer. i don't mind if he did hear me shouting last night. there's a limit to endurance. but i wish mamma didn't look so pale. of course they'll make out it's all _my_ fault." and feeling himself and his grievances of even more consequence than usual, master geoff stalked off. great-uncle hoot-toot made his appearance in the afternoon rather earlier than he was expected. he found mrs. tudor alone in the drawing-room, and had a talk with her by themselves, and then vicky was sent for, to make his acquaintance. the little girl came into the drawing-room looking very much on her good behaviour indeed--so much so that elsa and frances, who were with her, could scarcely help laughing. "how do you do, my dear?" said her great-uncle, looking at her with his bright eyes. "quite well, thank you," replied the little girl. "hoot-toot!" said the old gentleman; "and is that all you've got to say to me?--a poor old fellow like me, who have come all the way from india to see you." vicky looked up doubtfully, her blue eyes wandered all over great-uncle hoot-toot's queer brown face and trim little figure. a red flush spread slowly upwards from her cheeks to the roots of her fair hair, and by the peculiar droop in the corners of her mouth, elsa, who was nearest her, saw that tears were not far off. "what is it, vicky dear?" she whispered. "what _will_ he think of the children? geoff in a temper, and vicky crying for nothing!" she said to herself. "you are not frightened?" she added aloud. "no," said vicky, trying to recover herself. "it's only about geoff. i want to ask--_him_--not to be angry with geoff." "and why should i be angry with geoff?" said the old gentleman, his eyes twinkling. "has he been saying so to you?" "oh no!" the little girl eagerly replied. "geoff didn't say anything. it was harvey and martha. they said they hoped he'd find his master now _you'd_ come, and that it was time he had some of his nonsense whipped out of him. you won't whip him, will you? oh, please, please say you won't!" and she clasped her hands beseechingly. "geoff isn't naughty _really_. he doesn't mean to be naughty." the tears were very near now. "hoot-toot, hoot-toot!" said mr. byrne. "come, come, my little vic; i don't like this at all. so they've been making me out an ogre. that's too bad. me whip geoff! why, i think he could better whip me--a strong, sturdy fellow like that. no, no, i don't want to whip him, i assure you. but i'm glad to see geoff's got such a good little sister, and that she's so fond of him. he's not a bad brother to you, i hope? you couldn't be so fond of him if he were." "oh no; geoff's not naughty to me, scarcely _never_," said vicky, eagerly. "i'm sure he never wants to be naughty. it's just that he's got some bad habits, of teasing and grumbling, and he can't get out of them," she went on, with a little air of wisdom that was very funny. "exactly," said uncle hoot-toot, nodding his head. "well, don't you think it would be a very good thing if we could help him to get out of them?" vicky looked up doubtfully again. "if i think of some plan--something that may really do him good, you'll trust your poor old uncle, won't you, my little vic?" she gave him a long steady stare. "yes," she said at last. then with a sigh, "i would like geoff to get out of his tiresome ways." and from this time great-uncle hoot-toot and vicky were fast friends. then he asked elsa and frances to go out a little walk with him. "is your mother always as pale as i have seen her?" he said abruptly, almost as soon as they were alone. elsa hesitated. "no," she said at last. "i'm afraid she is not at all well. geoff noticed it this morning." "oh, indeed! then he does notice things sometimes?" said mr. byrne, drily. "he's very fond of mamma," put in frances. "he takes a queer way to show it, it strikes me," remarked her uncle. "it's--it's all his temper, i'm afraid," frances allowed reluctantly. "it is that he's spoilt," said elsa. "he's perhaps not spoilt in one way, but in another he is. he has never known any hardships or been forced into any self-denial. great-uncle," she went on earnestly, "if it's true that we have lost or are going to lose nearly all our money, won't it perhaps be a good thing for geoff?" "who says you're going to lose your money?" "i don't know exactly why i feel sure it's not coming right. i know you said so to mamma--at least you tried to make her happier; but i can't understand it. if that mr. norris wrote so strongly, there must be something wrong." mr. byrne moved and looked at her sharply. "you don't speak that way to your mother, i hope?" "of course not," said elsa; "i'm only too glad for her to feel happier about it. i was only speaking of what i thought myself." "well--well--as long as your mother's mind is easier it doesn't matter. i cannot explain things fully to you at present, but you seem to be sensible girls, and girls to be trusted. i may just tell you this much--all this trouble is nothing new; i had seen it coming for years. the only thing i had not anticipated was that those fools of lawyers should have told your mother about the crash when it did come. there was no need for her to know anything about it. i'm her trustee----" "but not legally," interrupted elsa. "mamma explained to us that you couldn't be held responsible, as it was only like a friend that you had helped her all these years." "hoot-toot, toot-toot!" he replied testily; "what difference does that make? but never mind. i will explain all about it to you both--before long. just now the question is your mother. i think you will agree with me when i say that it is plain to me that master geoff should leave home?" "i'm afraid mamma will be very much against it," said elsa. "you see, geoff is a good boy in big things, and mamma thinks it is owing to her having kept home influence over him. he's truthful and conscientious--he is, indeed, and you must see i'm not inclined to take his part." "but he's selfish, and bullying, and ungrateful. not pretty qualities, my dear, or likely to make a good foundation for a man's after-life. i'm not going to send him to a grand boarding-school, however--that i promise you, for i think it would be the ruin of him. whatever i may do to save your mother, i don't see but that master geoff should face his true position." "and we too, great-uncle," said frances, eagerly. "elsa and i are quite ready to work; we've thought of several plans already." "i quite believe you, my dear," said mr. byrne, approvingly. "you shall tell me your plans some time soon, and i will tell you mine. no fear but that you shall have work to do." "and----" began elsa, but then she hesitated. "i was going to ask you not to decide anything about geoff till you have seen more of him. if frances and i could earn enough to keep him at school as he is, so that mamma could have the comf---no, i'm afraid i can't honestly say that having geoff at home would be any comfort to her--less than ever if frances and i were away. great-uncle, don't you think geoff should have some idea of all this?" "certainly. but i cannot risk his teasing your mother. we will wait a few days. i should like to see poor alice looking better; and i shall judge of geoff for myself, my dears." they were just at home again by this time. vicky met them at the door. she was in great excitement about mr. byrne's indian servant, who had come with his master's evening clothes. "i was watching for geoff, to tell him!" she exclaimed. "but my tea's ready; i must go." and off she ran. "good little girl," said great-uncle hoot-toot, nodding his head approvingly. "no grumbling from _her_, eh?" "no, never," said elsa, warmly. "she's having her tea alone to-day. geoff's coming in to dinner in your honour." "humph!" said the old gentleman. [illustration] [illustration: geoff's interview with great-uncle hoot-toot.] [illustration] chapter v. a crisis. mrs. tudor and the two girls had gone upstairs to the drawing-room. geoff glanced dubiously at great-uncle hoot-toot. "shall i--shall i stay with you, sir?" he asked. geoff was on his good behaviour. the old gentleman glanced at him. "certainly, my boy, if you've nothing better to do," he said. "no lessons--eh?" "no, sir," geoff replied. "i've got all done, except a little i can do in the morning." "they work you pretty hard, eh?" "yes, they do. there's not much fun for a fellow who's at school in london. it's pretty much the same story--grind, grind, from one week's end to another." "hoot-toot! that sounds melancholy," said mr. byrne. "no holidays, eh?" "oh, of course, i've some holidays," said geoff. "but, you see, when a fellow has only got a mother and sisters----" "_only_," repeated the old gentleman; but geoff detected no sarcasm in his tone. "and mother's afraid of my skating, or boating on the river, or----" "doesn't she let you go in for the school games?" interrupted mr. byrne again. "oh yes; it would be too silly not to do _that_. i told her at the beginning--i mean, she understood--it wouldn't do. but there's lots of things i'd like to do, if mother wasn't afraid. i should like to ride, or at least to have a tricycle. it's about the only thing to make life bearable in this horrible place. such weather! i do hate london!" "indeed!" said mr. byrne. "it's a pity your mother didn't consult you before settling here." "she did it for the best, i suppose," said geoff. "she didn't want to part with me, you see. but i'd rather have been at a boarding-school in the country; i do so detest london. and then it's not pleasant to be too poor to have things one should have at a public school." "what may those be?" inquired the old gentleman. "oh, heaps of things. pocket-money, for one thing. i was telling mother about it. i really should have more, if i'm to stay properly at school. there's dick colethorne, where i was staying last holidays--cousins of ours; he has six times what i have, and he's only two years older." "and--is his mother a widow, and in somewhat restricted circumstances?" asked mr. byrne. "oh no," replied geoff, unwarily. "his father's a very rich man; and dick is the only child." "all the same, begging mr. colethorne's pardon, if he were twenty times as rich as croesus, i think he's making a tremendous mistake in giving his boy a great deal of pocket-money," said mr. byrne. "well, of course, i shouldn't want as much as he has," said geoff; "but still----" "geoffrey, my boy," said the old gentleman, rising as he spoke, "it strikes me you're getting on a wrong tack. but we'll have some more talk about all this. i don't want to keep your mother waiting, as i promised to talk some more to _her_ this evening. so we'll go upstairs. some day, perhaps, i'll tell you some of the experiences of _my_ boyhood. i'm glad, by-the-by, to see that you don't take wine." "no-o," said geoff. "that's one of the things mother is rather fussy about. i'd like to talk about it with you, sir; i don't see but that at my age i might now and then take a glass of sherry--or of claret, even. it looks so foolish never to touch any. it's not that i _care_ about it, you know." "at your age?" repeated mr. byrne, slowly. "well, geoff--do you know, i don't quite agree with you. nor do i see the fun of taking a thing you 'don't care about,' just for the sake of looking as if those who had the care of you didn't know what they were about." they were half-way upstairs by this time. geoff's face did not wear its pleasantest expression as they entered the drawing-room. "he's a horrid old curmudgeon," he whispered to vicky; "i believe elsa's been setting him against me." vicky looked at him with reproachful eyes. "oh, geoff," she said, "i do think he's so nice." "you do, do you?" said he. "well, i don't. i'll tell you what, vicky; i've a great mind to run away. i do so hate this life. i work ever so much harder than most of the fellows, and i never get any thanks for it; and everything i want is grudged me. my umbrella's all in rags, and i'm ashamed to take it out; and if i was to ask mamma for a new one, they'd all be down on me again, you'd see." "but you haven't had it long, geoff," said vic. "i've had it nearly a year. you're getting as bad as the rest, vicky," he said querulously. he had forgotten that he was not alone in the room with his little sister, and had raised his tone, as he was too much in the habit of doing. "hoot-toot, hoot-toot!" said a now well-known voice from the other side of the room; "what's all that about over there? you and victoria can't be quarrelling, surely?" mrs. tudor looked up anxiously. "oh no," said vicky, eagerly; "we were only talking." "and about what, pray?" persisted mr. byrne. vicky hesitated. she did not want to vex geoff, but she was unused to any but straightforward replies. "about geoff's umbrella," she said, growing very red. "about geoff's umbrella?" repeated the old gentleman. "what could there be so interesting and exciting to say about geoff's umbrella?" "only that i haven't got one--at least, mine's in rags; and if i say i need a new one, they'll all be down upon me for extravagance," said geoff, as sulkily as he dared. "my dear boy, don't talk in that dreadfully aggrieved tone," said his mother, trying to speak lightly. "you know i have never refused you anything you really require." geoffrey did not reply, at least not audibly. but elsa's quick ears and some other ears besides hers--for it is a curious fact that old people, when they are not deaf, are often peculiarly the reverse--caught his muttered whisper. "of course. always the way if _i_ want anything." mr. byrne did not stay late. he saw that mrs. tudor looked tired and depressed, and he did not wish to be alone with her to talk about geoff, as she probably would have done, for he could not have spoken of the boy as she would have wished to hear. a few days passed. great-uncle hoot-toot spent a part of each with the tudor family, quietly making his observations. geoff certainly did not show to advantage; and though his mother wore herself out with talking to him and trying to bring him to a more reasonable frame of mind, it was of no use. so at last she took elsa's advice and left the discontented, tiresome boy to himself, for perhaps the first time in his life. and every evening, when alone with victoria, the selfish boy entertained his poor little sister with his projects of running away from a home where he was so little appreciated. but a change came, and that in a way which geoffrey little expected. one evening when mr. byrne said "good night," it struck him that his niece looked particularly tired. "make your mother go to bed at once, elsa," he said, "i don't like her looks. if she's not better to-morrow, i must have a doctor to see her. and," he added in a lower tone still, "don't let geoffrey go near her to-morrow morning. has he bothered her much lately?" "mamma has left him alone. it was much the best thing to do," elsa replied. "but all the same, i can see that it is making her very unhappy." "time something should be done; that's growing very plain," said mr. byrne. "try and keep her quiet in the mean time, my dear. i have nearly made up my mind, and i'll tell you all about it to-morrow." elsa felt rather frightened. "great-uncle," she said, "i don't want to make silly excuses for geoff, but it is true that he has never been quite so ill-natured and worrying as lately." "or perhaps you have never seen it so plainly," said the old gentleman. "but you needn't think i require to be softened to him, my dear; i am only thinking of his good. he's not a bad lad at bottom; there's good stuff in him. but he's ruining himself, and half killing your mother. life's been too easy to him, as you've said yourself. he needs bringing to his senses." geoff slept soundly; moreover, his room was at the top of the house. he did not hear any disturbance that night--the opening and shutting of doors, the anxious whispering voices, the sound of wheels driving rapidly up to the door. he knew nothing of it all. for, alas! his tiresome, fidgety temper had caused him to be looked upon as no better than a sort of naughty child in the house--of no use or assistance, concerning whom every one's first thought in any trouble was, "we must manage to get geoff out of the way, or to keep him quiet." when he awoke it was still dark. but there was a light in his room--some one had come in with a candle. it was elsa. he rubbed his eyes and looked at her with a strange unreal feeling, as if he were still dreaming. and when he saw her face, the unreal feeling did not go away. she seemed so unlike herself, in her long white dressing-gown, the light of the candle she was holding making her look so pale, and her eyes so strained and anxious--_was_ it the candle, or was she really so very pale? "elsa," he said sleepily, "what are you doing? what is the matter? isn't it dreadfully late--or--or early for you to be up?" he went on confusedly. "it's the morning," said elsa, "but we haven't been in bed all night--frances and i. at least, we had only been in bed half an hour or so, when we were called up." "what was it?" asked geoff, sleepily still. "was the house on fire?" "oh, geoff, don't be silly!" said elsa; "it's--it's much worse. mamma has been so ill--she is still." geoff started up now. "do you want me to go for the doctor?" he said. "the doctor has been twice already, and he's coming back at nine o'clock," she answered sadly. "he thought her a tiny bit better when he came the last time. but she's very ill--she must be kept most _exceedingly_ quiet, and----" "i'll get up now at once," said geoff; "i won't be five minutes, elsa. tell mamma i'd have got up before if i'd known." "but, geoff," said elsa, firmly, though reluctantly, "it's no use your hurrying up for that. you can't see her--you can't possibly see her before you go to school, anyway. the doctor says she is to be kept _perfectly_ quiet, and not worried in any way." "i wouldn't worry her, not when she's ill," said geoff, hastily. [illustration: it was elsa.] "you couldn't help it," said elsa. "she--she was very worried about you last night, and she kept talking about your umbrella in a confused sort of way now and then all night. we quieted her at last by telling her we had given you one to go to school with. but if she saw you, even for an instant, she would begin again. the doctor said you were not to go into her room." a choking feeling had come into geoff's throat when elsa spoke about the umbrella; a very little more and he would have burst into tears of remorse. but as she went on, pride and irritation got the better of him. he was too completely unused to think of or for any one before himself, to be able to do so all of a sudden, and it was a sort of relief to burst out at his sister in the old way. "i think you're forgetting yourself, elsa. is mamma not as much to _me_ as to you girls? do you think i haven't the sense to know how to behave when any one's ill? i tell you i just will and shall go to see her, whatever you say;" and he began dragging on his socks as if he were going to rush down to his mother's room that very moment. elsa grew still paler than she had been before. "geoff," she said, "you must listen to me. it was for that i came up to tell you. you must _not_ come into mother's room. i'd do anything to prevent it, but i can't believe that you'll force me to quarrel with you this morning when--when we are all so unhappy. i don't want to make you more unhappy, but i can't help speaking plainly to you. you _have_ worried mamma terribly lately, geoff, and now you must bear the punishment. it's--it's as much as her life is worth for you to go into her room and speak to her this morning. i cannot allow it." "_you_ allow it!" burst out geoff. "are you the head of the house?" "yes," said elsa, "when mamma is ill, i consider that i am. and what's more, geoff, i have telegraphed to great-uncle hoot-toot. he made me promise to do so if mamma were ill. i expect him directly. it is past seven. geoff, you had better dress and take your breakfast as usual. i will come down and tell you how mamma is the last thing before you go." "i _will_ see mamma before i go to school," he replied sharply. "i give you fair warning." "geoff," said elsa, "you shall not." and with these words she left the room. [illustration] [illustration] chapter vi. geoff "won't stand it." geoff hurried on with his dressing. he was wretchedly unhappy--all the more so because he was furiously angry with elsa, and perhaps, at the bottom of his heart, with himself. his room was, as i have said, at the top of the house. he did not hear the front-door bell ring while he was splashing in his bath; and as he rushed downstairs a quarter of an hour or so after elsa had left him, he was considerably taken aback to be met at the foot of the first flight by the now familiar figure of mr. byrne. "geoffrey," he said quietly, "your sisters have gone to lie down and try to sleep for a little. they have been up all night, and they are likely to want all their strength. go down to the school-room and get your breakfast. when you have finished, i will come to talk to you a little before you go to school." geoff glanced up. there was something in great-uncle hoot-toot's face which made him feel there was no use in blustering or resisting. "very well," he said, putting as little expression in his voice as he could; and as mr. byrne turned away, the boy made his way down to the school-room. it looked dreary and strange this morning. it was earlier than usual, and perhaps the room had been less carefully done, for mrs. tudor's illness had upset the whole household. the fire was only just lighted; the preparations for geoff's breakfast were only half ready. it was a very chilly day; and as the boy sat down by the table, leaning his head on his hands, he shivered both with cold and unhappiness. "they all hate me," he said to himself. "i've known it for a long time, but i've never been so sure of it before. it is much the best for me to go away. mamma _has_ cared for me; but they're making her leave off, and they'll set her entirely against me. she'll be far better and happier without me; and when she gets well--i dare say they have exaggerated her illness--they will have the pleasure of saying it's because i'm gone. there's only vic who'll really care. but she won't mind so very much, either. i'll write to her now and then. i must think how best to do about going away. i hate the sea; there's no use thinking of that. i don't mind what i do, if it's in the country. i might go down to some farmhouse--one of those jolly farms where dick and i used to get a glass of milk last summer. i wouldn't mind a bit, working on one of those farms. it would be much jollier than grinding away at school. and i am sure dick and i did as much work as any haymakers last summer." he had worked himself up into positively looking forward to the idea of leaving home. vague ideas of how his mother and sisters would learn too late how little they had appreciated him; visions of magnanimously forgiving them all some day when he should have, in some mysterious way, become a landed proprietor, riding about his fields, and of inviting them all down into the country to visit him, floated before his brain. he ate his breakfast with a very good appetite; and when mr. byrne entered the room, he was surprised to see no look of sulkiness on the boy's face; though, on the other hand, there were no signs of concern or distress. "is he really _heartless_?" thought the old man, with a pang of disappointment. "am i mistaken in thinking the good material is there?" "i want to talk to you, geoff," he said. "you are early this morning. you need not start for twenty minutes or more." "am i to understand you intend to prevent me seeing my mother, sir?" said geoff, in a peculiar tone. mr. byrne looked at him rather sadly. "it is not _i_ preventing it," he said. "the doctor has left his orders." "i understand," said geoff, bitterly. "well, it does not much matter. mother and the others are not likely to see much more of me." the old gentleman looked at him sharply. "are you thinking of running away?" he said. "not running away," said geoffrey. "i'm not going to do it in any secret sort of way; but i've made up my mind to go. and now that mother has thrown me over too, i don't suppose any one will care." "you've not been going the way to make any one care, it strikes me," said mr. byrne. "but i have something to say to you, geoff. one thing which has helped to make your poor mother ill has been anxiety about money matters. i had not wished her to know of it; but it was told her by mistake. i myself have known for some time that things were going wrong. but now the worst has come----" "what is the worst?" asked geoffrey. "have we lost everything?" "yes," said mr. byrne, "i think that's about it." "i think i should have been told this before," said geoff. "well," said his uncle, "i'm not sure but that i agree with you. but your mother wished to save you as long as she could. and you have not borne small annoyances so well that she could hope for much comfort from you in a great trouble." [illustration: "i have something to say to you, geoff."] geoff said nothing. "i shall take care of your mother and sisters," mr. byrne went on. "i am not even to be allowed to work for my mother, then?" said geoffrey. "at your age it will be as much as you can do to work for yourself," said the old man. "and as yet, you cannot even do that directly. you must go on with your education. i have found a school in the country where you will be well taught, and where you will not be annoyed by not being able to have all that your companions have, as you have so complained about." "and who is to pay for my schooling?" asked the boy. "i," replied mr. byrne. "thank you," said geoffrey. his tone was not exactly disrespectful, but it was certainly not grateful. "i know i should thank you, but i don't want you to pay schooling or anything else for me. i shall manage for myself. it is much best for me to go away altogether. even--even if this about our money hadn't happened, i was already making up my mind to it." mr. byrne looked at him. "legally speaking, your mother could stop your leaving her," he said. "she is not likely to do so," replied the boy, "if she is so ill that she cannot even see me." "perhaps not," said the old gentleman. "i will send my servant to you at mid-day, to say how your mother is." "thank you," said geoffrey again. then mr. byrne left the room, and geoff went off to school. he was in a strange state of mind. he hardly took in what he had been told of the state of his mother's money matters. he hardly indeed believed it, so possessed was he by the idea that there was a sort of plot to get rid of him. "it isn't mother herself," he reflected. "it's all elsa and frances, and that horrid old hoot-toot. but as for going to any school _he'd_ send me to--no, thank you." he was standing about at noon with some of his companions, when the coloured servant appeared. "please, sir," he said, "i was to tell you that the lady is better--doctor say so;" and with a kind of salaam he waited to see what the young gentleman would reply. "all right," said geoff, curtly; and the man turned to go. geoff did not see that at the gates he stood still a moment speaking to another man, who appeared to have been waiting for him. "that young gentleman with the dark hair. you see plain when i speak to him," he said in his rather broken english. the other man nodded his head. "i shall know him again, no fear. tell your master it's all right," he said. geoff had to stand some chaff from his friends on the subject of the "darkey," of course. at another time he would rather have enjoyed it than otherwise; but to-day he was unable to take part in any fun. "what a surly humour tudor's in!" said one of the boys to another. geoff overheard it, and glared at him. "i shan't be missed here either, it seems," he said to himself. he did not notice that evening, when he went home, that a respectable unobtrusive-looking man, with the air of a servant out of livery, or something of that kind, followed him all the way, only turning back when he had seen the boy safe within his own door. and there, just within, faithful vicky was awaiting him. "i've been watching for you such a time, geoff dear," she said. "mamma's better. _aren't_ you glad? the doctor's been again, just about an hour ago, and he told me so as he went out." "have you seen her?" said geoff, abruptly. vicky hesitated. she knew her answer would vex geoff, and yet she could not say what was not true. [illustration: he stood still a moment speaking to another man.] "i've only _just_ seen her," she said. "elsa just took me in for a moment. she has to be kept very, very quiet, geoff. she'll have to be very quiet for a long time." "you may as well speak plainly," said her brother. "i know what that means--i'm not to be allowed to see her for 'a very, very long time.' oh yes, i quite understand." he was in his heart thankful to know that his mother was better, but the relief only showed itself in additional ill-temper and indignation. "geoffrey dear, don't speak like that," said vicky. "i wish i hadn't gone in to see mamma if you couldn't, but i didn't like to say so to elsa. i know you didn't _mean_ ever to vex mamma, and i'm sure you'll never do it again, when she gets better, will you? would you like me just to run and tell elsa and great-uncle hoot-toot how _dreadfully_ you'd like to see her just for a minute? if you just peeped in, you know, and said 'good night, mamma; i am so awfully glad you're better!' that would be better than nothing. shall i, geoff?" "no," he replied gruffly. "i want to ask nothing. and i'm not sure that i _do_ want dreadfully to see her. caring can't be all on one side." vicky's eyes were full of tears by this time. "oh, geoff!" was all she could say. "mamma not care for you!" her distress softened him a little. "don't _you_ cry about it, vic," he said. "i do believe _you_ care for me, anyway. you always will, won't you, vicky?" "of course i shall," she sobbed, while some tears dropped into geoff's teacup. they were in the school-room by this time, and vicky was at her usual post. "and some day," pursued geoff, condescendingly, "perhaps we'll have a little house of our own, vicky, in the country, you know; we'll have cocks and hens of our own, and always fresh eggs, of course, and strawberries, and----" "cream," suggested vicky, her eyes gleaming with delight at the tempting prospect; "strawberries are nothing without cream." "of course," geoff went on. "i was going to say cream, when you interrupted me. we'd have a cream-cow, vicky." "a cream-cow," vicky repeated. "what's that?" "oh, i don't know exactly. but one often reads of a milk-cow, so i supposed there must be some cows that are all for cream, if some are for milk. i'll find out all about it when----" but he stopped short. "never mind, vicky. when i have a little farm of my own, in the country, i promise you i'll send for you to come and live with me." "but you'll invite mamma and elsa, and francie too, geoff; i wouldn't care to come without them," objected vicky. "mamma; oh yes, if she likes to come. perhaps elsa and frances will be married, and have houses of their own by then. i'm sure i hope so." he had talked himself and vicky into quite good spirits by this time. he was almost forgetting about his plan of running away. but it was soon recalled to him. elsa put her head in at the door. "vicky," she said, "you may come up to see mamma for a few minutes. come now, quick, before geoff comes home, or else he will begin about it again, and he just _must_ not see her for some days. mamma sees that he must not." geoff's face grew dark. "elsa," vicky called out appealingly. but elsa had already disappeared. and then geoffrey _quite_ made up his mind. [illustration] [illustration] chapter vii. a fortunate chance. he was a sensible, practical enough boy in some ways. he thought it all well over that night, and made what preparations he could. he packed up the clothes he thought the most necessary and useful in an old carpet-bag he found in the box-room, and then he looked over his drawers and cupboards to see that all was left in order, and he put together some things to be sent to him in case he found it well to write for them. then he looked at his purse. he had, carefully stowed away, thirty shillings in gold, and of his regular pocket-money a two-shilling piece, a shilling, a threepenny bit, and some coppers. it was enough to take him some hours' distance out of london, where he would be quite as likely to find what he wanted, employment at some farmhouse, as farther away. he did not sleep much that night. he was so anxious to be off early that he kept waking up every hour or two. at last, after striking a match to see what o'clock it was for perhaps the twentieth time, his watch told him it was past six. he got up and dressed, then he shouldered his bag, and made his way as quickly as he could downstairs. he could not resist lingering a moment outside his mother's door; it was slightly ajar, and there was a faint light within. elsa's voice came to him as he stood there. "i am _so_ glad you are better this morning, dear mamma," she was saying. "i hoped you would be when i went to bed, at three o'clock. you were sleeping so peacefully. i am sure you will be quite well again soon, if we can manage to keep you quiet, and if you won't worry yourself. everything is quite right." geoff's face hardened again. "i know what all that means," he thought. "yes, indeed, everything is so right that i, _i_, have to run away like a thief, because i am too miserable to bear it any more." and he lingered no longer. he made his way out of the house without difficulty. it was getting light after a fashion by this time, though it was quite half an hour earlier than he usually started for school. he felt chilly--chillier than he had ever felt before, though it was not a very cold morning. but going out breakfastless does not tend to make one feel warm, and of this sort of thing geoff had but scant experience. his bag, too, felt very heavy; he glanced up and down the street with a vague idea that perhaps he would catch sight of some boy who, for a penny or two, would carry it for him to the omnibus; but there was no boy in sight. no one at all, indeed, except a young man, who crossed the street from the opposite side while geoff was looking about him, and walked on slowly a little in front. he was a very respectable-looking young man, far too much so to ask him to carry the bag, yet as geoff overtook him--for, heavy though it was, the boy felt he must walk quickly to get off as fast as possible--the young man glanced up with a good-natured smile. "excuse me, sir," he said civilly, "your bag's a bit heavy for you. let me take hold of it with you, if we're going the same way." geoffrey looked at him doubtfully. he was too much of a londoner to make friends hastily. "thank you," he said. "i can manage it. i'm only going to the corner to wait for the omnibus." "just precisely what i'm going to do myself," said the other. "i'm quite a stranger hereabouts. i've been staying a day or two with a friend of mine who keeps a livery stable, and i'm off for the day to shalecray, to see another friend. can you tell me, sir, maybe, if the omnibus that passes near here takes one to the railway station?" "which railway station?" said geoff, more than half inclined to laugh at the stranger's evident countrifiedness. "victoria station, to be sure. it's the one i come by. isn't it the big station for all parts?" "bless you! no," said geoff. "there are six or seven as big as it in london. what line is this place on?" "that's more nor i can say," said the stranger, looking as if he would have scratched his head to help him out of his perplexity if he had had a hand free. but he had not, for he had caught up the bag, and was walking along beside geoff, and under his arm he carried a very substantial alpaca umbrella. and in the interest of the conversation geoff had scarcely noticed the way in which the stranger had, as it were, attached himself to him. "ah, well! never mind. i'm going to victoria myself, and when we get there i'll look up your place and find you your train," said geoff, patronizingly. he had kept looking at the stranger, and as he did so, his misgivings disappeared. "he is just a simple country lad," he said to himself. and, indeed, the young man's blue eyes, fresh complexion, and open expression would have reassured any but a _most_ suspicious person. [illustration: walking along beside geoff.] "you're very kind, sir," he replied. "you see, london's a big place, and country folk feels half stupid-like in it." "yes, of course," said geoff. "for my part, i often wonder any one that's free to do as they like cares to live in london. you're a great deal better off in the country." "there's bads and goods everywhere, i take it, sir," said the young man, philosophically. but by this time they had reached the corner where the omnibus started, and geoff's attention was directed to hailing the right one. and an omnibus rattling over london stones is not exactly the place for conversation, so no more passed between them till they were dropped within a stone's throw of victoria station. geoff was beginning to feel very hungry, and almost faint as well as chilly. "i say," he said to his companion, "you're not in any very desperate hurry to get off, are you? for i'm frightfully hungry. you don't mind waiting while i have some breakfast, do you? i'll look you out your train for that place as soon as i've had some." "all right, sir," said the stranger. "if it wouldn't be making too free, i'd be pleased to join you. but i suppose you'll be going into the first-class?" "oh no," said geoff. "i don't mind the second-class." and into the second-class refreshment-room they went. they grew very friendly over hot coffee and a rasher of bacon, and then geoff laid out threepence on a railway guide, and proceeded to hunt up shalecray. "here you are!" he exclaimed. "and upon my word, that's a good joke. this place--shalecray--is on the very line i'm going by. i wonder i never noticed it. i came up that way not long ago, from entlefield." "indeed, sir; that's really curious," said the countryman. "and are you going to entlefield to-day?" "well," said geoff, "i fancy so. i've not quite made up my mind, to tell the truth. i know the country about there. i want to find some--some farmhouse." "oh, exactly--i understand," interrupted the young man. "you want somewhere where they'll put you up tidily for a few days--just for a breath of country air." "well, no; not exactly," said geoffrey. "the fact is, i'm looking out for--for some sort of situation about a farm. i'm very fond of country life. i don't care what i do. i'm not a fine gentleman!" the countryman looked at him with interest. "i see," he said. "you're tired of town, i take it, sir. but what do your friends say to it, sir? at sixteen, or even seventeen, you have still to ask leave, i suppose?" "not always," said geoff. "i've made no secret of it. i've no father, and--i'm pretty much my own master." "'i care for nobody, and nobody cares for me,' eh?" quoted the young man, laughing. "something like it, i suppose," said geoff, laughing too, though rather forcedly. for a vision of vicky, sobbing, perhaps, over her lonely breakfast, would come before him--of elsa and frances trying how to break to their mother the news that geoff had really run away. "they'll soon get over it," he said to himself. "they've got that old curmudgeon to console them, and i don't want to live on _his_ money." "do you think i can easily find a place of some kind?" he went on, after a pause. the countryman this time did scratch his head, while he considered. "how old may you be, sir? sixteen or seventeen, maybe?" he inquired. "i'm not so much; i'm only fourteen," said geoff, rather reluctantly. "really! now, who'd 'a' thought it?" said his new friend, admiringly. "you'll be just the man for a country life when you're full-grown. not afraid of roughing it? fond of riding, i dare say?" "oh yes," said geoff. "at least, in town of course i haven't had as much of it as i'd like." he had never ridden in his life, except the previous summer, on a peculiarly gentle old pony of mrs. colethorne's. "no, in course not. well now, sir, if you'd no objection to stopping at shalecray with me, it strikes me my friend there, farmer eames, might likely enough know of something to suit you. he's a very decent fellow--a bit rough-spoken, maybe. but you're used to country ways--you'd not mind that." "oh, not a bit!" said geoff. "i'm much obliged to you for thinking of it. and you say it's possible--that this farmer eames may perhaps have a place that i should do for?" "nay, sir, i can't say that. it's just a chance. i only said he'd maybe know of something." "well, i don't see that it will do any harm to ask him. i'll only take a ticket to shalecray, then. i can go on farther later in the day if i don't find anything to suit me there. we'd better take the first train--a quarter to nine. we've still twenty minutes or so to wait." "yes, there's plenty of time--time for a pipe. you don't object, sir? but, bless me"--and he felt in his pockets one after the other--"if i haven't forgotten my 'bacca! with your leave, sir, i'll run across the street to fetch some. i saw a shop as we came in." "very well," said geoff; "i'll wait here. don't be too late." he had no particular fancy for going to buy cheap tobacco in the company of the very rustic-looking stranger. besides, he thought it safer to remain quiet in a dark corner of the waiting-room. it was curious that, though the countryman came back with a well-filled tobacco-pouch, he had not left the station! he only disappeared for a minute or two into the telegraph office, and the message he there indited was as follows:-"got him all safe. will report further this evening." and ten minutes later the two were ensconced in a third-class carriage, with tickets for shalecray. geoff had often travelled second, but rarely third. he did not, truth to tell, particularly like it. yet he could not have proposed anything else to his companion, unless he had undertaken to pay the difference. and as it was, the breakfast and his own third-class ticket had made a considerable hole in his thirty shillings. he must be careful, for even with all his inexperience he knew it was _possible_ he might have to pay his own way for some little time to come. "still, the chances are i shall find what i want very easily," he reflected. "it is evidently not difficult, by what this fellow tells me." it did not even strike him as in any way a very remarkable coincidence that almost on the doorstep of his own home he should have lighted upon the very person he needed to give him the particular information he was in want of. for in many ways, in spite of his boasted independence, poor geoff was as innocent and unsuspicious as a baby. [illustration] chapter viii. "half-a-crown a week and his victuals." shalecray was a small station, where no very considerable number of trains stopped in the twenty-four hours. it was therefore a slow train by which geoffrey tudor and his new friend travelled; so, though the distance from london was really short, it took them fully two hours to reach their destination. and two hours on a raw drizzly november morning is quite a long enough time to spend in a third-class carriage, shivering if the windows are down, and suffering on the other hand from the odours of damp fustian and bad tobacco if they are up. cold as it was, it seemed pleasant in comparison when they got out at last, and were making their way down a very muddy, but really country lane. geoff gave a sort of snort of satisfaction. "i do love the country," he said. his companion looked at him curiously. "i believe you, sir," he replied. "you must like it, to find it pleasant in november," he went on, with a tone which made geoff glance at him in surprise. somehow in the last few words the countryman's accent seemed to have changed a little. geoff could almost have fancied there was a cockney twang about it. "why, don't _you_ like it?" said geoff. "you said you were lost and miserable in town." "of course, sir. what else could i be? i'm country born and bred. but it's not often as a londoner takes to it as you do, and it's not to say lively at this time, and"--he looked down with a grimace--"the lanes is uncommon muddy." "how far is it to your friend's place?" geoff inquired, thinking to himself that if _he_ were to remark on the mud it would not be surprising, but that it was rather curious for his companion to do so. "a matter of two mile or so," jowett--for ned jowett, he had told geoff, was his name--replied; "and now i come to think of it, perhaps it'd be as well for you to leave your bag at the station. i'll see that it's all right; and as you're not sure of stopping at crickwood, there's no sense in carrying it there and maybe back again for nothing. i'll give it in charge to the station-master, and be back in a moment." he had shouldered it and was hastening back to the station almost before geoff had time to take in what he said. the boy stood looking after him vaguely. he was beginning to feel tired and a little dispirited. he did not feel as if he could oppose anything just then. "if he's a cheat and he's gone off with my bag, i just can't help it," he thought. "he won't gain much. still, he looks honest." and five minutes later the sight of the young man's cheery face as he hastened back removed all his misgivings. "all right, sir," he called out. "it'll be quite safe; and if by chance you hit it off with mr. eames, the milk-cart that comes to fetch the empty cans in the afternoon can bring the bag too." they stepped out more briskly after that. it was not such a very long walk to the farm, though certainly more than the two miles jowett had spoken of. as they went on, the country grew decidedly pretty, or perhaps it would be more correct to say one saw that in summer and pleasant weather it must be very pretty. geoff, however, was hardly at the age for admiring scenery much. he looked about him with interest, but little more than interest. "are there woods about here?" he asked suddenly. "i do like woods." jowett hesitated. "i don't know this part of the country not to say so very well," he replied. "there's some fine gentlemen's seats round about, i believe. crickwood bolders, now, is a fine place--we'll pass by the park wall in a minute; it's the place that eames's should by rights be the home farm to, so to say. but it's been empty for a many years. the family died down till it come to a distant cousin who was in foreign parts, and he let the farm to eames, and the house has been shut up. they do speak of his coming back afore long." geoff looked out for the park of which jowett spoke; they could not see much of it, certainly, without climbing the wall, for which he felt no energy. but a little farther on they came to gates, evidently a back entrance, and they stood still for a moment or two and looked in. "yes," said geoff, gazing over the wide expanse of softly undulating ground, broken by clumps of magnificent old trees, which at one side extended into a fringe skirting the park for miles apparently, till it melted in the distance into a range of blue-topped hills--"yes, it must be a fine place indeed. that's the sort of place, now, i'd like to own, jowett." he spoke more cordially again, for jowett's acquaintance with the neighbourhood had destroyed a sort of misgiving that had somehow come over him as to whether his new friend were perhaps "taking him in altogether." [illustration: they stood still for a moment or two.] "i believe you," said the countryman, laughing loudly, as if geoff's remark had been a very good joke indeed. geoff felt rather nettled. "and why shouldn't i own such a place, pray?" he said haughtily. "such things, when one is a _gentleman_, are all a matter of chance, as you know. if my father, or my grandfather, rather, had not been a younger son, i should have been----" ned jowett turned to him rather gravely. "i didn't mean to offend you, sir," he said. "but you must remember you're taking up a different line from that. farmer eames, or farmer nobody, wouldn't engage a farm hand that expected to be treated as a gentleman. it's not my fault, sir. 'twas yourself told me what you wished." geoff was silent for a moment or two. it was not easy all at once to make up his mind to _not_ being a gentleman any more, and yet his common sense told him that jowett was right; it must be so. unless, indeed, he gave it all up and went back home again to eat humble pie, and live on great-uncle hoot-toot's bounty, and go to some horrid school of his choosing, and be more "bullied" (so he expressed it to himself) than ever by his sisters, and scarcely allowed to see his mother at all. the silent enumeration of these grievances decided him. he turned round to jowett with a smile. "yes," he said; "i was forgetting. you must tell farmer eames he'll not find any nonsense about me." "all right, sir. but, if you'll excuse me, i'd best perhaps drop the 'sir'?" geoff nodded. "and that reminds me," jowett went on, "you've not told me your name--leastways, what name you wish me to give eames. we're close to his place now;" and as he spoke he looked about him scrutinizingly. "ten minutes past the back way through the park you'll come to a lane on the left. eames's farm is the first house you come to on the right," he repeated to himself, too low for geoff to hear. "yes, i can't be wrong." "you can call me jim--jim jeffreys," said the boy. "he needn't be afraid of getting into any trouble if he takes me on. i've no father, and my mother won't worry about me," he added bitterly. the entrance to the lane just then came in sight. "this here's our way," said jowett. "supposing i go on a bit in front. i think it would be just as well to explain to eames about my bringing you." "all right," said geoff. "i'll come on slowly. where is the farm?" "first house to the right; you can't miss it. but i'll come back to meet you again." he hurried on, and geoff followed slowly. he was hungry now as well as cold and tired--at least, he supposed he must be hungry, he felt so dull and stupid. what should he do if farmer eames could not take him on? he began to ask himself; he really felt as if it would be impossible for him to set off on his travels again like a tramp, begging for work all over the country. and for the first time it began faintly to dawn upon him that he had acted very foolishly. "but it's too late now," he said to himself; "i'd die rather than go home and ask to be forgiven, and be treated by them all as if i deserved to be sent to prison. i've got enough money to keep me going for a day or two, anyway. if it was summer--haymaking-time, for instance, i suppose it would be easy enough to get work. but now----" and he shivered as he gazed over the bare, dreary, lifeless-looking fields on all sides, where it was difficult to believe that the green grass could ever spring again, or the golden grain wave in the sunshine--"i really wonder what work there can be to do in the winter. the ground's as hard as iron; and oh, my goodness, isn't it cold?" suddenly some little way in front he descried two figures coming towards him. the one was jowett; the other, an older, stouter man, must be farmer eames. geoff's heart began to beat faster. would he be met by a refusal, and told to make his way back to the station? and if so, where would he go, what should he do? it had all seemed so easy when he planned it at home--he had felt so sure he would find what he wanted at once; he had somehow forgotten it would no longer be summer when he got out into the country again! for the first time in his life he realized what hundreds, nay, thousands of boys, no older than he, must go through every day--poor homeless fellows, poor and homeless through no fault of their own in many cases. "if ever i'm a rich man," thought geoff, "i'll think of to-day." and his anxiety grew so great that by the time the two men had come up to him his usually ruddy face had become almost white. jowett looked at him curiously. "you look uncommon cold, jim," he said. "this 'ere's jim jeffreys as i've been a-talking to you of, mr. eames," he said, by way of introduction to the farmer. "ah, indeed!" farmer eames replied; "seems a well-grown lad, but looks delicate. is he always so white-like?" "bless you! no," said jowett; "he's only a bit done up with--with one thing and another. we made a hearly start of it, and it's chilly this morning." the farmer grunted a little. "he'd need to get used to starting early of a morning if he was to be any use to me," he said half-grudgingly. but even this sounded hopeful to geoff. "oh, i don't mind getting up early," he said quickly. "i'm not used to lying in bed late." "there's early _and_ early," said the farmer. "what i might take you on trial for would be to drive the milk-cart to and fro the station. there's four sendings in all--full and empty together. and the first time is for the up-train that passes shalecray at half-past five." geoff shivered a little. but it would not do to seem daunted. "i'll be punctual," he said. "and of course, between times you'd have to make yourself useful about the dairy, and the pigs--you'd have to see to the pigs, and to make yourself useful," repeated the farmer, whose power of expressing himself was limited. "of course," agreed geoff as heartily as he could, though, truth to tell, the idea of pigs had not hitherto presented itself to him. "well," farmer eames went on, turning towards jowett, "i dunno as i mind giving him a trial, seeing as i'm just short of a boy as it happens. and for the station work, it's well to have a sharpish lad, and a civil-spoken one. you'll have to keep a civil tongue in your head, my boy--eh?" "certainly," said geoff, but not without a slight touch of haughtiness. "of course i'll be civil to every one who's civil to me." "and who isn't civil to thee, maybe, now and then," said the farmer, with a rather curious smile. "'twon't be all walking on roses--nay, 'twon't be all walking on roses to be odd boy in a farm. but there's many a one as'd think himself uncommon lucky to get the chance, i can tell you." "oh, and so i do," said geoff, eagerly. "i do indeed. i think it's awfully good of you to try me; and you'll see i'm not afraid of work." "and what about his character?" said the farmer, speaking again to jowett. "can you answer for his honesty?--that's the principal thing." geoff's cheeks flamed, and he was starting forward indignantly, when a word or two whispered, sternly almost, in his ear by jowett, forced him to be quiet. "don't be an idiot! do you want to spoil all your chances?" he said. and something in the tone again struck geoff with surprise. he could scarcely believe it was the simple young countryman who was speaking. "i don't think you need be uneasy on that score," he said. "you see it's all come about in a rather--uncommon sort of way." "i should rather think so," said the farmer, shrugging his shoulders, but smiling too. "and," pursued jowett, "you'll have to stretch a point or two. of course he'll want very little in the way of wages to begin." "half-a-crown a week and his victuals," replied the farmer, promptly. "and he must bind himself for three months certain--i'm not going to be thrown out of a boy at the orkardest time of the year for getting 'em into sharp ways. and i can't have no asking for holidays for three months, either." jowett looked at geoff. "very well," said geoff. "and you must go to church reg'lar," added the farmer. "you can manage it well enough, and sunday school, too, if you're sharp--there's only twice to the station on sundays." "on sundays, too?" repeated geoff. sundays at worst had been a day of no work at home. "to be sure," said eames, sharply. "beasts can't do for themselves on sundays no more than any other day. and londoners can't drink sour milk on sundays neither." "no," said geoff, meekly enough. "of course i'm used to church," he added, "but i think i'm rather too old for the sunday school." "i'll leave that to the parson," said the farmer. "well, now then, we may as well see if dinner's not ready. it's quite time, and you'll be getting hungry, mr. jowett," he added, with a slight hesitation. "why not call me ned? you're very high in your manners to-day, eames," said the other, with a sort of wink. then they both laughed and walked on, leaving geoff to follow. nothing was said about _his_ being hungry. "perhaps _i_ shall be expected to dine with the pigs," he thought. [illustration] [illustration] chapter ix. pigs, etc. it was not quite so bad as that, however. farmer eames turned in at the farmyard gate and led the two strangers into a good-sized kitchen, where the table was already set, in a homely fashion, for dinner. a stout, middle-aged woman, with a rather sharp face, turned from the fire, where she was superintending some cooking. "here we are again, wife," said eames. "glad to see dinner's ready. take a chair, mr. ned. you'll have a glass of beer to begin with?" and as he poured it out, "this here's the new boy, missis--i've settled to give him a trial." mrs. eames murmured something, which geoff supposed must have been intended as a kind of welcome. she was just then lifting a large pan of potatoes off the fire, and as she turned her face to the light, geoff noticed that it was very red--redder than a moment before. he could almost have fancied the farmer's wife was shy. "shall i help you?" he exclaimed, darting forward to take hold of the pan. eames burst out laughing. "that's a good joke," he said. "he knows which side his bread's buttered on, does this 'ere young fellow." geoff grew scarlet, and some angry rejoinder was on his lips, when jowett, who to his great indignation was laughing too, clapped him on the shoulder. "come, my boy, there's naught to fly up about. eames must have his joke." "i see naught to laugh at," said mrs. eames, who had by this time shaken the potatoes into a large dish that stood ready to receive them; "the lad meant it civil enough." "you're not to spoil him now, wife," said her husband. "it's no counter-jumpers' ways we want hereabouts. sit thee down, ned; and jim, there, you can draw the bench by the door a bit nearer the dresser, and i'll give you some dinner by-and-by." geoff, his heart swelling, did as he was bid. he sat quietly enough, glad of the rest and the warmth, till mr. and mrs. eames and their guest were all helped, and had allayed the first sharp edge of their appetites. but from time to time the farmer's wife glanced at geoff uneasily, and once, he felt sure, he saw her nudge her husband. "she means to be kind," thought the boy. and her kindness apparently had some effect. the farmer looked round, after a deep draught of beer, and pushed his tankard aside. "will you have a sup, jim?" he said good-naturedly. "i can't promise it you every day; but for once in a way." [illustration: he sat quietly enough.] "no, thank you," geoff replied. "i never take beer; moth----" but he stopped suddenly. "as you like," said the farmer; "but though you're not thirsty, i dare say you're hungry." he cut off a slice of the cold meat before him, and put it on a plate with some potatoes, and a bit of dripping from a dish on the table. the slice of meat was small in proportion to the helping of potatoes; but geoff was faint with hunger. he took the plate, with the steel-pronged fork and coarse black-handled knife, and sat down again by the dresser to eat. but, hungry though he was, he could not manage it all. half-way through, a sort of miserable choky feeling came over him: he thought of his meals at home--the nice white tablecloth, the sparkling glass and silver, the fine china--and all seemed to grow misty before his eyes for a minute or two; he almost felt as if he were going to faint, and the voices at the table sounded as if they came from the other side of the atlantic. he drank some water--for on his refusing beer, mrs. eames had handed him a little horn mug filled with water; _it_ was as fresh and sweet as any he had ever tasted, and he tried at the same time to swallow down his feelings. and by the time that the farmer stood up to say grace, he felt pretty right again. "and what are you going to be about, eames?" said jowett. "i'll walk round the place with you, if you like. i must take the four train up again." "all right," the farmer replied; "jim can take you to the station when he goes to fetch the cans. you'll see that he doesn't come to grief on the way. do 'ee know how to drive a bit?" "oh yes," replied geoff, eagerly. "i drove a good deal last summer at--in the country. and i know i was very fond of it." "well," said the farmer, drily, "you'll have enough of it here. but the pony's old; you mustn't drive him too fast. now, i'll tell one of the men to show you the yard, and the pig-sties, and the missis'll show you where she keeps the swill-tub. it'll want emptying--eh, wife?" "it do that," she replied. "but he must change his clothes afore he gets to that dirty work. those are your best ones, ain't they?" geoff looked down at his suit. it was not his best, for he had left his eton jackets and trousers behind him. the clothes he had on were a rough tweed suit he had had for the country; he had thought them very far from best. but now it struck him that they did look a great deal too good for feeding the pigs in. "i've got an older pair of trousers in my bag," he said; "but this is my oldest jacket." "he should have a rougher one," said mrs. eames. "i'll look out; maybe there's an old coat of george's as'd make down." "all right," said eames. "but you've no need of a coat at all to feed the pigs in. whoever heard o' such a thing?" just then a voice was heard at the door. "i'm here, master," it said, "fur the new boy." "all right," said eames; and, followed by geoff, in his shirt-sleeves by this time, he led the way to the farmyard. it was interesting, if only it had not been so cold. matthew, the man, was not very communicative certainly, and it seemed to the new boy that he eyed him with some disfavour. eames himself just gave a few short directions, and then went off with jowett. "them's the stables," said matthew, jerking his thumb towards a row of old buildings, "and them's the cow-houses," with a jerk the other way. "old pony's with master's mare, as he drives hisself. i've nought to say to pony; it's your business. and i'll want a hand with cart-horses and plough-horses. young folks has no call to be idle." "i don't mean to be idle," said geoff; "but if mr. eames doesn't find fault with me, _you_'ve no call to do so either." he spoke more valiantly than he felt, perhaps, for matthew's stolid face and small, twinkling eyes were not pleasant. he muttered something, and then went grumbling across the yard towards a wall, from behind which emanated an odour which required no explanation. "them's pigs," said he. matthew had a curious trick of curtailing his phrases as his temper waxed sourer. articles, prepositions, and auxiliary verbs disappeared, till at last his language became a sort of spoken hieroglyphics. geoff looked over the pig-sty wall. grunt, grumph, snort--out they all tumbled, one on the top of the other, making for the trough. poor things! it was still empty. geoff could hardly help laughing, and yet he felt rather sorry for them. "i'll go and fetch their dinner," he said. "i don't mind pigs; but they are awfully dirty." "ax the missus for soap to wash 'em," said matthew, with a grin. he hadn't yet made up his mind if the new boy was sharp or not. "no," said geoff, "i'll not do that till the first of april; but i'll tell you what, matthew, i'll not keep them as dirty as they are. and _i_ should say that the chap that's been looking after them is a very idle fellow." matthew scowled. "pigs don't _need_ to be so dirty," geoff went on. "i know at cole----" but he stopped abruptly. he was certainly not going to take matthew into his confidence. he asked to be shown the pony--poor old pony! it didn't look as if it would be over "sperrity"--and then he went back to the house to fetch the pigs' dinner. very hot, instead of cold, he was by the time he had carried across pail after pail of mrs. eames's "swill," and emptied it into the barrel which stood by the sty. it wasn't savoury work, either, and the farmer's wife made a kind of excuse for there being so much of it. "matthew were that idle," and they'd been a hand short the last week or two. but geoff wasn't going to give in; there was a sort of enjoyment in it when it came to the actual feeding of the pigs, and for their digestion's sake, it was well that the farmer's wife warned him that there _might_ be such a thing as over-feeding, even of pigs. he would have spent the best part of the afternoon in filling the trough and watching them squabble over it. he was tired and hot, and decidedly dirtier-looking than could have been expected, when eames and jowett came back from the fields. "time to get the pony to!" shouted the farmer. geoff turned off to the stable. he wanted to manage the harnessing alone; but, simple as it was, he found it harder than it looked, and he would have been forced to apply to matthew, had not jowett strolled into the stable. he felt sorry for the boy, sorrier than he thought it well to show, when he saw his flushed face and trembling hands, and in a trice he had disentangled the mysteries of buckles and straps, and got all ready. "been working hard?" he said good-naturedly. "seems a bit strange at first." "i don't mind the work; but--it does all seem very rough," said geoff. there was a slight quiver in his voice, but jowett said no more till they were jogging along on their way to the station. geoff's spirits had got up a little again by this time. he liked to feel the reins between his fingers, even though the vehicle was only a milk-cart, and the steed a sadly broken-winded old gray pony; and he was rather proud at having managed to steer safely through the yard gate, as to which, to tell the truth, he had felt a little nervous. "is there anything i can do for you on my way through town?" asked jowett. "i'll be in your part of the world to-night." "are you going to sleep at the livery stables?" asked geoff. jowett nodded. "i wish----" began the boy. "if i'd thought of it, i'd have written a letter for you to post in london. but there's no time now." jowett looked at his watch--a very good silver watch it was--"i don't know that," he said. "i can get you a piece of paper and an envelope at the station, and i'll see that your letter gets to--wherever it is, at once." "thank you," said geoff. "and jowett"--he hesitated. "you've been very good to me--would you mind one thing more? there's some one i would like to hear from sometimes, but i don't want to give my address. could i tell them--her--it's my sister--to write to your place, and you to send it to me?" "to be sure," said jowett. "but i won't give my address in the country. you just say to send on the letter to the care of 'mr. abel smith, livery stables, mowbray place mews,' and i'll see it comes straight to you. you won't want to give your name maybe? just put 'mr. james, care of abel smith.'" "thank you," said geoff, with a sigh of relief. "you see," he went on, half apologetically, "there's some one ill at home, and i'd like to know how--how they are." "to be sure," said jowett again; "it's only natural. and however bad one's been treated by one's people--and it's easy to see they must have treated you _on_common badly to make a young gent like you have to leave his home and come down to work for his living like a poor boy, though i respects you for it all the more--still own folks is own folks." he cast a shrewd glance at geoff, as he spoke. the boy could not help colouring. had he been treated so "oncommon badly"? was his determination to run away and be independent of great-uncle hoot-toot's assistance a real manly resolution, or not rather a fit of ill-tempered boyish spite? would he not have been acting with far more true independence by accepting gratefully the education which would have fitted him for an honourable career in his own rank? for mr. byrne, as he knew well by his mother's trust in the old gentleman, was not one to have thrown him aside had he been worthy of assistance. "but anyway, it's done now," thought the boy, choking down the feelings which began to assert themselves. at the station, jowett was as good as his word. he got the paper and a pencil, and geoff wrote a short note to vicky, just to tell her he was "all right," and enclosing the address to which she was to write. and jowett undertook that she should have it that same evening. had the boy been less preoccupied he could not but have been struck by the curious inconsistencies in the young countryman, who, when he had first met him that morning, had seemed scarcely able to find his way to the station, and yet, when occasion arose, had shown himself as sharp and capable as any londoner. but as it was, when the train had whizzed off again, he only felt as if his last friend had deserted him. and it was a very subdued and home-sick geoffrey who, in the chilly, misty autumn evening, drove the old pony through the muddy lanes to the farm, the empty milk-cans rattling in the cart behind him, and the tears slowly coursing down his cheeks now there was no one to see them. [illustration] [illustration] chapter x. poor geoff! he drove into the yard, where matthew's disagreeable face and voice soon greeted him. half forgetting himself, geoff threw the reins on to the pony's neck and jumped out of the cart, with his carpet-bag. he was making his way into the house, feeling as if even the old bag was a kind of comfort in its way, when the farm-man called him back. "dost think i's to groom pony?" he said ill-naturedly. "may stand till doomsday afore i'll touch him." [illustration: matthew, the man.] geoff turned back. of course, he ought to have remembered it was his work, and if matthew had spoken civilly he would even have thanked him for the reminder--more gratefully, i dare say, than he had often thanked elsa or frances for a hint of some forgotten duty. but, as it was, it took some self-control not to "fly out," and to set to work, tired as he was, to groom the pony and put him up for the night. it was all so strange and new too; at colethorne's he had watched the stablemen at their work, and thought it looked easy and amusing, but when it came to doing it, it seemed a very different thing, especially in the dusk, chilly evening, and feeling as he did both tired and hungry. he did his best, however, and the old pony was very patient, poor beast, and geoff's natural love of animals stood him in good stead; he could never have relieved his own depression by ill temper to any dumb creature. and at last old dapple was made as comfortable as geoff knew how, for matthew took care to keep out of the way, and to offer no help or advice, and the boy turned towards the house, carpet-bag in hand. the fire was blazing brightly in the kitchen, and in front of it sat the farmer, smoking a long clay pipe, which to geoff smelt very nasty. he coughed, to attract mr. eames's attention. "i've brought my bag from the station," he said. "will you tell me where i'm to sleep?" the farmer looked up sharply. "you've brought the milk-cans back, too, i suppose? your bag's not the principal thing. have you seen to dapple?" "yes," said geoff, and his tone was somewhat sulky. eames looked at him again, and still more sharply. "i told you at the first you were to keep a civil tongue in your head," he said. "you'll say 'sir' when you speak to me." but just then mrs. eames fortunately made her appearance. "don't scold him--he's only a bit strange," she said. "come with me, jim, and i'll show you your room." "thank you," said the boy, gratefully. mrs. eames glanced at her husband, as much as to say she was wiser than he, and then led the way out of the kitchen down a short, flagged passage, and up a short stair. then she opened a door, and, by the candle she held, geoff saw a very small, very bare room. there was a narrow bed in one corner, a chair, a window-shelf, on which stood a basin, and a cupboard in the wall. mrs. eames looked round. "it's been well cleaned out since last boy went," she said. "master and me'll look in now and then to see that you keep it clean. cupboard's handy, and there's a good flock mattress." then she gave him the light, and turned to go. "please," said geoff, meekly, "might i have a piece of bread? i'm rather hungry." it was long past his usual tea-time. "to be sure!" she replied. "you've not had your tea? i put it on the hob for you." and the good woman bustled off again. geoff followed her, after depositing his bag in the cupboard. she poured out the tea into a bowl, and ladled in a good spoonful of brown sugar. then she cut a hunch off a great loaf, and put it beside the bowl on the dresser. geoff was so hungry and thirsty, that he attacked both tea and bread, though the former was coarse in flavour, and the latter butterless. but it was not the quality of the food that brought back again that dreadful choking in his throat, and made the salt tears drop into the bowl of tea. it was the thought of tea-time at home--the neat table, and vicky's dear, important-looking little face, as she filled his cup, and put in the exact amount of sugar he liked--that came over him suddenly with a sort of rush. he felt as if he could not bear it. he swallowed down the tea with a gulp, and rammed the bread into his pocket. then, doing his utmost to look unconcerned, he went up to the farmer. "shall i go to bed now, please, sir?" he said, with a little hesitation at the last word. "i'm--i'm rather tired." "go to bed?" repeated eames. "yes, i suppose so. you must turn out early--the milk must be at the station by half-past five." "how shall i wake?" asked geoff, timidly. "wake? you'll have to learn to wake like others do. however, for the first, i'll tell matthew to knock you up." "thank you. good-night, sir." "good-night." and the farmer turned again to the newspaper he was reading. "you'll find your bed well aired. i made betsy see to that," called out mrs. eames. "thank you," said geoff again, more heartily this time. but he overheard eames grumbling at his wife as he left the room, telling her "he'd have none of that there coddling of the lad." "and you'd have him laid up with rheumatics--dying of a chill? that'd be a nice finish up to it all. you know quite well----" but geoff heard no more. and he was too worn-out and sleepy to think much of what he had heard. he got out what he required for the night. he wondered shiveringly how it would be possible to wash with only a basin. water he was evidently expected to fetch for himself. he tried to say his prayers, but fell asleep, the tears running down his face, in the middle, and woke up with a sob, and at last managed somehow to tumble into bed. it was very cold, but, as mrs. eames had said, quite dry. the chilly feeling woke him again, and he tried once more to say his prayers, and this time with better success. he was able to add a special petition that "mother" might soon be well again, and that dear vicky might be happy. and then he fell asleep--so soundly, so heavily, that when a drumming at the door made itself heard, he fancied he had only just begun the night. he sat up. where was he? at first, in the darkness, he thought he was in his own bed at home, and he wondered who was knocking so roughly--wondered still more at the rude voice which was shouting out-"up with you there, jim, d'ye hear? i'm not a-going to stand here all day. it's past half-past four. jim--you lazy lout. i'll call master if you don't speak--a-locking of his door like a fine gentleman!" gradually geoff remembered all--the feeling of the things about him--the coarse bed-clothes, the slightly mildewy smell of the pillow, helped to recall him to the present, even before he could see. [illustration: knocking so roughly.] "i'm coming, matthew!" he shouted back. "i'll be ready in five minutes;" and out of bed he crept, sleepy and confused, into the chilly air of the little room. he had no matches, but there was a short curtain before the window, and when he pulled it back the moonlight came faintly in--enough for him to distinguish the few objects in the room. he dared not attempt to wash, he was so afraid of being late. he managed to get out his oldest pair of trousers, and hurried on his clothes as fast as he could, feeling miserably dirty and slovenly, and thinking to himself he would never again be hard on poor people for not being clean! "i must try to wash when i come back," he said to himself. then he hurried out, and none too soon. [illustration: geoff at the station.] matthew was in the yard, delighted to frighten him. "you'll have to look sharp," he said, as geoff hurried to the stable. "betsy's filling the cans, and rare and cross she is at having to do it. you should have been there to help her, and the missis'll be out in a minute." the harnessing of dapple was not easy in the faint light, and he could not find the stable lantern. but it got done at last, and geoff led the cart round to the dairy door, where betsy was filling the last of the cans. she was not so cross as she might have been, and mrs. eames had not yet appeared. they got the cans into the cart, and in a minute or two geoff found himself jogging along the road, already becoming familiar, to the station. it seemed to grow darker instead of lighter, for the moon had gone behind a cloud, and sunrise was still a good time off. geoff wondered dreamily to himself why people need get up so early in the country, and then remembered that it would take two or three hours for the cans to get to london. how little he or vicky had thought, when they drank at breakfast the nice milk which mrs. tudor had always taken care to have of the best, of the labour and trouble involved in getting it there in time! and though he had hurried so, he was only just at the station when the train whizzed in, and the one sleepy porter growled at him for not having "looked sharper," and banged the milk-cans about unnecessarily in his temper, so that geoff was really afraid they would break or burst open, and all the milk come pouring out. "you'll have to be here in better time for the twelve train," he said crossly. "i'm not a-going to do this sort o' work for you nor no chap, if you can't be here in time." geoff did not answer--he was getting used to sharp words and tones. he nearly fell asleep in the cart as he jogged home again, and to add to his discomfort a fine, small, chill, november rain began to fall. he buttoned up his jacket, and wished he had put on his overcoat; and then he laughed rather bitterly to think how absurd he would look with this same overcoat, which had been new only a month before, driving old dapple in the milk-cart. he was wet and chilled to the bone when he reached the farm, and even if he had energy to drive a little faster he would not have dared to do so, after the farmer's warning. mrs. eames was in the kitchen when, after putting up the cart and pony, geoff came in. there was a delicious fragrance of coffee about which made his mouth water, but he did not even venture to go near the fire. mrs. eames heard him, however, and looked up. she started a little at the sight of his pale, wan face. "bless me, boy!" she exclaimed, "but you do look bad. whatever's the matter?" geoff smiled a little--he looked very nice when he smiled; it was only when he was in one of his ill-tempered moods that there was anything unlovable in his face--and his smile made mrs. eames still more sorry for him. "there's nothing the matter, thank you," he said; "i'm only rather cold--and wet. i'm strange to it all, i suppose. i wanted to know what i should do next. should i feed the pigs?" "have you met the master?" said the farmer's wife. "he's gone down the fields with matthew and the others. didn't you meet 'em?" geoff shook his head. "no; i went straight to the stable when i came back from the station." "you'd better take off your wet jacket," she said. "there--hang it before the fire. and," she went on, "there's a cup of coffee still hot, you can have for your breakfast this morning as you're so cold--it'll warm you better nor stir-about; and there's a scrap o' master's bacon you can eat with your bread." she poured out the coffee, steaming hot, and forked out the bacon from the frying-pan as she spoke, and set all on the corner of the dresser nearest to the fire. "thank you, thank you awfully," said geoff. oh, how good the coffee smelt! he had never enjoyed a meal so much, and yet, had it been at home, _how_ he would have grumbled! coffee in a bowl, with brown sugar--bread cut as thick as your fist, and no butter! truly geoff was already beginning to taste some of the sweet uses of adversity. breakfast over, came the pigs. the farmer had left word that the sty was to be cleaned out, and fresh straw fetched for the pigs' beds; and as betsy was much more good-natured than matthew in showing the new boy what was expected of him, he got on pretty well, even feeling a certain pride in the improved aspect of the pig-sty when he had finished. he would have dearly liked to try a scrubbing of the piggies themselves, if he had not been afraid of matthew's mocking him. but besides this there was not time. at eleven the second lot of milk had to be carted to the station, and with the remembrance of the cross porter geoff dared not be late. and in the still falling rain he set off again, though, thanks to mrs. eames, with a dry jacket, and, thanks to her too, with a horse-rug buckled round him, in which guise surely no one would have recognized master geoffrey tudor. after dinner the farmer set him to cleaning out the stables, which it appeared was to be a part of his regular work; then there were the pigs to feed again, and at four o'clock the milk-cans to fetch. oh, how tired geoff was getting of the lane to the station! and the day did not come to an end without his getting into terrible disgrace for not having rinsed out the cans with boiling water the night before, though nobody had told him to do it. for a message had come from london that the cans were dirty and the milk in danger of turning sour, and that if it happened again farmer eames would have to send his milk elsewhere. it was natural perhaps that he should be angry, and yet, as no one had explained about it to geoff, it seemed rather hard for him to have to take the scolding. _very_ hard indeed it seemed to him--to proud geoff, who had never yet taken in good part his mother's mildest reprimands. and big boy though he was, he sobbed himself to sleep this second night of his new life, for it did seem too much, that when he had been trying his very best to please, and was aching in every limb from his unwonted hard work, he should get nothing but scolding. and yet he knew that he was lucky to have fallen into such hands as farmer eames's, for, strict as he was, he was a fair and reasonable master. "i suppose," thought geoff, "i have never really known what hardships were, though i did think i had plenty to bear at home." what would elsa have said had she heard him? [illustration] chapter xi. "hoot-toot" behind the hedge. that first day at the farm was a pretty fair specimen of those that followed. the days grew into weeks and the weeks into one month, and then into two, and geoff went on with his self-chosen hard and lonely life. the loneliness soon came to be the worst of it. he got used to the hardships so far, and after all they were not very terrible ones. he was better taken care of than he knew, and he was a strong and healthy lad. had he felt that he was working for others, had he been cheered by loving and encouraging letters, he could have borne it all contentedly. but no letters came, no answer to his note to vicky begging her to write; and geoff's proud heart grew prouder and, he tried to think, harder. "they would let me know, somehow, i suppose, if there was anything much the matter--if--mamma had not got much better yet." for even to himself he would not allow the possibility of anything worse than her not being "much better." and yet she had looked very ill that last evening. he thought of it sometimes in the middle of the night, and started up in a sort of agony of fright, feeling as if at all costs he must set off there and then to see her--to know how she was. often he did not fall asleep again for hours, and then he would keep sobbing and crying out from time to time, "oh, mamma, mamma!" but there was no one to hear. and with the morning all the proud, bitter feelings would come back again. "they don't care for me. they are thankful to be rid of me;" and he would picture his future life to himself, friendless and homeless, as if he never had had either friends or home. sometimes he planned that when he grew older he would emigrate, and in a few years, after having made a great fortune, he would come home again, a millionaire, and shower down coals of fire in the shape of every sort of luxury upon the heads of his unnatural family. but these plans did not cheer him as they would have done some months ago. his experiences had already made him more practical--he knew that fortunes were not made nowadays in the dick whittington way--he was learning to understand that not only are there but twenty shillings in a pound, but, which concerned him more closely, that there are but twelve pence in a shilling, and only thirty in half-a-crown! he saw with dismay the increasing holes in his boots, and bargained hard with the village cobbler to make him cheap a rough, strong pair, which he would never have dreamt of looking at in the old days; he thanked mrs. eames more humbly for the well-worn corduroy jacket she made down for him than he had ever thanked his mother for the nice clothes which it had _not_ always been easy for her to procure for him. yes, geoff was certainly learning some lessons. [illustration: sobbing and crying.] sundays were in one way the worst, for though he had less to do, he had more time for thinking. he went twice to church, where he managed to sit in a corner out of sight, so that if the tears did sometimes come into his eyes at some familiar hymn or verse, no one could see. and no more was said about the sunday school, greatly to his relief, for he knew the clergyman would have cross-questioned him. on sunday afternoons he used to saunter about the park and grounds of crickwood bolders. he liked it, and yet it made him melancholy. the house was shut up, but it was easy to see it was a dear old place--just the sort of "home" of geoff's wildest dreams. "if we were all living there together, now," he used to say to himself--"mamma quite well and not worried about money--elsa and frances would be so happy, we'd never squabble, and vicky----" but at the idea of _vicky's_ happiness, words failed him. it was, it must be allowed, a come-down from such beautiful fancies, to have to hurry back to the farm to harness old dapple and jog off to the station with the milk. for even on sundays people can't do without eating and drinking. [illustration: geoff stood still in amazement.] one sunday a queer thing happened. he was just turning home, and passing the lodge at the principal entrance to the hall, as it was called, when behind the thick evergreen hedge at one side of the little garden he heard voices. they were speaking too low for him to distinguish the words; but one voice sounded to him very like eames's. it might be so, for the farmer and the lodge-keeper were friends. and geoff would have walked on without thinking anything of it, had not a sudden exclamation caught his ear--"hoot-toot, hoot-toot! i tell you----" but instantly the voice dropped. it sounded as if some one had held up a warning finger. geoff stood still in amazement. _could_ great-uncle hoot-toot be there? it seemed too impossible. but the boy's heart beat fast with a vague feeling of expectation and apprehension mixed together. "if he has come here accidentally, he must not see me," he said to himself; and he hurried down the road as fast as he could, determined to hasten to the station and back before the old gentleman, if it were he, could get there. but to his surprise, on entering the farm-yard, the first person to meet him was mr. eames himself. "what's the matter, my lad?" he said good humouredly. "thou'st staring as if i were a ghost." "i thought--i thought," stammered geoff, "that i saw--no, heard your voice just now at the lodge." eames laughed. "but i couldn't be in two places at once, could i? well, get off with you to the station." all was as usual of a sunday there. no one about, no passengers by the up-train--only the milk-cans; and geoff, as he drove slowly home again, almost persuaded himself that the familiar "hoot-toot, hoot-toot!" must have been altogether his own fancy. but had he been at the little railway-station again an hour or two later, he would have had reason to change his opinion. a passenger did start from shalecray by the last train for town; and when this same passenger got out at victoria, he hailed a hansom, and was driven quickly westward. and when he arrived at his destination, and rang the bell, almost before the servant had had time to open the door, a little figure pressed eagerly forward, and a soft, clear voice exclaimed-"oh, dear uncle, is that you at last? i've been watching for you such a long time. oh, do--do tell me about geoff! did you see him? and oh, dear uncle, is he very unhappy?" "come upstairs, my pet," said the old man, "and you shall hear all i can tell." the three awaiting him in the drawing-room were nearly as eager as the child. the mother's face grew pale with anxiety, the sisters' eyes sparkled with eagerness. "did you find him easily, uncle? was it where you thought?" asked vicky. "yes, yes; i had no difficulty. i saw him, vicky, but without his seeing me. he has grown, and perhaps he is a little thinner, but he is quite well. and i had an excellent account of him from the farmer. he is working steadily, and bearing manfully what, to a boy like him, cannot but be privations and hardships. but i am afraid he is very unhappy--his face had a set sad look in it that i do not like to see on one so young. i fear he never got your letters, vicky. there must have been some mistake about the address. i didn't want to push the thing too far. you must write again, my little girl--say all you can to soften him. what i want is that it should come from _his_ side. he will respect himself all his life for overcoming his pride, and asking to be forgiven, only we must try to make it easy for him, poor fellow! now go to bed, vicky, child, and think over what you will write to him to-morrow. i want to talk it all over with your mother. don't be unhappy about poor old geoff, my dear." obedient vicky jumped up at once to go to bed. she tried to whisper "good night" as she went the round of the others to kiss them, but the words would not come, and her pretty blue eyes were full of tears. still, vicky's thoughts and dreams were far happier that night than for a long time past. as soon as she had closed the door after her, the old gentleman turned to the others. "she doesn't know any more than we agreed upon?" he asked. "no," said elsa; "she only knows that you got his exact address from the same person who has told you about him from time to time. she has no idea that the whole thing was planned and arranged by you from the first, when you found he was set upon leaving home." great-uncle hoot-toot nodded his head. "that is all right. years hence, when he has grown up into a good and sensible man, we may, or if i am no longer here, _you_ may tell him all about it, my dears. but just now it would mortify him, and prevent the lesson from doing him the good we hope for. i should not at all like him to know i had employed detectives. he would be angry at having been taken in. that jowett is a very decent fellow, and did his part well; but he has mismanaged the letters somehow. i must see him about that. what was the address geoff gave in his note to vicky? are you sure she put it right?" "oh yes," said frances; "i saw it both times. it was-'to mr. james, care of mr. adam smith, murray place mews.'" "hoot-toot!" said mr. byrne. he could not make it out. but we, who know in what a hurry geoff wrote his note at the railway-station while jowett was waiting to take it, can quite well understand why vicky's letters had never reached him. for the address he _should_ have given was-"abel smith, _mowbray_ place mews." "this time," mr. byrne went on, "i'll see that the letter is sent to him direct. jowett must manage it. let vicky address as before, and i'll see that it reaches him." "what do you think she should write?" said mrs. tudor, anxiously. "what she feels. it does not much matter. but let her make him understand that his home is open to him as ever--that he is neither forgotten nor thought of harshly. if i mistake not, from what i saw and what eames told me, he will be so happy to find it is so, that all the better side of his character will come out. and he will say more to himself than any of us would ever wish to say to him." "but, uncle dear," said elsa, "if it turns out as you hope, and poor geoff comes home again and is all you and mamma wish--and--if _all_ your delightful plans are realized, won't geoff find out everything you don't want him to know at present? indeed, aren't you afraid he may have heard already that you are the new squire there?" "no," said mr. byrne. "eames is a very cautious fellow; and from having known me long ago, or rather from his father having known me (it was i that got my cousin to give him the farm some years ago, as i told you), i found it easy to make him understand all i wished. crickwood bolders has stood empty so long, that the people about don't take much interest in it. they only know vaguely that it has changed hands lately, and eames says i am spoken of as the new mr. bolders, and not by my own name." "i see," said elsa. "and," continued mr. byrne, "of course geoff will take it for granted that it was by the coincidence of his getting taken on at my place that we found him out. it _was_ a coincidence that he should have taken it into his head to go down to that part of the country, through its being on the way to colethorne's." "and you say that he is really working hard, and--and making the best of things?" asked mrs. tudor. she smiled a little as she said it. geoff's "making the best of things" was such a _very_ new idea. "yes," replied great-uncle hoot-toot. "eames gives him the best of characters. he says the boy is thoroughly to be depended upon, and that his work is well done, even to cleaning the pigs; and, best of all, he is never heard to grumble." "fancy geoff cleaning the pigs!" exclaimed elsa. "i don't know that i find _that_ so difficult to fancy," said frances. "i think geoff has a real love for animals of all kinds, and for all country things. we would have sympathized with him about it if it hadn't been for his grumbling, which made all his likes and dislikes seem unreal. i think what i pity him the most for is the having to get up so dreadfully early these cold winter mornings. what time did you say he had to get up, uncle?" [illustration: vicky writing the letter.] "he has to be at the station with the milk before five every morning," said the old gentleman, grimly. "eames says his good woman is inclined to 'coddle him a bit'--she can't forget who he really is, it appears. i was glad to hear it; i don't want the poor boy actually to suffer--and i don't want it to go on much longer. i confess i don't see that there can be much 'coddling' if he has to be up and out before five o'clock in the morning at this time of the year." "no, indeed," said the girls. "and he must be _so_ lonely." "yes, poor fellow!" said the old gentleman, with a sigh, "i saw that in his face. and i was _glad_ to see it. it shows the lesson is not a merely surface one. you've had your wish for him to some extent, elsa, my dear. he has at last known some hardships." elsa's eyes filled with tears, though great-uncle hoot-toot had had no thought of hurting her. "don't say that, please," she entreated. "i think--i am sure--i only wanted him to learn how foolish he was, for his own sake more than for any one's else even." "i know, i know," the old gentleman agreed. "but i think he has had about enough of it. see that vicky writes that letter first thing to-morrow." [illustration] [illustration] chapter xii. a letter at last. christmas had come and gone. it brought geoff's home-sick loneliness to a point that was almost unbearable. he had looked forward vaguely to the twenty-fifth of december with the sort of hope that it would bring him some message, some remembrance, if it were but a christmas card. and for two or three days he managed to waylay the postman every morning as he passed the farm, and to inquire timidly if there were no letter--was he _sure_ there was no letter for james jeffreys? but the postman only shook his head. he had "never had no letter for that name, neither with nor without 'care of mr. eames,'" as geoff went on to suggest that if the farmer's name had been omitted the letter might have been overlooked. and when not only christmas, but new year's day too was past and gone, the boy lost hope. "it is too bad," he sobbed to himself, late at night, alone in his bare little room. "i think they might think a _little_ of me. they might be sorry for me, even--even if i did worry them all when i was at home. they might guess how lonely i am. it isn't the hard work. if it was for mother i was working, and if i knew they were all pleased with me, i wouldn't mind it. but i can't bear to go on like this." yet he could not make up his mind to write home again, for as things were it would be like begging for mr. byrne's charity. and every feeling of independence and manliness in geoff rose against accepting benefits from one whose advice he had scouted and set at defiance. still, he was sensible enough to see that he could not go on with his present life for long. "work on a farm" had turned out very different from his vague ideas of it. he could not, for years to come, hope to earn more than the barest pittance, and he felt that if he were always to remain the companion of the sort of people he was now among, he would not care to live. and gradually another idea took shape in his mind--he would emigrate! he saw some printed papers in the village post-office, telling of government grants of land to able-bodied young men, and giving the cost of the passage out, and various details, and he calculated that in a year, by scrupulous economy, he might earn about half the sum required, for the farmer had told him that if he continued to do well he would raise his wages at the end of the first six months. "and then," thought geoff, "i might write home and tell them it was all settled, and by selling all the things i have at home i might get the rest of the money. or--i would not even mind taking it as a _loan_ from great-uncle hoot-toot. that would seem different; and of course i do owe him a great deal now, in a way, for he must be doing everything for mother and the girls, and if only i were a man that would be my business." and for a while, after coming to this resolution, he felt happier. his old dreams of making a great fortune and being the good genius of his family returned, and he felt more interest in learning all he could of farm-work, that might be useful to him in his new life. but these more hopeful feelings did not last long or steadily; the pain of the home-sickness and loneliness increased so terribly, that at times he felt as if he _could_ not bear it any longer. and he would probably, strong as he was, have fallen ill, had not something happened. it was about six weeks after the sunday on which he had thought he had overheard great-uncle hoot-toot's voice through the hedge. it was a sunday again. geoff had been at church in the morning, and after dinner he was sitting in a corner of the kitchen, feeling as if he had no energy even to go for his favourite stroll in the grounds of the hall, when a sudden exclamation from mrs. eames made him look up. the farmer's wife had been putting away some of the plates and dishes that had been used at dinner, and in so doing happened to pull aside a large dish leaning on one of the shelves of the high-backed dresser. [illustration: geoff reading vicky's letter.] as she did so, a letter fell forward. it was addressed in a clear, good hand to "james jeffreys, at mr. eames's, crickwood farm, shalecray." "bless me!" cried the good woman. "what's this a-doing here? jem, boy, 'tis thine. when can it have come? it may have been up there a good bit." geoff started up and dashed forward with outstretched hand. "give it me! oh, give it me, please!" he said, in an eager, trembling voice. a look of disappointment crossed his face for a moment when he saw the writing; but he tore the envelope open, and then his eyes brightened up again. for it contained another letter, round which a slip was folded with the words, "i forward enclosed, as agreed.--ned jowett." and the second envelope was addressed to "mr. james" in a round, childish hand, that geoff knew well. it was vicky's. he darted out of the kitchen, and into his own little room. he could not have read the letter before any one. already the tears were welling up into his eyes. and long before he had finished reading they were running down his face and dropping on to the paper. this was what vicky said, and the date was nearly six weeks old! "my darling geoff, "why haven't you written to us? i wrote you a letter the minute i got your little note with the address, and i have written to you again since then. great-uncle hoot-toot says you are sure to get this letter. i think you can't have got the others. but still you might have written. i have been so _very_ unhappy about you. of course i was glad to hear you were getting on well, but still i have been very unhappy. mamma got better very slowly. i don't think she would have got better if she hadn't heard that you were getting on well, though. she has been very unhappy, too, and so have elsa and frances, but poor vicky most of all. we do so want you at home again. geoff, i can't tell you how good old uncle hoot-toot is. there is something about money i can't explain, but if you understood it all, you would see we should not be proud about his helping us, for he has done more for us always than we knew; even mamma didn't. oh, geoff, darling, do come home. we do all love you so, and mamma and elsa were only troubled because you didn't seem happy, and you didn't believe that they loved you. i think it would be all different now if you came home again, and we do so want you. i keep your room so nice. i dust it myself every day. mamma makes me have tea in the drawing-room now, and then i have a little pudding from their dinner, because, you see, one can't eat so much at ladies' afternoon tea. but i was too miserable at tea alone in the school-room. i have wrapped up our teapot, after harvey had made it very bright, and i won't ever make tea out of it till you come home. oh, geoffy, darling, do come home! "your loving, unhappy little "vicky." the tears came faster and faster--so fast that it was with difficulty geoff could see to read the last few lines. he hid his face in his hands and sobbed. he was only fourteen, remember, and there was no one to see. and with these sobs and tears--good honest tears that he need not have been ashamed of--there melted away all the unkind, ungrateful feelings out of his poor sore heart. he saw himself as he had really been--selfish, unreasonable, and spoilt. "yes," he said to himself, "that was all i _really_ had to complain of. they considered me too much--they spoilt me. but, oh, i would be so different now! only--i can't go home and say to great-uncle hoot-toot, 'i've had enough of working for myself; you may pay for me now.' it would seem _too_ mean. no, i must keep to my plan--it's too late to change. but i think i might go home to see them all, and ask them to forgive me. in three weeks i shall have been here three months, and then i may ask for a holiday. i'll write to vicky now at once, and tell her so--i can post the letter when i go to the station. they must have thought me _so_ horrid for not having written before. i wonder how it was i never got the other letters? but it doesn't matter now i've got this one. oh, dear vicky, i think i shall nearly go out of my mind with joy to see your little face again!" he had provided himself, luckily, with some letter-paper and envelopes, so there was no delay on that score. and once he had begun, he found no difficulty in writing--indeed, he could have covered pages, for he seemed to have so much to say. this was his letter:- "crickwood farm, february 2. "my dearest vicky, "i have only just got your letter, though you wrote it on the 15th of january. mrs. eames--that's the farmer's wife--found it behind a dish on the dresser, where it has been all the time. i never got your other letters; i can't think what became of them. i've asked the postman nearly every day if there was no letter for me. vicky, i can't tell you all i'd like to say. i thought i'd write to mamma, but i feel as if i couldn't. will you tell her that i just _beg_ her to forgive me? not only for leaving home without leave, like i did, but for all the way i went on and all the worry i gave her. i see it all quite plain. i've been getting to see it for a good while, and when i read your dear letter it all came out quite plain like a flash. i don't mind the hard work here, or even the messy sort of ways compared to home--i wouldn't mind anything if i thought i was doing right. but it's the loneliness. vicky, i have thought sometimes i'd go out of my mind. will you ask great-uncle hoot-toot to forgive me, too? i'd like to understand about all he has done for us, and i think i am much sensibler about money than i was, so perhaps he'll tell me. i can ask for a holiday in three weeks, and then i'll come home for one day. i shall have to tell you my plans, and i think mamma will think i'm right. i must work hard, and perhaps in a few years i shall earn enough to come home and have a cottage like we planned. for i've made up my mind to emigrate. i don't think i'd ever get on so well in anything as in a country life; for, though it's very hard work here, i don't mind it, and i love animals, and in the summer it won't be so bad. please, vicky, make everybody understand that i hope never to be a trouble and worry any more.--your very loving "geoff. "p.s.--you may write here now. i don't mind you all knowing where i am." by the time geoff had finished this, for him, long epistle, it was nearly dark. he had to hurry off to the station to be in time with the milk. he was well known now by the men about the railway, and by one or two of the guards, and he was glad to see one he knew this evening, as he begged him to post his letter in town, for it was too late for the shalecray mail. the man was very good-natured, and promised to do as he asked. "by tuesday," thought geoff, "i may have a letter if vicky writes at once. and i might write again next sunday. so that we'd hear of each other every week." and this thought made his face look very bright and cheery as he went whistling into the kitchen, where, as usual of a sunday evening, eames was sitting smoking beside the fire. "the missis has told me about your letter, jim," said the farmer. "i'm right-down sorry about it, but i don't rightly know who to blame. it's just got slipped out o' sight." "thank you," geoff replied. "i'm awfully glad to have it now." "he's never looked so bright since he came," said mr. eames to his wife when geoff had left the room. "he's about getting tired of it, i fancy; and the squire's only too ready to forgive and forget, i take it. but he's a deal o' good stuff in him, has the boy, and so i told the squire. he's a fine spirit of his own, too." "and as civil a lad as ever i seed," added mrs. eames. "no nonsense and no airs. one can tell as he's a real gentleman. all the same, i'll be uncommon glad when he's with his own folk again; no one'd believe the weight it's been on my mind to see as he didn't fall ill with us. and you always a-telling me as squire said he wasn't to be coddled and cosseted. yet you'd have been none so pleased if he'd got a chill and the rheumatics or worse, as might have been if i hadn't myself seen to his bed and his sheets and his blankets, till the weight of them on my mind's been almost more nor i could bear." "well, well," said the farmer, soothingly, "all's well as ends well. and you said yourself it'd never 'a' done for us to refuse the squire any mortal service he could have asked of us." [illustration] [illustration] chapter xiii. the new squire and his family. tuesday brought no letter for geoff--nor wednesday, nor even thursday. his spirits went down again, and he felt bitterly disappointed. could his friend, the guard, have forgotten to post the letter, after all? he asked himself. this thought kept him up till thursday evening, when, happening to see the same man at the station, the guard's first words were, "got any answer to your love-letter yet, eh, jim? i posted it straight away," and then geoff did not know what to think. he did not like to write again. he began to fear that vicky had been mistaken in feeling so sure that his mother and great-uncle hoot-toot and elsa and frances were all ready to forgive him, and longing for his return. perhaps they were all still too indignant with him to allow vicky to write, and he sighed deeply at the thought. "i will wait till i can ask for a holiday," he said to himself, "and then i will write and say i am coming, and if they won't see me i must just bear it. at least, i am sure mother will see me when the time comes for me to go to america, though it will be dreadful to have to wait till then." when he got back to the house that evening, the farmer called to him. _he_ had had a letter that morning, though geoff had not; and had it not been getting dusk, the boy would have seen a slight twinkle in the good man's eyes as he spoke to him. "jim, my boy," he said, "i shall want you to do an odd job or so of work the next day or two. the new squire's coming down on monday to look round a bit. they've been tidying up at the house; did you know?" geoff shook his head; he had no time for strolling about the hall grounds except on sundays, and on the last sunday he had been too heavy-hearted to notice any change. "do you know anything of gardening?" the farmer went on. "they're very short of hands, and i've promised to help what i could. the rooms on the south side of the house are being got ready, and there's the terrace-walk round that way wants doing up sadly. with this mild weather the snowdrops and crocuses and all them spring flowers is springing up finely; there's lots of them round that south side, and branch can't spare a man to sort them out and rake over the beds." "i could do that," said geoff, his eyes sparkling. "i don't know much about gardening, but i know enough for that." it was a pleasant prospect for him; a day or two's quiet work in the beautiful old garden; he would feel almost like a gentleman again, he thought to himself. "when shall i go, sir?" he went on eagerly. "why, the sooner the better," said mr. eames. "to-morrow morning. that'll give you two good days. branch wants it to look nice, for the squire's ladies is coming with him. the south parlour is all ready. there'll be a deal to do to the house--new furniture and all the rest of it. he--the new squire's an old friend of mine and of my father's--and a good friend he's been to me," he added in a lower voice. "are they going to live here?" asked geoff. he liked the idea of working there, but he rather shrank from being seen as a gardener's boy by the new squire and "the ladies." "though it is very silly of me," he reflected; "they wouldn't look at me; it would never strike them that i was different from any other." "going to live here," repeated the farmer; "yes, of course. the new squire would be off his head not to live at crickwood bolders, when it belongs to him. a beautiful place as it is too." "yes," agreed geoff, heartily, "it would be hard to imagine a more beautiful place. the squire should be a happy man." he thought so more and more during the next two days. there was a great charm about the old house and the quaintly laid out grounds in which it stood--especially on the south side, where geoff's work lay. the weather, too, was delightfully mild just then; it seemed a sort of foretaste of summer, and the boy felt all his old love for the country revive and grow stronger than ever as he raked and weeded and did his best along the terrace walk. "i wish the squire would make me his gardener," he said to himself once. "but even to be a good gardener i suppose one should learn a lot of things i know nothing about." good-will goes a long way, however. geoff felt really proud of his work by saturday evening, and on sunday the farmer took a look at the flower-beds himself, and said he had done well. "those beds over yonder look rough still," he went on, pointing to some little distance. "they don't show from the house," said geoff, "and branch says it's too early to do much. there will be frosts again." "no matter," said mr. eames; "i'd like it all to look as tidy as can be for monday, seeing as i'd promised to help. i'll give you another day off the home-work, jim. robins's boy's very pleased to do the station work." [illustration: the farmer took a look at the flowerbeds himself.] geoff looked up uneasily. it would be very awkward for him, very awkward indeed, if "robins's boy" were to do so well as to replace him altogether. but there was a pleasant smile on the farmer's face, which reassured him. "very well, sir," he said. "i'll do as you like, of course; but i don't want any one else to do my own work for long." "all right," said eames. for a moment geoff thought he was going to say something more, but if so he changed his mind, and walked quietly away. monday saw geoff again at his post. it was a real early spring day, and he could not help feeling the exhilarating influence of the fresh, sweet air, though his heart was sad and heavy, for his hopes of a reply from vicky were every day growing fainter and fainter. there was nothing to do but to wait till the time came for a holiday, and then to go up to london and try to see them. "and if they won't see me or forgive me," thought the boy with a sigh, "i must just work on till i can emigrate." he glanced up at the terrace as he thought this. he was working this morning at some little distance from the house, but he liked to throw a look every now and then to the beds which he had raked and tidied already; they seemed so neat, and the crocuses were coming out so nicely. the morning was getting on; geoff looked at his watch--he had kept it carefully, but he never looked at it now without a feeling that before very long he might have to sell it--it was nearly twelve. "i must go home to dinner, i suppose," he thought; and he began gathering his tools together. as he did so, some slight sounds reached him from the terrace, and, glancing in that direction, he saw that one of the long windows opening on to it was ajar, and in another moment the figures of two ladies could be seen standing just in the aperture, and seemingly looking out as if uncertain what they were going to do. "they have come," thought geoff. "they'll be out here in another instant. i can't help it if it _is_ silly; i should _hate_ ladies and gentlemen to see me working here like a common boy;" and his face grew crimson with the thought. he hurried his things together, and was looking round to see if he could not make his way out of the grounds without passing near the house, when a quick pattering sound along the gravel startled him. a little girl was running towards him, flying down the sloping path that led from the terrace she came, her feet scarcely seeming to touch the ground, her fair hair streaming behind. "oh!" was geoff's first thought, "how like vicky!" but it was his first thought only, for almost before he had time to complete it the little girl was beside him--_upon_ him, one might almost say, for her arms were round him, her sweet face, wet with tears of joy, was pressed against his, her dear voice was speaking to him, "oh, geoffey, geoffey! my own geoffey! it's i--it's your vicky." geoff staggered, and almost fell. for a moment or two he felt so giddy and confused he could not speak. but the feeling soon went away, and the words came only too eagerly. "how is it? where have you come from? do you know the new squire? where is mamma? why didn't you write?" and, laughing and crying, vicky tried to explain. did she know the new squire? could geoff not guess? where were they all? mamma, elsa, frances, great-uncle hoot-toot--where should they be, but in the new squire's own house? up there on the terrace--yes, they were all up there; they had sent her to fetch him. and she dragged geoff up with her, geoff feeling as if he were in a dream, till he felt his mother's and sisters' kisses, and heard "the new squire's" voice sounding rather choky, as he said, "hoot-toot, hoot-toot! this will never do--never do, geoff, my boy." they let vicky explain it all in her own way. how great-uncle hoot-toot had come home from india, meaning to take them all to live with him in the old house which had come to be his. how disappointed he had been by geoff's selfish, discontented temper, and grumbling, worrying ways, and had been casting about how best to give him a lesson which should last, when geoff solved the puzzle for him by going off of his own accord. "and," vicky went on innocently, "was it not _wonderful_ that you should have come to uncle's own place, and got work with mr. eames, whom he has known so long?" in which geoff fully agreed; and it was not till many years later that he knew how it had really been--how mr. byrne had planned all for his safety and good, with the help of one of the cleverest young detectives in the london police, "ned jowett," the innocent countryman whom geoff had patronized! the boy told all he had been thinking of doing, his idea of emigrating, his wish to be "independent," and gain his own livelihood. and his mother explained to him what she herself had not thoroughly known till lately--that for many years, ever since her husband's death, they had owed far more to great-uncle hoot-toot than they had had any idea of. "your father was the son of his dearest friend," she said. "mr. byrne has no relations of his own. we were left very poor, but he never let me know it. the lawyers by mistake wrote to _me_ about the loss of money, which uncle had for long known was as good as lost, so that in reality it made little difference. so you see, geoff, what we owe him--_everything_--and you must be guided by his wishes entirely." they were kind and good wishes. he did not want geoff to emigrate, but he sympathized in his love for the country. for two or three years geoff was sent to a first-rate school, where he got on well, and then to an agricultural college, where he also did so well that before he was twenty he was able to be the squire's right hand in the management of his large property, and in this way was able to feel that, without sacrificing his independence, he could practically show his gratitude. they say that some part of the estate will certainly be left to geoff at mr. byrne's death; but that, it is to be hoped, will not come to pass for many years yet, for the old gentleman is still very vigorous, and the hall would certainly not seem itself at all if one did not hear his "hoot-toot, hoot-toot!" sounding here, there, and everywhere, as he trots busily about. [illustration] printed by william clowes and sons, limited, london and beccles. a double story by george macdonald. new york: a double story i. there was a certain country where things used to go rather oddly. for instance, you could never tell whether it was going to rain or hail, or whether or not the milk was going to turn sour. it was impossible to say whether the next baby would be a boy, or a girl, or even, after he was a week old, whether he would wake sweet-tempered or cross. in strict accordance with the peculiar nature of this country of uncertainties, it came to pass one day, that in the midst of a shower of rain that might well be called golden, seeing the sun, shining as it fell, turned all its drops into molten topazes, and every drop was good for a grain of golden corn, or a yellow cowslip, or a buttercup, or a dandelion at least;--while this splendid rain was falling, i say, with a musical patter upon the great leaves of the horse-chestnuts, which hung like vandyke collars about the necks of the creamy, red-spotted blossoms, and on the leaves of the sycamores, looking as if they had blood in their veins, and on a multitude of flowers, of which some stood up and boldly held out their cups to catch their share, while others cowered down, laughing, under the soft patting blows of the heavy warm drops;--while this lovely rain was washing all the air clean from the motes, and the bad odors, and the poison-seeds that had escaped from their prisons during the long drought;--while it fell, splashing and sparkling, with a hum, and a rush, and a soft clashing--but stop! i am stealing, i find, and not that only, but with clumsy hands spoiling what i steal:- "o rain! with your dull twofold sound, the clash hard by, and the murmur all round:" --there! take it, mr. coleridge;--while, as i was saying, the lovely little rivers whose fountains are the clouds, and which cut their own channels through the air, and make sweet noises rubbing against their banks as they hurry down and down, until at length they are pulled up on a sudden, with a musical plash, in the very heart of an odorous flower, that first gasps and then sighs up a blissful scent, or on the bald head of a stone that never says, thank you;--while the very sheep felt it blessing them, though it could never reach their skins through the depth of their long wool, and the veriest hedgehog--i mean the one with the longest spikes--came and spiked himself out to impale as many of the drops as he could;--while the rain was thus falling, and the leaves, and the flowers, and the sheep, and the cattle, and the hedgehog, were all busily receiving the golden rain, something happened. it was not a great battle, nor an earthquake, nor a coronation, but something more important than all those put together. a baby-girl was born; and her father was a king; and her mother was a queen; and her uncles and aunts were princes and princesses; and her first-cousins were dukes and duchesses; and not one of her second-cousins was less than a marquis or marchioness, or of their third-cousins less than an earl or countess: and below a countess they did not care to count. so the little girl was somebody; and yet for all that, strange to say, the first thing she did was to cry. i told you it was a strange country. as she grew up, everybody about her did his best to convince her that she was somebody; and the girl herself was so easily persuaded of it that she quite forgot that anybody had ever told her so, and took it for a fundamental, innate, primary, first-born, self-evident, necessary, and incontrovertible idea and principle that she was somebody. and far be it from me to deny it. i will even go so far as to assert that in this odd country there was a huge number of somebodies. indeed, it was one of its oddities that every boy and girl in it, was rather too ready to think he or she was somebody; and the worst of it was that the princess never thought of there being more than one somebody--and that was herself. far away to the north in the same country, on the side of a bleak hill, where a horse-chestnut or a sycamore was never seen, where were no meadows rich with buttercups, only steep, rough, breezy slopes, covered with dry prickly furze and its flowers of red gold, or moister, softer broom with its flowers of yellow gold, and great sweeps of purple heather, mixed with bilberries, and crowberries, and cranberries--no, i am all wrong: there was nothing out yet but a few furze-blossoms; the rest were all waiting behind their doors till they were called; and no full, slow-gliding river with meadow-sweet along its oozy banks, only a little brook here and there, that dashed past without a moment to say, "how do you do?"--there (would you believe it?) while the same cloud that was dropping down golden rain all about the queen's new baby was dashing huge fierce handfuls of hail upon the hills, with such force that they flew spinning off the rocks and stones, went burrowing in the sheep's wool, stung the cheeks and chin of the shepherd with their sharp spiteful little blows, and made his dog wink and whine as they bounded off his hard wise head, and long sagacious nose; only, when they dropped plump down the chimney, and fell hissing in the little fire, they caught it then, for the clever little fire soon sent them up the chimney again, a good deal swollen, and harmless enough for a while, there (what do you think?) among the hailstones, and the heather, and the cold mountain air, another little girl was born, whom the shepherd her father, and the shepherdess her mother, and a good many of her kindred too, thought somebody. she had not an uncle or an aunt that was less than a shepherd or dairymaid, not a cousin, that was less than a farm-laborer, not a second-cousin that was less than a grocer, and they did not count farther. and yet (would you believe it?) she too cried the very first thing. it was an odd country! and, what is still more surprising, the shepherd and shepherdess and the dairymaids and the laborers were not a bit wiser than the king and the queen and the dukes and the marquises and the earls; for they too, one and all, so constantly taught the little woman that she was somebody, that she also forgot that there were a great many more somebodies besides herself in the world. it was, indeed, a peculiar country, very different from ours--so different, that my reader must not be too much surprised when i add the amazing fact, that most of its inhabitants, instead of enjoying the things they had, were always wanting the things they had not, often even the things it was least likely they ever could have. the grown men and women being like this, there is no reason to be further astonished that the princess rosamond--the name her parents gave her because it means rose of the world--should grow up like them, wanting every thing she could and every thing she couldn't have. the things she could have were a great many too many, for her foolish parents always gave her what they could; but still there remained a few things they couldn't give her, for they were only a common king and queen. they could and did give her a lighted candle when she cried for it, and managed by much care that she should not burn her fingers or set her frock on fire; but when she cried for the moon, that they could not give her. they did the worst thing possible, instead, however; for they pretended to do what they could not. they got her a thin disc of brilliantly polished silver, as near the size of the moon as they could agree upon; and, for a time she was delighted. but, unfortunately, one evening she made the discovery that her moon was a little peculiar, inasmuch as she could not shine in the dark. her nurse happened to snuff out the candles as she was playing with it; and instantly came a shriek of rage, for her moon had vanished. presently, through the opening of the curtains, she caught sight of the real moon, far away in the sky, and shining quite calmly, as if she had been there all the time; and her rage increased to such a degree that if it had not passed off in a fit, i do not know what might have come of it. as she grew up it was still the same, with this difference, that not only must she have every thing, but she got tired of every thing almost as soon as she had it. there was an accumulation of things in her nursery and schoolroom and bedroom that was perfectly appalling. her mother's wardrobes were almost useless to her, so packed were they with things of which she never took any notice. when she was five years old, they gave her a splendid gold repeater, so close set with diamonds and rubies, that the back was just one crust of gems. in one of her little tempers, as they called her hideously ugly rages, she dashed it against the back of the chimney, after which it never gave a single tick; and some of the diamonds went to the ash-pit. as she grew older still, she became fond of animals, not in a way that brought them much pleasure, or herself much satisfaction. when angry, she would beat them, and try to pull them to pieces, and as soon as she became a little used to them, would neglect them altogether. then, if they could, they would run away, and she was furious. some white mice, which she had ceased feeding altogether, did so; and soon the palace was swarming with white mice. their red eyes might be seen glowing, and their white skins gleaming, in every dark corner; but when it came to the king's finding a nest of them in his second-best crown, he was angry and ordered them to be drowned. the princess heard of it, however, and raised such a clamor, that there they were left until they should run away of themselves; and the poor king had to wear his best crown every day till then. nothing that was the princess's property, whether she cared for it or not, was to be meddled with. of course, as she grew, she grew worse; for she never tried to grow better. she became more and more peevish and fretful every day--dissatisfied not only with what she had, but with all that was around her, and constantly wishing things in general to be different. she found fault with every thing and everybody, and all that happened, and grew more and more disagreeable to every one who had to do with her. at last, when she had nearly killed her nurse, and had all but succeeded in hanging herself, and was miserable from morning to night, her parents thought it time to do something. a long way from the palace, in the heart of a deep wood of pine-trees, lived a wise woman. in some countries she would have been called a witch; but that would have been a mistake, for she never did any thing wicked, and had more power than any witch could have. as her fame was spread through all the country, the king heard of her; and, thinking she might perhaps be able to suggest something, sent for her. in the dead of the night, lest the princess should know it, the king's messenger brought into the palace a tall woman, muffled from head to foot in a cloak of black cloth. in the presence of both their majesties, the king, to do her honor, requested her to sit; but she declined, and stood waiting to hear what they had to say. nor had she to wait long, for almost instantly they began to tell her the dreadful trouble they were in with their only child; first the king talking, then the queen interposing with some yet more dreadful fact, and at times both letting out a torrent of words together, so anxious were they to show the wise woman that their perplexity was real, and their daughter a very terrible one. for a long while there appeared no sign of approaching pause. but the wise woman stood patiently folded in her black cloak, and listened without word or motion. at length silence fell; for they had talked themselves tired, and could not think of any thing more to add to the list of their child's enormities. after a minute, the wise woman unfolded her arms; and her cloak dropping open in front, disclosed a garment made of a strange stuff, which an old poet who knew her well has thus described:- "all lilly white, withoutten spot or pride, that seemd like silke and silver woven neare; but neither silke nor silver therein did appeare." "how very badly you have treated her!" said the wise woman. "poor child!" "treated her badly?" gasped the king. "she is a very wicked child," said the queen; and both glared with indignation. "yes, indeed!" returned the wise woman. "she is very naughty indeed, and that she must be made to feel; but it is half your fault too." "what!" stammered the king. "haven't we given her every mortal thing she wanted?" "surely," said the wise woman: "what else could have all but killed her? you should have given her a few things of the other sort. but you are far too dull to understand me." "you are very polite," remarked the king, with royal sarcasm on his thin, straight lips. the wise woman made no answer beyond a deep sigh; and the king and queen sat silent also in their anger, glaring at the wise woman. the silence lasted again for a minute, and then the wise woman folded her cloak around her, and her shining garment vanished like the moon when a great cloud comes over her. yet another minute passed and the silence endured, for the smouldering wrath of the king and queen choked the channels of their speech. then the wise woman turned her back on them, and so stood. at this, the rage of the king broke forth; and he cried to the queen, stammering in his fierceness,-"how should such an old hag as that teach rosamond good manners? she knows nothing of them herself! look how she stands!--actually with her back to us." at the word the wise woman walked from the room. the great folding doors fell to behind her; and the same moment the king and queen were quarrelling like apes as to which of them was to blame for her departure. before their altercation was over, for it lasted till the early morning, in rushed rosamond, clutching in her hand a poor little white rabbit, of which she was very fond, and from which, only because it would not come to her when she called it, she was pulling handfuls of fur in the attempt to tear the squealing, pink-eared, red-eyed thing to pieces. "rosa, rosamond!" cried the queen; whereupon rosamond threw the rabbit in her mother's face. the king started up in a fury, and ran to seize her. she darted shrieking from the room. the king rushed after her; but, to his amazement, she was nowhere to be seen: the huge hall was empty.--no: just outside the door, close to the threshold, with her back to it, sat the figure of the wise woman, muffled in her dark cloak, with her head bowed over her knees. as the king stood looking at her, she rose slowly, crossed the hall, and walked away down the marble staircase. the king called to her; but she never turned her head, or gave the least sign that she heard him. so quietly did she pass down the wide marble stair, that the king was all but persuaded he had seen only a shadow gliding across the white steps. for the princess, she was nowhere to be found. the queen went into hysterics; and the rabbit ran away. the king sent out messengers in every direction, but in vain. in a short time the palace was quiet--as quiet as it used to be before the princess was born. the king and queen cried a little now and then, for the hearts of parents were in that country strangely fashioned; and yet i am afraid the first movement of those very hearts would have been a jump of terror if the ears above them had heard the voice of rosamond in one of the corridors. as for the rest of the household, they could not have made up a single tear amongst them. they thought, whatever it might be for the princess, it was, for every one else, the best thing that could have happened; and as to what had become of her, if their heads were puzzled, their hearts took no interest in the question. the lord-chancellor alone had an idea about it, but he was far too wise to utter it. ii. the fact, as is plain, was, that the princess had disappeared in the folds of the wise woman's cloak. when she rushed from the room, the wise woman caught her to her bosom and flung the black garment around her. the princess struggled wildly, for she was in fierce terror, and screamed as loud as choking fright would permit her; but her father, standing in the door, and looking down upon the wise woman, saw never a movement of the cloak, so tight was she held by her captor. he was indeed aware of a most angry crying, which reminded him of his daughter; but it sounded to him so far away, that he took it for the passion of some child in the street, outside the palace-gates. hence, unchallenged, the wise woman carried the princess down the marble stairs, out at the palace-door, down a great flight of steps outside, across a paved court, through the brazen gates, along half-roused streets where people were opening their shops, through the huge gates of the city, and out into the wide road, vanishing northwards; the princess struggling and screaming all the time, and the wise woman holding her tight. when at length she was too tired to struggle or scream any more, the wise woman unfolded her cloak, and set her down; and the princess saw the light and opened her swollen eyelids. there was nothing in sight that she had ever seen before. city and palace had disappeared. they were upon a wide road going straight on, with a ditch on each side of it, that behind them widened into the great moat surrounding the city. she cast up a terrified look into the wise woman's face, that gazed down upon her gravely and kindly. now the princess did not in the least understand kindness. she always took it for a sign either of partiality or fear. so when the wise woman looked kindly upon her, she rushed at her, butting with her head like a ram: but the folds of the cloak had closed around the wise woman; and, when the princess ran against it, she found it hard as the cloak of a bronze statue, and fell back upon the road with a great bruise on her head. the wise woman lifted her again, and put her once more under the cloak, where she fell asleep, and where she awoke again only to find that she was still being carried on and on. when at length the wise woman again stopped and set her down, she saw around her a bright moonlit night, on a wide heath, solitary and houseless. here she felt more frightened than before; nor was her terror assuaged when, looking up, she saw a stern, immovable countenance, with cold eyes fixedly regarding her. all she knew of the world being derived from nursery-tales, she concluded that the wise woman was an ogress, carrying her home to eat her. i have already said that the princess was, at this time of her life, such a low-minded creature, that severity had greater influence over her than kindness. she understood terror better far than tenderness. when the wise woman looked at her thus, she fell on her knees, and held up her hands to her, crying,-"oh, don't eat me! don't eat me!" now this being the best she could do, it was a sign she was a low creature. think of it--to kick at kindness, and kneel from terror. but the sternness on the face of the wise woman came from the same heart and the same feeling as the kindness that had shone from it before. the only thing that could save the princess from her hatefulness, was that she should be made to mind somebody else than her own miserable somebody. without saying a word, the wise woman reached down her hand, took one of rosamond's, and, lifting her to her feet, led her along through the moonlight. every now and then a gush of obstinacy would well up in the heart of the princess, and she would give a great ill-tempered tug, and pull her hand away; but then the wise woman would gaze down upon her with such a look, that she instantly sought again the hand she had rejected, in pure terror lest she should be eaten upon the spot. and so they would walk on again; and when the wind blew the folds of the cloak against the princess, she found them soft as her mother's camel-hair shawl. after a little while the wise woman began to sing to her, and the princess could not help listening; for the soft wind amongst the low dry bushes of the heath, the rustle of their own steps, and the trailing of the wise woman's cloak, were the only sounds beside. and this is the song she sang:- out in the cold, with a thin-worn fold of withered gold around her rolled, hangs in the air the weary moon. she is old, old, old; and her bones all cold, and her tales all told, and her things all sold, and she has no breath to croon. like a castaway clout, she is quite shut out! she might call and shout, but no one about would ever call back, "who's there?" there is never a hut, not a door to shut, not a footpath or rut, long road or short cut, leading to anywhere! she is all alone like a dog-picked bone, the poor old crone! she fain would groan, but she cannot find the breath. she once had a fire; but she built it no higher, and only sat nigher till she saw it expire; and now she is cold as death. she never will smile all the lonesome while. oh the mile after mile, and never a stile! and never a tree or a stone! she has not a tear: afar and anear it is all so drear, but she does not care, her heart is as dry as a bone. none to come near her! no one to cheer her! no one to jeer her! no one to hear her! not a thing to lift and hold! she is always awake, but her heart will not break: she can only quake, shiver, and shake: the old woman is very cold. as strange as the song, was the crooning wailing tune that the wise woman sung. at the first note almost, you would have thought she wanted to frighten the princess; and so indeed she did. for when people will be naughty, they have to be frightened, and they are not expected to like it. the princess grew angry, pulled her hand away, and cried,-"you are the ugly old woman. i hate you!" therewith she stood still, expecting the wise woman to stop also, perhaps coax her to go on: if she did, she was determined not to move a step. but the wise woman never even looked about: she kept walking on steadily, the same pace as before. little obstinate thought for certain she would turn; for she regarded herself as much too precious to be left behind. but on and on the wise woman went, until she had vanished away in the dim moonlight. then all at once the princess perceived that she was left alone with the moon, looking down on her from the height of her loneliness. she was horribly frightened, and began to run after the wise woman, calling aloud. but the song she had just heard came back to the sound of her own running feet,- all all alone, like a dog-picked bone! and again,- she might call and shout, and no one about would ever call back, "who's there?" and she screamed as she ran. how she wished she knew the old woman's name, that she might call it after her through the moonlight! but the wise woman had, in truth, heard the first sound of her running feet, and stopped and turned, waiting. what with running and crying, however, and a fall or two as she ran, the princess never saw her until she fell right into her arms--and the same moment into a fresh rage; for as soon as any trouble was over the princess was always ready to begin another. the wise woman therefore pushed her away, and walked on; while the princess ran scolding and storming after her. she had to run till, from very fatigue, her rudeness ceased. her heart gave way; she burst into tears, and ran on silently weeping. a minute more and the wise woman stooped, and lifting her in her arms, folded her cloak around her. instantly she fell asleep, and slept as soft and as soundly as if she had been in her own bed. she slept till the moon went down; she slept till the sun rose up; she slept till he climbed the topmost sky; she slept till he went down again, and the poor old moon came peaking and peering out once more: and all that time the wise woman went walking on and on very fast. and now they had reached a spot where a few fir-trees came to meet them through the moonlight. at the same time the princess awaked, and popping her head out between the folds of the wise woman's cloak--a very ugly little owlet she looked--saw that they were entering the wood. now there is something awful about every wood, especially in the moonlight; and perhaps a fir-wood is more awful than other woods. for one thing, it lets a little more light through, rendering the darkness a little more visible, as it were; and then the trees go stretching away up towards the moon, and look as if they cared nothing about the creatures below them--not like the broad trees with soft wide leaves that, in the darkness even, look sheltering. so the princess is not to be blamed that she was very much frightened. she is hardly to be blamed either that, assured the wise woman was an ogress carrying her to her castle to eat her up, she began again to kick and scream violently, as those of my readers who are of the same sort as herself will consider the right and natural thing to do. the wrong in her was this--that she had led such a bad life, that she did not know a good woman when she saw her; took her for one like herself, even after she had slept in her arms. immediately the wise woman set her down, and, walking on, within a few paces vanished among the trees. then the cries of the princess rent the air, but the fir-trees never heeded her; not one of their hard little needles gave a single shiver for all the noise she made. but there were creatures in the forest who were soon quite as much interested in her cries as the fir-trees were indifferent to them. they began to hearken and howl and snuff about, and run hither and thither, and grin with their white teeth, and light up the green lamps in their eyes. in a minute or two a whole army of wolves and hyenas were rushing from all quarters through the pillar like stems of the fir-trees, to the place where she stood calling them, without knowing it. the noise she made herself, however, prevented her from hearing either their howls or the soft pattering of their many trampling feet as they bounded over the fallen fir needles and cones. one huge old wolf had outsped the rest--not that he could run faster, but that from experience he could more exactly judge whence the cries came, and as he shot through the wood, she caught sight at last of his lamping eyes coming swiftly nearer and nearer. terror silenced her. she stood with her mouth open, as if she were going to eat the wolf, but she had no breath to scream with, and her tongue curled up in her mouth like a withered and frozen leaf. she could do nothing but stare at the coming monster. and now he was taking a few shorter bounds, measuring the distance for the one final leap that should bring him upon her, when out stepped the wise woman from behind the very tree by which she had set the princess down, caught the wolf by the throat half-way in his last spring, shook him once, and threw him from her dead. then she turned towards the princess, who flung herself into her arms, and was instantly lapped in the folds of her cloak. but now the huge army of wolves and hyenas had rushed like a sea around them, whose waves leaped with hoarse roar and hollow yell up against the wise woman. but she, like a strong stately vessel, moved unhurt through the midst of them. ever as they leaped against her cloak, they dropped and slunk away back through the crowd. others ever succeeded, and ever in their turn fell, and drew back confounded. for some time she walked on attended and assailed on all sides by the howling pack. suddenly they turned and swept away, vanishing in the depths of the forest. she neither slackened nor hastened her step, but went walking on as before. in a little while she unfolded her cloak, and let the princess look out. the firs had ceased; and they were on a lofty height of moorland, stony and bare and dry, with tufts of heather and a few small plants here and there. about the heath, on every side, lay the forest, looking in the moonlight like a cloud; and above the forest, like the shaven crown of a monk, rose the bare moor over which they were walking. presently, a little way in front of them, the princess espied a whitewashed cottage, gleaming in the moon. as they came nearer, she saw that the roof was covered with thatch, over which the moss had grown green. it was a very simple, humble place, not in the least terrible to look at, and yet, as soon as she saw it, her fear again awoke, and always, as soon as her fear awoke, the trust of the princess fell into a dead sleep. foolish and useless as she might by this time have known it, she once more began kicking and screaming, whereupon, yet once more, the wise woman set her down on the heath, a few yards from the back of the cottage, and saying only, "no one ever gets into my house who does not knock at the door, and ask to come in," disappeared round the corner of the cottage, leaving the princess alone with the moon--two white faces in the cone of the night. iii. the moon stared at the princess, and the princess stared at the moon; but the moon had the best of it, and the princess began to cry. and now the question was between the moon and the cottage. the princess thought she knew the worst of the moon, and she knew nothing at all about the cottage, therefore she would stay with the moon. strange, was it not, that she should have been so long with the wise woman, and yet know nothing about that cottage? as for the moon, she did not by any means know the worst of her, or even, that, if she were to fall asleep where she could find her, the old witch would certainly do her best to twist her face. but she had scarcely sat a moment longer before she was assailed by all sorts of fresh fears. first of all, the soft wind blowing gently through the dry stalks of the heather and its thousands of little bells raised a sweet rustling, which the princess took for the hissing of serpents, for you know she had been naughty for so long that she could not in a great many things tell the good from the bad. then nobody could deny that there, all round about the heath, like a ring of darkness, lay the gloomy fir-wood, and the princess knew what it was full of, and every now and then she thought she heard the howling of its wolves and hyenas. and who could tell but some of them might break from their covert and sweep like a shadow across the heath? indeed, it was not once nor twice that for a moment she was fully persuaded she saw a great beast coming leaping and bounding through the moonlight to have her all to himself. she did not know that not a single evil creature dared set foot on that heath, or that, if one should do so, it would that instant wither up and cease. if an army of them had rushed to invade it, it would have melted away on the edge of it, and ceased like a dying wave.--she even imagined that the moon was slowly coming nearer and nearer down the sky to take her and freeze her to death in her arms. the wise woman, too, she felt sure, although her cottage looked asleep, was watching her at some little window. in this, however, she would have been quite right, if she had only imagined enough--namely, that the wise woman was watching over her from the little window. but after all, somehow, the thought of the wise woman was less frightful than that of any of her other terrors, and at length she began to wonder whether it might not turn out that she was no ogress, but only a rude, ill-bred, tyrannical, yet on the whole not altogether ill-meaning person. hardly had the possibility arisen in her mind, before she was on her feet: if the woman was any thing short of an ogress, her cottage must be better than that horrible loneliness, with nothing in all the world but a stare; and even an ogress had at least the shape and look of a human being. she darted round the end of the cottage to find the front. but, to her surprise, she came only to another back, for no door was to be seen. she tried the farther end, but still no door. she must have passed it as she ran--but no--neither in gable nor in side was any to be found. a cottage without a door!--she rushed at it in a rage and kicked at the wall with her feet. but the wall was hard as iron, and hurt her sadly through her gay silken slippers. she threw herself on the heath, which came up to the walls of the cottage on every side, and roared and screamed with rage. suddenly, however, she remembered how her screaming had brought the horde of wolves and hyenas about her in the forest, and, ceasing at once, lay still, gazing yet again at the moon. and then came the thought of her parents in the palace at home. in her mind's eye she saw her mother sitting at her embroidery with the tears dropping upon it, and her father staring into the fire as if he were looking for her in its glowing caverns. it is true that if they had both been in tears by her side because of her naughtiness, she would not have cared a straw; but now her own forlorn condition somehow helped her to understand their grief at having lost her, and not only a great longing to be back in her comfortable home, but a feeble flutter of genuine love for her parents awoke in her heart as well, and she burst into real tears--soft, mournful tears--very different from those of rage and disappointment to which she was so much used. and another very remarkable thing was that the moment she began to love her father and mother, she began to wish to see the wise woman again. the idea of her being an ogress vanished utterly, and she thought of her only as one to take her in from the moon, and the loneliness, and the terrors of the forest-haunted heath, and hide her in a cottage with not even a door for the horrid wolves to howl against. but the old woman--as the princess called her, not knowing that her real name was the wise woman--had told her that she must knock at the door: how was she to do that when there was no door? but again she bethought herself--that, if she could not do all she was told, she could, at least, do a part of it: if she could not knock at the door, she could at least knock--say on the wall, for there was nothing else to knock upon--and perhaps the old woman would hear her, and lift her in by some window. thereupon, she rose at once to her feet, and picking up a stone, began to knock on the wall with it. a loud noise was the result, and she found she was knocking on the very door itself. for a moment she feared the old woman would be offended, but the next, there came a voice, saying, "who is there?" the princess answered, "please, old woman, i did not mean to knock so loud." to this there came no reply. then the princess knocked again, this time with her knuckles, and the voice came again, saying, "who is there?" and the princess answered, "rosamond." then a second time there was silence. but the princess soon ventured to knock a third time. "what do you want?" said the voice. "oh, please, let me in!" said the princess. "the moon will keep staring at me; and i hear the wolves in the wood." then the door opened, and the princess entered. she looked all around, but saw nothing of the wise woman. it was a single bare little room, with a white deal table, and a few old wooden chairs, a fire of fir-wood on the hearth, the smoke of which smelt sweet, and a patch of thick-growing heath in one corner. poor as it was, compared to the grand place rosamond had left, she felt no little satisfaction as she shut the door, and looked around her. and what with the sufferings and terrors she had left outside, the new kind of tears she had shed, the love she had begun to feel for her parents, and the trust she had begun to place in the wise woman, it seemed to her as if her soul had grown larger of a sudden, and she had left the days of her childishness and naughtiness far behind her. people are so ready to think themselves changed when it is only their mood that is changed! those who are good-tempered because it is a fine day, will be ill-tempered when it rains: their selves are just the same both days; only in the one case, the fine weather has got into them, in the other the rainy. rosamond, as she sat warming herself by the glow of the peat-fire, turning over in her mind all that had passed, and feeling how pleasant the change in her feelings was, began by degrees to think how very good she had grown, and how very good she was to have grown good, and how extremely good she must always have been that she was able to grow so very good as she now felt she had grown; and she became so absorbed in her self-admiration as never to notice either that the fire was dying, or that a heap of fir-cones lay in a corner near it. suddenly, a great wind came roaring down the chimney, and scattered the ashes about the floor; a tremendous rain followed, and fell hissing on the embers; the moon was swallowed up, and there was darkness all about her. then a flash of lightning, followed by a peal of thunder, so terrified the princess, that she cried aloud for the old woman, but there came no answer to her cry. then in her terror the princess grew angry, and saying to herself, "she must be somewhere in the place, else who was there to open the door to me?" began to shout and yell, and call the wise woman all the bad names she had been in the habit of throwing at her nurses. but there came not a single sound in reply. strange to say, the princess never thought of telling herself now how naughty she was, though that would surely have been reasonable. on the contrary, she thought she had a perfect right to be angry, for was she not most desperately ill used--and a princess too? but the wind howled on, and the rain kept pouring down the chimney, and every now and then the lightning burst out, and the thunder rushed after it, as if the great lumbering sound could ever think to catch up with the swift light! at length the princess had again grown so angry, frightened, and miserable, all together, that she jumped up and hurried about the cottage with outstretched arms, trying to find the wise woman. but being in a bad temper always makes people stupid, and presently she struck her forehead such a blow against something--she thought herself it felt like the old woman's cloak--that she fell back--not on the floor, though, but on the patch of heather, which felt as soft and pleasant as any bed in the palace. there, worn out with weeping and rage, she soon fell fast asleep. she dreamed that she was the old cold woman up in the sky, with no home and no friends, and no nothing at all, not even a pocket; wandering, wandering forever, over a desert of blue sand, never to get to anywhere, and never to lie down or die. it was no use stopping to look about her, for what had she to do but forever look about her as she went on and on and on--never seeing any thing, and never expecting to see any thing! the only shadow of a hope she had was, that she might by slow degrees grow thinner and thinner, until at last she wore away to nothing at all; only alas! she could not detect the least sign that she had yet begun to grow thinner. the hopelessness grew at length so unendurable that she woke with a start. seeing the face of the wise woman bending over her, she threw her arms around her neck and held up her mouth to be kissed. and the kiss of the wise woman was like the rose-gardens of damascus. iv. the wise woman lifted her tenderly, and washed and dressed her far more carefully than even her nurse. then she set her down by the fire, and prepared her breakfast. the princess was very hungry, and the bread and milk as good as it could be, so that she thought she had never in her life eaten any thing nicer. nevertheless, as soon as she began to have enough, she said to herself,-"ha! i see how it is! the old woman wants to fatten me! that is why she gives me such nice creamy milk. she doesn't kill me now because she's going to kill me then! she is an ogress, after all!" thereupon she laid down her spoon, and would not eat another mouthful--only followed the basin with longing looks, as the wise woman carried it away. when she stopped eating, her hostess knew exactly what she was thinking; but it was one thing to understand the princess, and quite another to make the princess understand her: that would require time. for the present she took no notice, but went about the affairs of the house, sweeping the floor, brushing down the cobwebs, cleaning the hearth, dusting the table and chairs, and watering the bed to keep it fresh and alive--for she never had more than one guest at a time, and never would allow that guest to go to sleep upon any thing that had no life in it. all the time she was thus busied, she spoke not a word to the princess, which, with the princess, went to confirm her notion of her purposes. but whatever she might have said would have been only perverted by the princess into yet stronger proof of her evil designs, for a fancy in her own head would outweigh any multitude of facts in another's. she kept staring at the fire, and never looked round to see what the wise woman might be doing. by and by she came close up to the back of her chair, and said, "rosamond!" but the princess had fallen into one of her sulky moods, and shut herself up with her own ugly somebody; so she never looked round or even answered the wise woman. "rosamond," she repeated, "i am going out. if you are a good girl, that is, if you do as i tell you, i will carry you back to your father and mother the moment i return." the princess did not take the least notice. "look at me, rosamond," said the wise woman. but rosamond never moved--never even shrugged her shoulders--perhaps because they were already up to her ears, and could go no farther. "i want to help you to do what i tell you," said the wise woman. "look at me." still rosamond was motionless and silent, saying only to herself, "i know what she's after! she wants to show me her horrid teeth. but i won't look. i'm not going to be frightened out of my senses to please her." "you had better look, rosamond. have you forgotten how you kissed me this morning?" but rosamond now regarded that little throb of affection as a momentary weakness into which the deceitful ogress had betrayed her, and almost despised herself for it. she was one of those who the more they are coaxed are the more disagreeable. for such, the wise woman had an awful punishment, but she remembered that the princess had been very ill brought up, and therefore wished to try her with all gentleness first. she stood silent for a moment, to see what effect her words might have. but rosamond only said to herself,-"she wants to fatten and eat me." and it was such a little while since she had looked into the wise woman's loving eyes, thrown her arms round her neck, and kissed her! "well," said the wise woman gently, after pausing as long as it seemed possible she might bethink herself, "i must tell you then without; only whoever listens with her back turned, listens but half, and gets but half the help." "she wants to fatten me," said the princess. "you must keep the cottage tidy while i am out. when i come back, i must see the fire bright, the hearth swept, and the kettle boiling; no dust on the table or chairs, the windows clear, the floor clean, and the heather in blossom--which last comes of sprinkling it with water three times a day. when you are hungry, put your hand into that hole in the wall, and you will find a meal." "she wants to fatten me," said the princess. "but on no account leave the house till i come back," continued the wise woman, "or you will grievously repent it. remember what you have already gone through to reach it. dangers lie all around this cottage of mine; but inside, it is the safest place--in fact the only quite safe place in all the country." "she means to eat me," said the princess, "and therefore wants to frighten me from running away." she heard the voice no more. then, suddenly startled at the thought of being alone, she looked hastily over her shoulder. the cottage was indeed empty of all visible life. it was soundless, too: there was not even a ticking clock or a flapping flame. the fire burned still and smouldering-wise; but it was all the company she had, and she turned again to stare into it. soon she began to grow weary of having nothing to do. then she remembered that the old woman, as she called her, had told her to keep the house tidy. "the miserable little pig-sty!" she said. "where's the use of keeping such a hovel clean!" but in truth she would have been glad of the employment, only just because she had been told to do it, she was unwilling; for there are people--however unlikely it may seem--who object to doing a thing for no other reason than that it is required of them. "i am a princess," she said, "and it is very improper to ask me to do such a thing." she might have judged it quite as suitable for a princess to sweep away the dust as to sit the centre of a world of dirt. but just because she ought, she wouldn't. perhaps she feared that if she gave in to doing her duty once, she might have to do it always--which was true enough--for that was the very thing for which she had been specially born. unable, however, to feel quite comfortable in the resolve to neglect it, she said to herself, "i'm sure there's time enough for such a nasty job as that!" and sat on, watching the fire as it burned away, the glowing red casting off white flakes, and sinking lower and lower on the hearth. by and by, merely for want of something to do, she would see what the old woman had left for her in the hole of the wall. but when she put in her hand she found nothing there, except the dust which she ought by this time to have wiped away. never reflecting that the wise woman had told her she would find food there when she was hungry, she flew into one of her furies, calling her a cheat, and a thief, and a liar, and an ugly old witch, and an ogress, and i do not know how many wicked names besides. she raged until she was quite exhausted, and then fell fast asleep on her chair. when she awoke the fire was out. by this time she was hungry; but without looking in the hole, she began again to storm at the wise woman, in which labor she would no doubt have once more exhausted herself, had not something white caught her eye: it was the corner of a napkin hanging from the hole in the wall. she bounded to it, and there was a dinner for her of something strangely good--one of her favorite dishes, only better than she had ever tasted it before. this might surely have at least changed her mood towards the wise woman; but she only grumbled to herself that it was as it ought to be, ate up the food, and lay down on the bed, never thinking of fire, or dust, or water for the heather. the wind began to moan about the cottage, and grew louder and louder, till a great gust came down the chimney, and again scattered the white ashes all over the place. but the princess was by this time fast asleep, and never woke till the wind had sunk to silence. one of the consequences, however, of sleeping when one ought to be awake is waking when one ought to be asleep; and the princess awoke in the black midnight, and found enough to keep her awake. for although the wind had fallen, there was a far more terrible howling than that of the wildest wind all about the cottage. nor was the howling all; the air was full of strange cries; and everywhere she heard the noise of claws scratching against the house, which seemed all doors and windows, so crowded were the sounds, and from so many directions. all the night long she lay half swooning, yet listening to the hideous noises. but with the first glimmer of morning they ceased. then she said to herself, "how fortunate it was that i woke! they would have eaten me up if i had been asleep." the miserable little wretch actually talked as if she had kept them out! if she had done her work in the day, she would have slept through the terrors of the darkness, and awaked fearless; whereas now, she had in the storehouse of her heart a whole harvest of agonies, reaped from the dun fields of the night! they were neither wolves nor hyenas which had caused her such dismay, but creatures of the air, more frightful still, which, as soon as the smoke of the burning fir-wood ceased to spread itself abroad, and the sun was a sufficient distance down the sky, and the lone cold woman was out, came flying and howling about the cottage, trying to get in at every door and window. down the chimney they would have got, but that at the heart of the fire there always lay a certain fir-cone, which looked like solid gold red-hot, and which, although it might easily get covered up with ashes, so as to be quite invisible, was continually in a glow fit to kindle all the fir-cones in the world; this it was which had kept the horrible birds--some say they have a claw at the tip of every wing-feather--from tearing the poor naughty princess to pieces, and gobbling her up. when she rose and looked about her, she was dismayed to see what a state the cottage was in. the fire was out, and the windows were all dim with the wings and claws of the dirty birds, while the bed from which she had just risen was brown and withered, and half its purple bells had fallen. but she consoled herself that she could set all to rights in a few minutes--only she must breakfast first. and, sure enough, there was a basin of the delicious bread and milk ready for her in the hole of the wall! after she had eaten it, she felt comfortable, and sat for a long time building castles in the air--till she was actually hungry again, without having done an atom of work. she ate again, and was idle again, and ate again. then it grew dark, and she went trembling to bed, for now she remembered the horrors of the last night. this time she never slept at all, but spent the long hours in grievous terror, for the noises were worse than before. she vowed she would not pass another night in such a hateful haunted old shed for all the ugly women, witches, and ogresses in the wide world. in the morning, however, she fell asleep, and slept late. breakfast was of course her first thought, after which she could not avoid that of work. it made her very miserable, but she feared the consequences of being found with it undone. a few minutes before noon, she actually got up, took her pinafore for a duster, and proceeded to dust the table. but the wood-ashes flew about so, that it seemed useless to attempt getting rid of them, and she sat down again to think what was to be done. but there is very little indeed to be done when we will not do that which we have to do. her first thought now was to run away at once while the sun was high, and get through the forest before night came on. she fancied she could easily go back the way she had come, and get home to her father's palace. but not the most experienced traveller in the world can ever go back the way the wise woman has brought him. she got up and went to the door. it was locked! what could the old woman have meant by telling her not to leave the cottage? she was indignant. the wise woman had meant to make it difficult, but not impossible. before the princess, however, could find the way out, she heard a hand at the door, and darted in terror behind it. the wise woman opened it, and, leaving it open, walked straight to the hearth. rosamond immediately slid out, ran a little way, and then laid herself down in the long heather. v. the wise woman walked straight up to the hearth, looked at the fire, looked at the bed, glanced round the room, and went up to the table. when she saw the one streak in the thick dust which the princess had left there, a smile, half sad, half pleased, like the sun peeping through a cloud on a rainy day in spring, gleamed over her face. she went at once to the door, and called in a loud voice, "rosamond, come to me." all the wolves and hyenas, fast asleep in the wood, heard her voice, and shivered in their dreams. no wonder then that the princess trembled, and found herself compelled, she could not understand how, to obey the summons. she rose, like the guilty thing she felt, forsook of herself the hiding-place she had chosen, and walked slowly back to the cottage she had left full of the signs of her shame. when she entered, she saw the wise woman on her knees, building up the fire with fir-cones. already the flame was climbing through the heap in all directions, crackling gently, and sending a sweet aromatic odor through the dusty cottage. "that is my part of the work," she said, rising. "now you do yours. but first let me remind you that if you had not put it off, you would have found it not only far easier, but by and by quite pleasant work, much more pleasant than you can imagine now; nor would you have found the time go wearily: you would neither have slept in the day and let the fire out, nor waked at night and heard the howling of the beast-birds. more than all, you would have been glad to see me when i came back; and would have leaped into my arms instead of standing there, looking so ugly and foolish." as she spoke, suddenly she held up before the princess a tiny mirror, so clear that nobody looking into it could tell what it was made of, or even see it at all--only the thing reflected in it. rosamond saw a child with dirty fat cheeks, greedy mouth, cowardly eyes--which, not daring to look forward, seemed trying to hide behind an impertinent nose--stooping shoulders, tangled hair, tattered clothes, and smears and stains everywhere. that was what she had made herself. and to tell the truth, she was shocked at the sight, and immediately began, in her dirty heart, to lay the blame on the wise woman, because she had taken her away from her nurses and her fine clothes; while all the time she knew well enough that, close by the heather-bed, was the loveliest little well, just big enough to wash in, the water of which was always springing fresh from the ground, and running away through the wall. beside it lay the whitest of linen towels, with a comb made of mother-of-pearl, and a brush of fir-needles, any one of which she had been far too lazy to use. she dashed the glass out of the wise woman's hand, and there it lay, broken into a thousand pieces! without a word, the wise woman stooped, and gathered the fragments--did not leave searching until she had gathered the last atom, and she laid them all carefully, one by one, in the fire, now blazing high on the hearth. then she stood up and looked at the princess, who had been watching her sulkily. "rosamond," she said, with a countenance awful in its sternness, "until you have cleansed this room--" "she calls it a room!" sneered the princess to herself. "you shall have no morsel to eat. you may drink of the well, but nothing else you shall have. when the work i set you is done, you will find food in the same place as before. i am going from home again; and again i warn you not to leave the house." "she calls it a house!--it's a good thing she's going out of it anyhow!" said the princess, turning her back for mere rudeness, for she was one who, even if she liked a thing before, would dislike it the moment any person in authority over her desired her to do it. when she looked again, the wise woman had vanished. thereupon the princess ran at once to the door, and tried to open it; but open it would not. she searched on all sides, but could discover no way of getting out. the windows would not open--at least she could not open them; and the only outlet seemed the chimney, which she was afraid to try because of the fire, which looked angry, she thought, and shot out green flames when she went near it. so she sat down to consider. one may well wonder what room for consideration there was--with all her work lying undone behind her. she sat thus, however, considering, as she called it, until hunger began to sting her, when she jumped up and put her hand as usual in the hole of the wall: there was nothing there. she fell straight into one of her stupid rages; but neither her hunger nor the hole in the wall heeded her rage. then, in a burst of self-pity, she fell a-weeping, but neither the hunger nor the hole cared for her tears. the darkness began to come on, and her hunger grew and grew, and the terror of the wild noises of the last night invaded her. then she began to feel cold, and saw that the fire was dying. she darted to the heap of cones, and fed it. it blazed up cheerily, and she was comforted a little. then she thought with herself it would surely be better to give in so far, and do a little work, than die of hunger. so catching up a duster, she began upon the table. the dust flew about and nearly choked her. she ran to the well to drink, and was refreshed and encouraged. perceiving now that it was a tedious plan to wipe the dust from the table on to the floor, whence it would have all to be swept up again, she got a wooden platter, wiped the dust into that, carried it to the fire, and threw it in. but all the time she was getting more and more hungry and, although she tried the hole again and again, it was only to become more and more certain that work she must if she would eat. at length all the furniture was dusted, and she began to sweep the floor, which happily, she thought of sprinkling with water, as from the window she had seen them do to the marble court of the palace. that swept, she rushed again to the hole--but still no food! she was on the verge of another rage, when the thought came that she might have forgotten something. to her dismay she found that table and chairs and every thing was again covered with dust--not so badly as before, however. again she set to work, driven by hunger, and drawn by the hope of eating, and yet again, after a second careful wiping, sought the hole. but no! nothing was there for her! what could it mean? her asking this question was a sign of progress: it showed that she expected the wise woman to keep her word. then she bethought her that she had forgotten the household utensils, and the dishes and plates, some of which wanted to be washed as well as dusted. faint with hunger, she set to work yet again. one thing made her think of another, until at length she had cleaned every thing she could think of. now surely she must find some food in the hole! when this time also there was nothing, she began once more to abuse the wise woman as false and treacherous;--but ah! there was the bed unwatered! that was soon amended.--still no supper! ah! there was the hearth unswept, and the fire wanted making up!--still no supper! what else could there be? she was at her wits' end, and in very weariness, not laziness this time, sat down and gazed into the fire. there, as she gazed, she spied something brilliant,--shining even, in the midst of the fire: it was the little mirror all whole again; but little she knew that the dust which she had thrown into the fire had helped to heal it. she drew it out carefully, and, looking into it, saw, not indeed the ugly creature she had seen there before, but still a very dirty little animal; whereupon she hurried to the well, took off her clothes, plunged into it, and washed herself clean. then she brushed and combed her hair, made her clothes as tidy as might be, and ran to the hole in the wall: there was a huge basin of bread and milk! never had she eaten any thing with half the relish! alas! however, when she had finished, she did not wash the basin, but left it as it was, revealing how entirely all the rest had been done only from hunger. then she threw herself on the heather, and was fast asleep in a moment. never an evil bird came near her all that night, nor had she so much as one troubled dream. in the morning as she lay awake before getting up, she spied what seemed a door behind the tall eight-day clock that stood silent in the corner. "ah!" she thought, "that must be the way out!" and got up instantly. the first thing she did, however, was to go to the hole in the wall. nothing was there. "well, i am hardly used!" she cried aloud. "all that cleaning for the cross old woman yesterday, and this for my trouble,--nothing for breakfast! not even a crust of bread! does mistress ogress fancy a princess will bear that?" the poor foolish creature seemed to think that the work of one day ought to serve for the next day too! but that is nowhere the way in the whole universe. how could there be a universe in that case? and even she never dreamed of applying the same rule to her breakfast. "how good i was all yesterday!" she said, "and how hungry and ill used i am to-day!" but she would not be a slave, and do over again to-day what she had done only last night! she didn't care about her breakfast! she might have it no doubt if she dusted all the wretched place again, but she was not going to do that--at least, without seeing first what lay behind the clock! off she darted, and putting her hand behind the clock found the latch of a door. it lifted, and the door opened a little way. by squeezing hard, she managed to get behind the clock, and so through the door. but how she stared, when instead of the open heath, she found herself on the marble floor of a large and stately room, lighted only from above. its walls were strengthened by pilasters, and in every space between was a large picture, from cornice to floor. she did not know what to make of it. surely she had run all round the cottage, and certainly had seen nothing of this size near it! she forgot that she had also run round what she took for a hay-mow, a peat-stack, and several other things which looked of no consequence in the moonlight. "so, then," she cried, "the old woman is a cheat! i believe she's an ogress, after all, and lives in a palace--though she pretends it's only a cottage, to keep people from suspecting that she eats good little children like me!" had the princess been tolerably tractable, she would, by this time, have known a good deal about the wise woman's beautiful house, whereas she had never till now got farther than the porch. neither was she at all in its innermost places now. but, king's daughter as she was, she was not a little daunted when, stepping forward from the recess of the door, she saw what a great lordly hall it was. she dared hardly look to the other end, it seemed so far off: so she began to gaze at the things near her, and the pictures first of all, for she had a great liking for pictures. one in particular attracted her attention. she came back to it several times, and at length stood absorbed in it. a blue summer sky, with white fleecy clouds floating beneath it, hung over a hill green to the very top, and alive with streams darting down its sides toward the valley below. on the face of the hill strayed a flock of sheep feeding, attended by a shepherd and two dogs. a little way apart, a girl stood with bare feet in a brook, building across it a bridge of rough stones. the wind was blowing her hair back from her rosy face. a lamb was feeding close beside her; and a sheepdog was trying to reach her hand to lick it. "oh, how i wish i were that little girl!" said the princess aloud. "i wonder how it is that some people are made to be so much happier than others! if i were that little girl, no one would ever call me naughty." she gazed and gazed at the picture. at length she said to herself, "i do not believe it is a picture. it is the real country, with a real hill, and a real little girl upon it. i shall soon see whether this isn't another of the old witch's cheats!" she went close up to the picture, lifted her foot, and stepped over the frame. "i am free, i am free!" she exclaimed; and she felt the wind upon her cheek. the sound of a closing door struck on her ear. she turned--and there was a blank wall, without door or window, behind her. the hill with the sheep was before her, and she set out at once to reach it. now, if i am asked how this could be, i can only answer, that it was a result of the interaction of things outside and things inside, of the wise woman's skill, and the silly child's folly. if this does not satisfy my questioner, i can only add, that the wise woman was able to do far more wonderful things than this. vi. meantime the wise woman was busy as she always was; and her business now was with the child of the shepherd and shepherdess, away in the north. her name was agnes. her father and mother were poor, and could not give her many things. rosamond would have utterly despised the rude, simple playthings she had. yet in one respect they were of more value far than hers: the king bought rosamond's with his money; agnes's father made hers with his hands. and while agnes had but few things--not seeing many things about her, and not even knowing that there were many things anywhere, she did not wish for many things, and was therefore neither covetous nor avaricious. she played with the toys her father made her, and thought them the most wonderful things in the world--windmills, and little crooks, and water-wheels, and sometimes lambs made all of wool, and dolls made out of the leg-bones of sheep, which her mother dressed for her; and of such playthings she was never tired. sometimes, however, she preferred playing with stones, which were plentiful, and flowers, which were few, or the brooks that ran down the hill, of which, although they were many, she could only play with one at a time, and that, indeed, troubled her a little--or live lambs that were not all wool, or the sheep-dogs, which were very friendly with her, and the best of playfellows, as she thought, for she had no human ones to compare them with. neither was she greedy after nice things, but content, as well she might be, with the homely food provided for her. nor was she by nature particularly self-willed or disobedient; she generally did what her father and mother wished, and believed what they told her. but by degrees they had spoiled her; and this was the way: they were so proud of her that they always repeated every thing she said, and told every thing she did, even when she was present; and so full of admiration of their child were they, that they wondered and laughed at and praised things in her which in another child would never have struck them as the least remarkable, and some things even which would in another have disgusted them altogether. impertinent and rude things done by their child they thought so clever! laughing at them as something quite marvellous; her commonplace speeches were said over again as if they had been the finest poetry; and the pretty ways which every moderately good child has were extolled as if the result of her excellent taste, and the choice of her judgment and will. they would even say sometimes that she ought not to hear her own praises for fear it should make her vain, and then whisper them behind their hands, but so loud that she could not fail to hear every word. the consequence was that she soon came to believe--so soon, that she could not recall the time when she did not believe, as the most absolute fact in the universe, that she was somebody; that is, she became most immoderately conceited. now as the least atom of conceit is a thing to be ashamed of, you may fancy what she was like with such a quantity of it inside her! at first it did not show itself outside in any very active form; but the wise woman had been to the cottage, and had seen her sitting alone, with such a smile of self-satisfaction upon her face as would have been quite startling to her, if she had ever been startled at any thing; for through that smile she could see lying at the root of it the worm that made it. for some smiles are like the ruddiness of certain apples, which is owing to a centipede, or other creeping thing, coiled up at the heart of them. only her worm had a face and shape the very image of her own; and she looked so simpering, and mawkish, and self-conscious, and silly, that she made the wise woman feel rather sick. not that the child was a fool. had she been, the wise woman would have only pitied and loved her, instead of feeling sick when she looked at her. she had very fair abilities, and were she once but made humble, would be capable not only of doing a good deal in time, but of beginning at once to grow to no end. but, if she were not made humble, her growing would be to a mass of distorted shapes all huddled together; so that, although the body she now showed might grow up straight and well-shaped and comely to behold, the new body that was growing inside of it, and would come out of it when she died, would be ugly, and crooked this way and that, like an aged hawthorn that has lived hundreds of years exposed upon all sides to salt sea-winds. as time went on, this disease of self-conceit went on too, gradually devouring the good that was in her. for there is no fault that does not bring its brothers and sisters and cousins to live with it. by degrees, from thinking herself so clever, she came to fancy that whatever seemed to her, must of course be the correct judgment, and whatever she wished, the right thing; and grew so obstinate, that at length her parents feared to thwart her in any thing, knowing well that she would never give in. but there are victories far worse than defeats; and to overcome an angel too gentle to put out all his strength, and ride away in triumph on the back of a devil, is one of the poorest. so long as she was left to take her own way and do as she would, she gave her parents little trouble. she would play about by herself in the little garden with its few hardy flowers, or amongst the heather where the bees were busy; or she would wander away amongst the hills, and be nobody knew where, sometimes from morning to night; nor did her parents venture to find fault with her. she never went into rages like the princess, and would have thought rosamond--oh, so ugly and vile! if she had seen her in one of her passions. but she was no better, for all that, and was quite as ugly in the eyes of the wise woman, who could not only see but read her face. what is there to choose between a face distorted to hideousness by anger, and one distorted to silliness by self-complacency? true, there is more hope of helping the angry child out of her form of selfishness than the conceited child out of hers; but on the other hand, the conceited child was not so terrible or dangerous as the wrathful one. the conceited one, however, was sometimes very angry, and then her anger was more spiteful than the other's; and, again, the wrathful one was often very conceited too. so that, on the whole, of two very unpleasant creatures, i would say that the king's daughter would have been the worse, had not the shepherd's been quite as bad. but, as i have said, the wise woman had her eye upon her: she saw that something special must be done, else she would be one of those who kneel to their own shadows till feet grow on their knees; then go down on their hands till their hands grow into feet; then lay their faces on the ground till they grow into snouts; when at last they are a hideous sort of lizards, each of which believes himself the best, wisest, and loveliest being in the world, yea, the very centre of the universe. and so they run about forever looking for their own shadows, that they may worship them, and miserable because they cannot find them, being themselves too near the ground to have any shadows; and what becomes of them at last there is but one who knows. the wise woman, therefore, one day walked up to the door of the shepherd's cottage, dressed like a poor woman, and asked for a drink of water. the shepherd's wife looked at her, liked her, and brought her a cup of milk. the wise woman took it, for she made it a rule to accept every kindness that was offered her. agnes was not by nature a greedy girl, as i have said; but self-conceit will go far to generate every other vice under the sun. vanity, which is a form of self-conceit, has repeatedly shown itself as the deepest feeling in the heart of a horrible murderess. that morning, at breakfast, her mother had stinted her in milk--just a little--that she might have enough to make some milk-porridge for their dinner. agnes did not mind it at the time, but when she saw the milk now given to a beggar, as she called the wise woman--though, surely, one might ask a draught of water, and accept a draught of milk, without being a beggar in any such sense as agnes's contemptuous use of the word implied--a cloud came upon her forehead, and a double vertical wrinkle settled over her nose. the wise woman saw it, for all her business was with agnes though she little knew it, and, rising, went and offered the cup to the child, where she sat with her knitting in a corner. agnes looked at it, did not want it, was inclined to refuse it from a beggar, but thinking it would show her consequence to assert her rights, took it and drank it up. for whoever is possessed by a devil, judges with the mind of that devil; and hence agnes was guilty of such a meanness as many who are themselves capable of something just as bad will consider incredible. the wise woman waited till she had finished it--then, looking into the empty cup, said: "you might have given me back as much as you had no claim upon!" agnes turned away and made no answer--far less from shame than indignation. the wise woman looked at the mother. "you should not have offered it to her if you did not mean her to have it," said the mother, siding with the devil in her child against the wise woman and her child too. some foolish people think they take another's part when they take the part he takes. the wise woman said nothing, but fixed her eyes upon her, and soon the mother hid her face in her apron weeping. then she turned again to agnes, who had never looked round but sat with her back to both, and suddenly lapped her in the folds of her cloak. when the mother again lifted her eyes, she had vanished. never supposing she had carried away her child, but uncomfortable because of what she had said to the poor woman, the mother went to the door, and called after her as she toiled slowly up the hill. but she never turned her head; and the mother went back into her cottage. the wise woman walked close past the shepherd and his dogs, and through the midst of his flock of sheep. the shepherd wondered where she could be going--right up the hill. there was something strange about her too, he thought; and he followed her with his eyes as she went up and up. it was near sunset, and as the sun went down, a gray cloud settled on the top of the mountain, which his last rays turned into a rosy gold. straight into this cloud the shepherd saw the woman hold her pace, and in it she vanished. he little imagined that his child was under her cloak. he went home as usual in the evening, but agnes had not come in. they were accustomed to such an absence now and then, and were not at first frightened; but when it grew dark and she did not appear, the husband set out with his dogs in one direction, and the wife in another, to seek their child. morning came and they had not found her. then the whole country-side arose to search for the missing agnes; but day after day and night after night passed, and nothing was discovered of or concerning her, until at length all gave up the search in despair except the mother, although she was nearly convinced now that the poor woman had carried her off. one day she had wandered some distance from her cottage, thinking she might come upon the remains of her daughter at the foot of some cliff, when she came suddenly, instead, upon a disconsolate-looking creature sitting on a stone by the side of a stream. her hair hung in tangles from her head; her clothes were tattered, and through the rents her skin showed in many places; her cheeks were white, and worn thin with hunger; the hollows were dark under her eyes, and they stood out scared and wild. when she caught sight of the shepherdess, she jumped to her feet, and would have run away, but fell down in a faint. at first sight the mother had taken her for her own child, but now she saw, with a pang of disappointment, that she had mistaken. full of compassion, nevertheless, she said to herself: "if she is not my agnes, she is as much in need of help as if she were. if i cannot be good to my own, i will be as good as i can to some other woman's; and though i should scorn to be consoled for the loss of one by the presence of another, i yet may find some gladness in rescuing one child from the death which has taken the other." perhaps her words were not just like these, but her thoughts were. she took up the child, and carried her home. and this is how rosamond came to occupy the place of the little girl whom she had envied in the picture. vii. notwithstanding the differences between the two girls, which were, indeed, so many that most people would have said they were not in the least alike, they were the same in this, that each cared more for her own fancies and desires than for any thing else in the world. but i will tell you another difference: the princess was like several children in one--such was the variety of her moods; and in one mood she had no recollection or care about any thing whatever belonging to a previous mood--not even if it had left her but a moment before, and had been so violent as to make her ready to put her hand in the fire to get what she wanted. plainly she was the mere puppet of her moods, and more than that, any cunning nurse who knew her well enough could call or send away those moods almost as she pleased, like a showman pulling strings behind a show. agnes, on the contrary, seldom changed her mood, but kept that of calm assured self-satisfaction. father nor mother had ever by wise punishment helped her to gain a victory over herself, and do what she did not like or choose; and their folly in reasoning with one unreasonable had fixed her in her conceit. she would actually nod her head to herself in complacent pride that she had stood out against them. this, however, was not so difficult as to justify even the pride of having conquered, seeing she loved them so little, and paid so little attention to the arguments and persuasions they used. neither, when she found herself wrapped in the dark folds of the wise woman's cloak, did she behave in the least like the princess, for she was not afraid. "she'll soon set me down," she said, too self-important to suppose that any one would dare do her an injury. whether it be a good thing or a bad not to be afraid depends on what the fearlessness is founded upon. some have no fear, because they have no knowledge of the danger: there is nothing fine in that. some are too stupid to be afraid: there is nothing fine in that. some who are not easily frightened would yet turn their backs and run, the moment they were frightened: such never had more courage than fear. but the man who will do his work in spite of his fear is a man of true courage. the fearlessness of agnes was only ignorance: she did not know what it was to be hurt; she had never read a single story of giant, or ogress or wolf; and her mother had never carried out one of her threats of punishment. if the wise woman had but pinched her, she would have shown herself an abject little coward, trembling with fear at every change of motion so long as she carried her. nothing such, however, was in the wise woman's plan for the curing of her. on and on she carried her without a word. she knew that if she set her down she would never run after her like the princess, at least not before the evil thing was already upon her. on and on she went, never halting, never letting the light look in, or agnes look out. she walked very fast, and got home to her cottage very soon after the princess had gone from it. but she did not set agnes down either in the cottage or in the great hall. she had other places, none of them alike. the place she had chosen for agnes was a strange one--such a one as is to be found nowhere else in the wide world. it was a great hollow sphere, made of a substance similar to that of the mirror which rosamond had broken, but differently compounded. that substance no one could see by itself. it had neither door, nor window, nor any opening to break its perfect roundness. the wise woman carried agnes into a dark room, there undressed her, took from her hand her knitting-needles, and put her, naked as she was born, into the hollow sphere. what sort of a place it was she could not tell. she could see nothing but a faint cold bluish light all about her. she could not feel that any thing supported her, and yet she did not sink. she stood for a while, perfectly calm, then sat down. nothing bad could happen to her--she was so important! and, indeed, it was but this: she had cared only for somebody, and now she was going to have only somebody. her own choice was going to be carried a good deal farther for her than she would have knowingly carried it for herself. after sitting a while, she wished she had something to do, but nothing came. a little longer, and it grew wearisome. she would see whether she could not walk out of the strange luminous dusk that surrounded her. walk she found she could, well enough, but walk out she could not. on and on she went, keeping as much in a straight line as she might, but after walking until she was thoroughly tired, she found herself no nearer out of her prison than before. she had not, indeed, advanced a single step; for, in whatever direction she tried to go, the sphere turned round and round, answering her feet accordingly. like a squirrel in his cage she but kept placing another spot of the cunningly suspended sphere under her feet, and she would have been still only at its lowest point after walking for ages. at length she cried aloud; but there was no answer. it grew dreary and drearier--in her, that is: outside there was no change. nothing was overhead, nothing under foot, nothing on either hand, but the same pale, faint, bluish glimmer. she wept at last, then grew very angry, and then sullen; but nobody heeded whether she cried or laughed. it was all the same to the cold unmoving twilight that rounded her. on and on went the dreary hours--or did they go at all?--"no change, no pause, no hope;"--on and on till she felt she was forgotten, and then she grew strangely still and fell asleep. the moment she was asleep, the wise woman came, lifted her out, and laid her in her bosom; fed her with a wonderful milk, which she received without knowing it; nursed her all the night long, and, just ere she woke, laid her back in the blue sphere again. when first she came to herself, she thought the horrors of the preceding day had been all a dream of the night. but they soon asserted themselves as facts, for here they were!--nothing to see but a cold blue light, and nothing to do but see it. oh, how slowly the hours went by! she lost all notion of time. if she had been told that she had been there twenty years, she would have believed it--or twenty minutes--it would have been all the same: except for weariness, time was for her no more. another night came, and another still, during both of which the wise woman nursed and fed her. but she knew nothing of that, and the same one dreary day seemed ever brooding over her. all at once, on the third day, she was aware that a naked child was seated beside her. but there was something about the child that made her shudder. she never looked at agnes, but sat with her chin sunk on her chest, and her eyes staring at her own toes. she was the color of pale earth, with a pinched nose, and a mere slit in her face for a mouth. "how ugly she is!" thought agnes. "what business has she beside me!" but it was so lonely that she would have been glad to play with a serpent, and put out her hand to touch her. she touched nothing. the child, also, put out her hand--but in the direction away from agnes. and that was well, for if she had touched agnes it would have killed her. then agnes said, "who are you?" and the little girl said, "who are you?" "i am agnes," said agnes; and the little girl said, "i am agnes." then agnes thought she was mocking her, and said, "you are ugly;" and the little girl said, "you are ugly." then agnes lost her temper, and put out her hands to seize the little girl; but lo! the little girl was gone, and she found herself tugging at her own hair. she let go; and there was the little girl again! agnes was furious now, and flew at her to bite her. but she found her teeth in her own arm, and the little girl was gone--only to return again; and each time she came back she was tenfold uglier than before. and now agnes hated her with her whole heart. the moment she hated her, it flashed upon her with a sickening disgust that the child was not another, but her self, her somebody, and that she was now shut up with her for ever and ever--no more for one moment ever to be alone. in her agony of despair, sleep descended, and she slept. when she woke, there was the little girl, heedless, ugly, miserable, staring at her own toes. all at once, the creature began to smile, but with such an odious, self-satisfied expression, that agnes felt ashamed of seeing her. then she began to pat her own cheeks, to stroke her own body, and examine her finger-ends, nodding her head with satisfaction. agnes felt that there could not be such another hateful, ape-like creature, and at the same time was perfectly aware she was only doing outside of her what she herself had been doing, as long as she could remember, inside of her. she turned sick at herself, and would gladly have been put out of existence, but for three days the odious companionship went on. by the third day, agnes was not merely sick but ashamed of the life she had hitherto led, was despicable in her own eyes, and astonished that she had never seen the truth concerning herself before. the next morning she woke in the arms of the wise woman; the horror had vanished from her sight, and two heavenly eyes were gazing upon her. she wept and clung to her, and the more she clung, the more tenderly did the great strong arms close around her. when she had lain thus for a while, the wise woman carried her into her cottage, and washed her in the little well; then dressed her in clean garments, and gave her bread and milk. when she had eaten it, she called her to her, and said very solemnly,-"agnes, you must not imagine you are cured. that you are ashamed of yourself now is no sign that the cause for such shame has ceased. in new circumstances, especially after you have done well for a while, you will be in danger of thinking just as much of yourself as before. so beware of yourself. i am going from home, and leave you in charge of the house. do just as i tell you till my return." she then gave her the same directions she had formerly given rosamond--with this difference, that she told her to go into the picture-hall when she pleased, showing her the entrance, against which the clock no longer stood--and went away, closing the door behind her. viii. as soon as she was left alone, agnes set to work tidying and dusting the cottage, made up the fire, watered the bed, and cleaned the inside of the windows: the wise woman herself always kept the outside of them clean. when she had done, she found her dinner--of the same sort she was used to at home, but better--in the hole of the wall. when she had eaten it, she went to look at the pictures. by this time her old disposition had begun to rouse again. she had been doing her duty, and had in consequence begun again to think herself somebody. however strange it may well seem, to do one's duty will make any one conceited who only does it sometimes. those who do it always would as soon think of being conceited of eating their dinner as of doing their duty. what honest boy would pride himself on not picking pockets? a thief who was trying to reform would. to be conceited of doing one's duty is then a sign of how little one does it, and how little one sees what a contemptible thing it is not to do it. could any but a low creature be conceited of not being contemptible? until our duty becomes to us common as breathing, we are poor creatures. so agnes began to stroke herself once more, forgetting her late self-stroking companion, and never reflecting that she was now doing what she had then abhorred. and in this mood she went into the picture-gallery. the first picture she saw represented a square in a great city, one side of which was occupied by a splendid marble palace, with great flights of broad steps leading up to the door. between it and the square was a marble-paved court, with gates of brass, at which stood sentries in gorgeous uniforms, and to which was affixed the following proclamation in letters of gold, large enough for agnes to read:-"by the will of the king, from this time until further notice, every stray child found in the realm shall be brought without a moment's delay to the palace. whoever shall be found having done otherwise shall straightway lose his head by the hand of the public executioner." agnes's heart beat loud, and her face flushed. "can there be such a city in the world?" she said to herself. "if i only knew where it was, i should set out for it at once. there would be the place for a clever girl like me!" her eyes fell on the picture which had so enticed rosamond. it was the very country where her father fed his flocks. just round the shoulder of the hill was the cottage where her parents lived, where she was born and whence she had been carried by the beggar-woman. "ah!" she said, "they didn't know me there. they little thought what i could be, if i had the chance. if i were but in this good, kind, loving, generous king's palace, i should soon be such a great lady as they never saw! then they would understand what a good little girl i had always been! and i shouldn't forget my poor parents like some i have read of. _i_ would be generous. _i_ should never be selfish and proud like girls in story-books!" as she said this, she turned her back with disdain upon the picture of her home, and setting herself before the picture of the palace, stared at it with wide ambitious eyes, and a heart whose every beat was a throb of arrogant self-esteem. the shepherd-child was now worse than ever the poor princess had been. for the wise woman had given her a terrible lesson one of which the princess was not capable, and she had known what it meant; yet here she was as bad as ever, therefore worse than before. the ugly creature whose presence had made her so miserable had indeed crept out of sight and mind too--but where was she? nestling in her very heart, where most of all she had her company, and least of all could see her. the wise woman had called her out, that agnes might see what sort of creature she was herself; but now she was snug in her soul's bed again, and she did not even suspect she was there. after gazing a while at the palace picture, during which her ambitious pride rose and rose, she turned yet again in condescending mood, and honored the home picture with one stare more. "what a poor, miserable spot it is compared with this lordly palace!" she said. but presently she spied something in it she had not seen before, and drew nearer. it was the form of a little girl, building a bridge of stones over one of the hill-brooks. "ah, there i am myself!" she said. "that is just how i used to do.--no," she resumed, "it is not me. that snub-nosed little fright could never be meant for me! it was the frock that made me think so. but it is a picture of the place. i declare, i can see the smoke of the cottage rising from behind the hill! what a dull, dirty, insignificant spot it is! and what a life to lead there!" she turned once more to the city picture. and now a strange thing took place. in proportion as the other, to the eyes of her mind, receded into the background, this, to her present bodily eyes, appeared to come forward and assume reality. at last, after it had been in this way growing upon her for some time, she gave a cry of conviction, and said aloud,-"i do believe it is real! that frame is only a trick of the woman to make me fancy it a picture lest i should go and make my fortune. she is a witch, the ugly old creature! it would serve her right to tell the king and have her punished for not taking me to the palace--one of his poor lost children he is so fond of! i should like to see her ugly old head cut off. anyhow i will try my luck without asking her leave. how she has ill used me!" but at that moment, she heard the voice of the wise woman calling, "agnes!" and, smoothing her face, she tried to look as good as she could, and walked back into the cottage. there stood the wise woman, looking all round the place, and examining her work. she fixed her eyes upon agnes in a way that confused her, and made her cast hers down, for she felt as if she were reading her thoughts. the wise woman, however, asked no questions, but began to talk about her work, approving of some of it, which filled her with arrogance, and showing how some of it might have been done better, which filled her with resentment. but the wise woman seemed to take no care of what she might be thinking, and went straight on with her lesson. by the time it was over, the power of reading thoughts would not have been necessary to a knowledge of what was in the mind of agnes, for it had all come to the surface--that is up into her face, which is the surface of the mind. ere it had time to sink down again, the wise woman caught up the little mirror, and held it before her: agnes saw her somebody--the very embodiment of miserable conceit and ugly ill-temper. she gave such a scream of horror that the wise woman pitied her, and laying aside the mirror, took her upon her knees, and talked to her most kindly and solemnly; in particular about the necessity of destroying the ugly things that come out of the heart--so ugly that they make the very face over them ugly also. and what was agnes doing all the time the wise woman was talking to her? would you believe it?--instead of thinking how to kill the ugly things in her heart, she was with all her might resolving to be more careful of her face, that is, to keep down the things in her heart so that they should not show in her face, she was resolving to be a hypocrite as well as a self-worshipper. her heart was wormy, and the worms were eating very fast at it now. then the wise woman laid her gently down upon the heather-bed, and she fell fast asleep, and had an awful dream about her somebody. when she woke in the morning, instead of getting up to do the work of the house, she lay thinking--to evil purpose. in place of taking her dream as a warning, and thinking over what the wise woman had said the night before, she communed with herself in this fashion:-"if i stay here longer, i shall be miserable, it is nothing better than slavery. the old witch shows me horrible things in the day to set me dreaming horrible things in the night. if i don't run away, that frightful blue prison and the disgusting girl will come back, and i shall go out of my mind. how i do wish i could find the way to the good king's palace! i shall go and look at the picture again--if it be a picture--as soon as i've got my clothes on. the work can wait. it's not my work. it's the old witch's; and she ought to do it herself." she jumped out of bed, and hurried on her clothes. there was no wise woman to be seen; and she hastened into the hall. there was the picture, with the marble palace, and the proclamation shining in letters of gold upon its gates of brass. she stood before it, and gazed and gazed; and all the time it kept growing upon her in some strange way, until at last she was fully persuaded that it was no picture, but a real city, square, and marble palace, seen through a framed opening in the wall. she ran up to the frame, stepped over it, felt the wind blow upon her cheek, heard the sound of a closing door behind her, and was free. free was she, with that creature inside her? the same moment a terrible storm of thunder and lightning, wind and rain, came on. the uproar was appalling. agnes threw herself upon the ground, hid her face in her hands, and there lay until it was over. as soon as she felt the sun shining on her, she rose. there was the city far away on the horizon. without once turning to take a farewell look of the place she was leaving, she set off, as fast as her feet would carry her, in the direction of the city. so eager was she, that again and again she fell, but only to get up, and run on faster than before. ix. the shepherdess carried rosamond home, gave her a warm bath in the tub in which she washed her linen, made her some bread-and-milk, and after she had eaten it, put her to bed in agnes's crib, where she slept all the rest of that day and all the following night. when at last she opened her eyes, it was to see around her a far poorer cottage than the one she had left--very bare and uncomfortable indeed, she might well have thought; but she had come through such troubles of late, in the way of hunger and weariness and cold and fear, that she was not altogether in her ordinary mood of fault-finding, and so was able to lie enjoying the thought that at length she was safe, and going to be fed and kept warm. the idea of doing any thing in return for shelter and food and clothes, did not, however, even cross her mind. but the shepherdess was one of that plentiful number who can be wiser concerning other women's children than concerning their own. such will often give you very tolerable hints as to how you ought to manage your children, and will find fault neatly enough with the system you are trying to carry out; but all their wisdom goes off in talking, and there is none left for doing what they have themselves said. there is one road talk never finds, and that is the way into the talker's own hands and feet. and such never seem to know themselves--not even when they are reading about themselves in print. still, not being specially blinded in any direction but their own, they can sometimes even act with a little sense towards children who are not theirs. they are affected with a sort of blindness like that which renders some people incapable of seeing, except sideways. she came up to the bed, looked at the princess, and saw that she was better. but she did not like her much. there was no mark of a princess about her, and never had been since she began to run alone. true, hunger had brought down her fat cheeks, but it had not turned down her impudent nose, or driven the sullenness and greed from her mouth. nothing but the wise woman could do that--and not even she, without the aid of the princess herself. so the shepherdess thought what a poor substitute she had got for her own lovely agnes--who was in fact equally repulsive, only in a way to which she had got used; for the selfishness in her love had blinded her to the thin pinched nose and the mean self-satisfied mouth. it was well for the princess, though, sad as it is to say, that the shepherdess did not take to her, for then she would most likely have only done her harm instead of good. "now, my girl," she said, "you must get up, and do something. we can't keep idle folk here." "i'm not a folk," said rosamond; "i'm a princess." "a pretty princess--with a nose like that! and all in rags too! if you tell such stories, i shall soon let you know what i think of you." rosamond then understood that the mere calling herself a princess, without having any thing to show for it, was of no use. she obeyed and rose, for she was hungry; but she had to sweep the floor ere she had any thing to eat. the shepherd came in to breakfast, and was kinder than his wife. he took her up in his arms and would have kissed her; but she took it as an insult from a man whose hands smelt of tar, and kicked and screamed with rage. the poor man, finding he had made a mistake, set her down at once. but to look at the two, one might well have judged it condescension rather than rudeness in such a man to kiss such a child. he was tall, and almost stately, with a thoughtful forehead, bright eyes, eagle nose, and gentle mouth; while the princess was such as i have described her. not content with being set down and let alone, she continued to storm and scold at the shepherd, crying she was a princess, and would like to know what right he had to touch her! but he only looked down upon her from the height of his tall person with a benignant smile, regarding her as a spoiled little ape whose mother had flattered her by calling her a princess. "turn her out of doors, the ungrateful hussy!" cried his wife. "with your bread and your milk inside her ugly body, this is what she gives you for it! troth, i'm paid for carrying home such an ill-bred tramp in my arms! my own poor angel agnes! as if that ill-tempered toad were one hair like her!" these words drove the princess beside herself; for those who are most given to abuse can least endure it. with fists and feet and teeth, as was her wont, she rushed at the shepherdess, whose hand was already raised to deal her a sound box on the ear, when a better appointed minister of vengeance suddenly showed himself. bounding in at the cottage-door came one of the sheep-dogs, who was called prince, and whom i shall not refer to with a which, because he was a very superior animal indeed, even for a sheep-dog, which is the most intelligent of dogs: he flew at the princess, knocked her down, and commenced shaking her so violently as to tear her miserable clothes to pieces. used, however, to mouthing little lambs, he took care not to hurt her much, though for her good he left her a blue nip or two by way of letting her imagine what biting might be. his master, knowing he would not injure her, thought it better not to call him off, and in half a minute he left her of his own accord, and, casting a glance of indignant rebuke behind him as he went, walked slowly to the hearth, where he laid himself down with his tail toward her. she rose, terrified almost to death, and would have crept again into agnes's crib for refuge; but the shepherdess cried-"come, come, princess! i'll have no skulking to bed in the good daylight. go and clean your master's sunday boots there." "i will not!" screamed the princess, and ran from the house. "prince!" cried the shepherdess, and up jumped the dog, and looked in her face, wagging his bushy tail. "fetch her back," she said, pointing to the door. with two or three bounds prince caught the princess, again threw her down, and taking her by her clothes dragged her back into the cottage, and dropped her at his mistress' feet, where she lay like a bundle of rags. "get up," said the shepherdess. rosamond got up as pale as death. "go and clean the boots." "i don't know how." "go and try. there are the brushes, and yonder is the blacking-pot." instructing her how to black boots, it came into the thought of the shepherdess what a fine thing it would be if she could teach this miserable little wretch, so forsaken and ill-bred, to be a good, well-behaved, respectable child. she was hardly the woman to do it, but every thing well meant is a help, and she had the wisdom to beg her husband to place prince under her orders for a while, and not take him to the hill as usual, that he might help her in getting the princess into order. when the husband was gone, and his boots, with the aid of her own finishing touches, at last quite respectably brushed, the shepherdess told the princess that she might go and play for a while, only she must not go out of sight of the cottage-door. the princess went right gladly, with the firm intention, however, of getting out of sight by slow degrees, and then at once taking to her heels. but no sooner was she over the threshold than the shepherdess said to the dog, "watch her;" and out shot prince. the moment she saw him, rosamond threw herself on her face, trembling from head to foot. but the dog had no quarrel with her, and of the violence against which he always felt bound to protest in dog fashion, there was no sign in the prostrate shape before him; so he poked his nose under her, turned her over, and began licking her face and hands. when she saw that he meant to be friendly, her love for animals, which had had no indulgence for a long time now, came wide awake, and in a little while they were romping and rushing about, the best friends in the world. having thus seen one enemy, as she thought, changed to a friend, she began to resume her former plan, and crept cunningly farther and farther. at length she came to a little hollow, and instantly rolled down into it. finding then that she was out of sight of the cottage, she ran off at full speed. but she had not gone more than a dozen paces, when she heard a growling rush behind her, and the next instant was on the ground, with the dog standing over her, showing his teeth, and flaming at her with his eyes. she threw her arms round his neck, and immediately he licked her face, and let her get up. but the moment she would have moved a step farther from the cottage, there he was it front of her, growling, and showing his teeth. she saw it was of no use, and went back with him. thus was the princess provided with a dog for a private tutor--just the right sort for her. presently the shepherdess appeared at the door and called her. she would have disregarded the summons, but prince did his best to let her know that, until she could obey herself, she must obey him. so she went into the cottage, and there the shepherdess ordered her to peel the potatoes for dinner. she sulked and refused. here prince could do nothing to help his mistress, but she had not to go far to find another ally. "very well, miss princess!" she said; "we shall soon see how you like to go without when dinner-time comes." now the princess had very little foresight, and the idea of future hunger would have moved her little; but happily, from her game of romps with prince, she had begun to be hungry already, and so the threat had force. she took the knife and began to peel the potatoes. by slow degrees the princess improved a little. a few more outbreaks of passion, and a few more savage attacks from prince, and she had learned to try to restrain herself when she felt the passion coming on; while a few dinnerless afternoons entirely opened her eyes to the necessity of working in order to eat. prince was her first, and hunger her second dog-counsellor. but a still better thing was that she soon grew very fond of prince. towards the gaining of her affections, he had three advantages: first, his nature was inferior to hers; next, he was a beast; and last, she was afraid of him; for so spoiled was she that she could more easily love what was below than what was above her, and a beast, than one of her own kind, and indeed could hardly have ever come to love any thing much that she had not first learned to fear, and the white teeth and flaming eyes of the angry prince were more terrible to her than any thing had yet been, except those of the wolf, which she had now forgotten. then again, he was such a delightful playfellow, that so long as she neither lost her temper, nor went against orders, she might do almost any thing she pleased with him. in fact, such was his influence upon her, that she who had scoffed at the wisest woman in the whole world, and derided the wishes of her own father and mother, came at length to regard this dog as a superior being, and to look up to him as well as love him. and this was best of all. the improvement upon her, in the course of a month, was plain. she had quite ceased to go into passions, and had actually begun to take a little interest in her work and try to do it well. still, the change was mostly an outside one. i do not mean that she was pretending. indeed she had never been given to pretence of any sort. but the change was not in her, only in her mood. a second change of circumstances would have soon brought a second change of behavior; and, so long as that was possible, she continued the same sort of person she had always been. but if she had not gained much, a trifle had been gained for her: a little quietness and order of mind, and hence a somewhat greater possibility of the first idea of right arising in it, whereupon she would begin to see what a wretched creature she was, and must continue until she herself was right. meantime the wise woman had been watching her when she least fancied it, and taking note of the change that was passing upon her. out of the large eyes of a gentle sheep she had been watching her--a sheep that puzzled the shepherd; for every now and then she would appear in his flock, and he would catch sight of her two or three times in a day, sometimes for days together, yet he never saw her when he looked for her, and never when he counted the flock into the fold at night. he knew she was not one of his; but where could she come from, and where could she go to? for there was no other flock within many miles, and he never could get near enough to her to see whether or not she was marked. nor was prince of the least use to him for the unravelling of the mystery; for although, as often as he told him to fetch the strange sheep, he went bounding to her at once, it was only to lie down at her feet. at length, however, the wise woman had made up her mind, and after that the strange sheep no longer troubled the shepherd. as rosamond improved, the shepherdess grew kinder. she gave her all agnes's clothes, and began to treat her much more like a daughter. hence she had a great deal of liberty after the little work required of her was over, and would often spend hours at a time with the shepherd, watching the sheep and the dogs, and learning a little from seeing how prince, and the others as well, managed their charge--how they never touched the sheep that did as they were told and turned when they were bid, but jumped on a disobedient flock, and ran along their backs, biting, and barking, and half choking themselves with mouthfuls of their wool. then also she would play with the brooks, and learn their songs, and build bridges over them. and sometimes she would be seized with such delight of heart that she would spread out her arms to the wind, and go rushing up the hill till her breath left her, when she would tumble down in the heather, and lie there till it came back again. a noticeable change had by this time passed also on her countenance. her coarse shapeless mouth had begun to show a glimmer of lines and curves about it, and the fat had not returned with the roses to her cheeks, so that her eyes looked larger than before; while, more noteworthy still, the bridge of her nose had grown higher, so that it was less of the impudent, insignificant thing inherited from a certain great-great-great-grandmother, who had little else to leave her. for a long time, it had fitted her very well, for it was just like her; but now there was ground for alteration, and already the granny who gave it her would not have recognized it. it was growing a little liker prince's; and prince's was a long, perceptive, sagacious nose,--one that was seldom mistaken. one day about noon, while the sheep were mostly lying down, and the shepherd, having left them to the care of the dogs, was himself stretched under the shade of a rock a little way apart, and the princess sat knitting, with prince at her feet, lying in wait for a snap at a great fly, for even he had his follies--rosamond saw a poor woman come toiling up the hill, but took little notice of her until she was passing, a few yards off, when she heard her utter the dog's name in a low voice. immediately on the summons, prince started up and followed her--with hanging head, but gently-wagging tail. at first the princess thought he was merely taking observations, and consulting with his nose whether she was respectable or not, but she soon saw that he was following her in meek submission. then she sprung to her feet and cried, "prince, prince!" but prince only turned his head and gave her an odd look, as if he were trying to smile, and could not. then the princess grew angry, and ran after him, shouting, "prince, come here directly." again prince turned his head, but this time to growl and show his teeth. the princess flew into one of her forgotten rages, and picking up a stone, flung it at the woman. prince turned and darted at her, with fury in his eyes, and his white teeth gleaming. at the awful sight the princess turned also, and would have fled, but he was upon her in a moment, and threw her to the ground, and there she lay. it was evening when she came to herself. a cool twilight wind, that somehow seemed to come all the way from the stars, was blowing upon her. the poor woman and prince, the shepherd and his sheep, were all gone, and she was left alone with the wind upon the heather. she felt sad, weak, and, perhaps, for the first time in her life, a little ashamed. the violence of which she had been guilty had vanished from her spirit, and now lay in her memory with the calm morning behind it, while in front the quiet dusky night was now closing in the loud shame betwixt a double peace. between the two her passion looked ugly. it pained her to remember. she felt it was hateful, and hers. but, alas, prince was gone! that horrid woman had taken him away! the fury rose again in her heart, and raged--until it came to her mind how her dear prince would have flown at her throat if he had seen her in such a passion. the memory calmed her, and she rose and went home. there, perhaps, she would find prince, for surely he could never have been such a silly dog as go away altogether with a strange woman! she opened the door and went in. dogs were asleep all about the cottage, it seemed to her, but nowhere was prince. she crept away to her little bed, and cried herself asleep. in the morning the shepherd and shepherdess were indeed glad to find she had come home, for they thought she had run away. "where is prince?" she cried, the moment she waked. "his mistress has taken him," answered the shepherd. "was that woman his mistress?" "i fancy so. he followed her as if he had known her all his life. i am very sorry to lose him, though." the poor woman had gone close past the rock where the shepherd lay. he saw her coming, and thought of the strange sheep which had been feeding beside him when he lay down. "who can she be?" he said to himself; but when he noted how prince followed her, without even looking up at him as he passed, he remembered how prince had come to him. and this was how: as he lay in bed one fierce winter morning, just about to rise, he heard the voice of a woman call to him through the storm, "shepherd, i have brought you a dog. be good to him. i will come again and fetch him away." he dressed as quickly as he could, and went to the door. it was half snowed up, but on the top of the white mound before it stood prince. and now he had gone as mysteriously as he had come, and he felt sad. rosamond was very sorry too, and hence when she saw the looks of the shepherd and shepherdess, she was able to understand them. and she tried for a while to behave better to them because of their sorrow. so the loss of the dog brought them all nearer to each other. x. after the thunder-storm, agnes did not meet with a single obstruction or misadventure. everybody was strangely polite, gave her whatever she desired, and answered her questions, but asked none in return, and looked all the time as if her departure would be a relief. they were afraid, in fact, from her appearance, lest she should tell them that she was lost, when they would be bound, on pain of public execution, to take her to the palace. but no sooner had she entered the city than she saw it would hardly do to present herself as a lost child at the palace-gates; for how were they to know that she was not an impostor, especially since she really was one, having run away from the wise woman? so she wandered about looking at every thing until she was tired, and bewildered by the noise and confusion all around her. the wearier she got, the more was she pushed in every direction. having been used to a whole hill to wander upon, she was very awkward in the crowded streets, and often on the point of being run over by the horses, which seemed to her to be going every way like a frightened flock. she spoke to several persons, but no one stopped to answer her; and at length, her courage giving way, she felt lost indeed, and began to cry. a soldier saw her, and asked what was the matter. "i've nowhere to go to," she sobbed. "where's your mother?" asked the soldier. "i don't know," answered agnes. "i was carried off by an old woman, who then went away and left me. i don't know where she is, or where i am myself." "come," said the soldier, "this is a case for his majesty." so saying, he took her by the hand, led her to the palace, and begged an audience of the king and queen. the porter glanced at agnes, immediately admitted them, and showed them into a great splendid room, where the king and queen sat every day to review lost children, in the hope of one day thus finding their rosamond. but they were by this time beginning to get tired of it. the moment they cast their eyes upon agnes, the queen threw back her head, threw up her hands, and cried, "what a miserable, conceited, white-faced little ape!" and the king turned upon the soldier in wrath, and cried, forgetting his own decree, "what do you mean by bringing such a dirty, vulgar-looking, pert creature into my palace? the dullest soldier in my army could never for a moment imagine a child like that, one hair's-breadth like the lovely angel we lost!" "i humbly beg your majesty's pardon," said the soldier, "but what was i to do? there stands your majesty's proclamation in gold letters on the brazen gates of the palace." "i shall have it taken down," said the king. "remove the child." "please your majesty, what am i to do with her?" "take her home with you." "i have six already, sire, and do not want her." "then drop her where you picked her up." "if i do, sire, some one else will find her and bring her back to your majesties." "that will never do," said the king. "i cannot bear to look at her." "for all her ugliness," said the queen, "she is plainly lost, and so is our rosamond." "it may be only a pretence, to get into the palace," said the king. "take her to the head scullion, soldier," said the queen, "and tell her to make her useful. if she should find out she has been pretending to be lost, she must let me know." the soldier was so anxious to get rid of her, that he caught her up in his arms, hurried her from the room, found his way to the scullery, and gave her, trembling with fear, in charge to the head maid, with the queen's message. as it was evident that the queen had no favor for her, the servants did as they pleased with her, and often treated her harshly. not one amongst them liked her, nor was it any wonder, seeing that, with every step she took from the wise woman's house, she had grown more contemptible, for she had grown more conceited. every civil answer given her, she attributed to the impression she made, not to the desire to get rid of her; and every kindness, to approbation of her looks and speech, instead of friendliness to a lonely child. hence by this time she was twice as odious as before; for whoever has had such severe treatment as the wise woman gave her, and is not the better for it, always grows worse than before. they drove her about, boxed her ears on the smallest provocation, laid every thing to her charge, called her all manner of contemptuous names, jeered and scoffed at her awkwardnesses, and made her life so miserable that she was in a fair way to forget every thing she had learned, and know nothing but how to clean saucepans and kettles. they would not have been so hard upon her, however, but for her irritating behavior. she dared not refuse to do as she was told, but she obeyed now with a pursed-up mouth, and now with a contemptuous smile. the only thing that sustained her was her constant contriving how to get out of the painful position in which she found herself. there is but one true way, however, of getting out of any position we may be in, and that is, to do the work of it so well that we grow fit for a better: i need not say this was not the plan upon which agnes was cunning enough to fix. she had soon learned from the talk around her the reason of the proclamation which had brought her hither. "was the lost princess so very beautiful?" she said one day to the youngest of her fellow-servants. "beautiful!" screamed the maid; "she was just the ugliest little toad you ever set eyes upon." "what was she like?" asked agnes. "she was about your size, and quite as ugly, only not in the same way; for she had red cheeks, and a cocked little nose, and the biggest, ugliest mouth you ever saw." agnes fell a-thinking. "is there a picture of her anywhere in the palace?" she asked. "how should i know? you can ask a housemaid." agnes soon learned that there was one, and contrived to get a peep of it. then she was certain of what she had suspected from the description given of her, namely, that she was the same she had seen in the picture at the wise woman's house. the conclusion followed, that the lost princess must be staying with her father and mother, for assuredly in the picture she wore one of her frocks. she went to the head scullion, and with humble manner, but proud heart, begged her to procure for her the favor of a word with the queen. "a likely thing indeed!" was the answer, accompanied by a resounding box on the ear. she tried the head cook next, but with no better success, and so was driven to her meditations again, the result of which was that she began to drop hints that she knew something about the princess. this came at length to the queen's ears, and she sent for her. absorbed in her own selfish ambitions, agnes never thought of the risk to which she was about to expose her parents, but told the queen that in her wanderings she had caught sight of just such a lovely creature as she described the princess, only dressed like a peasant--saying, that, if the king would permit her to go and look for her, she had little doubt of bringing her back safe and sound within a few weeks. but although she spoke the truth, she had such a look of cunning on her pinched face, that the queen could not possibly trust her, but believed that she made the proposal merely to get away, and have money given her for her journey. still there was a chance, and she would not say any thing until she had consulted the king. then they had agnes up before the lord chancellor, who, after much questioning of her, arrived at last, he thought, at some notion of the part of the country described by her--that was, if she spoke the truth, which, from her looks and behavior, he also considered entirely doubtful. thereupon she was ordered back to the kitchen, and a band of soldiers, under a clever lawyer, sent out to search every foot of the supposed region. they were commanded not to return until they brought with them, bound hand and foot, such a shepherd pair as that of which they received a full description. and now agnes was worse off than before. for to her other miseries was added the fear of what would befall her when it was discovered that the persons of whom they were in quest, and whom she was certain they must find, were her own father and mother. by this time the king and queen were so tired of seeing lost children, genuine or pretended--for they cared for no child any longer than there seemed a chance of its turning out their child--that with this new hope, which, however poor and vague at first, soon began to grow upon such imaginations as they had, they commanded the proclamation to be taken down from the palace gates, and directed the various sentries to admit no child whatever, lost or found, be the reason or pretence what it might, until further orders. "i'm sick of children!" said the king to his secretary, as he finished dictating the direction. xi. after prince was gone, the princess, by degrees, fell back into some of her bad old ways, from which only the presence of the dog, not her own betterment, had kept her. she never grew nearly so selfish again, but she began to let her angry old self lift up its head once more, until by and by she grew so bad that the shepherdess declared she should not stop in the house a day longer, for she was quite unendurable. "it is all very well for you, husband," she said, "for you haven't her all day about you, and only see the best of her. but if you had her in work instead of play hours, you would like her no better than i do. and then it's not her ugly passions only, but when she's in one of her tantrums, it's impossible to get any work out of her. at such times she's just as obstinate as--as--as"-she was going to say "as agnes," but the feelings of a mother overcame her, and she could not utter the words. "in fact," she said instead, "she makes my life miserable." the shepherd felt he had no right to tell his wife she must submit to have her life made miserable, and therefore, although he was really much attached to rosamond, he would not interfere; and the shepherdess told her she must look out for another place. the princess was, however, this much better than before, even in respect of her passions, that they were not quite so bad, and after one was over, she was really ashamed of it. but not once, ever since the departure of prince had she tried to check the rush of the evil temper when it came upon her. she hated it when she was out of it, and that was something; but while she was in it, she went full swing with it wherever the prince of the power of it pleased to carry her. nor was this all: although she might by this time have known well enough that as soon as she was out of it she was certain to be ashamed of it, she would yet justify it to herself with twenty different arguments that looked very good at the time, but would have looked very poor indeed afterwards, if then she had ever remembered them. she was not sorry to leave the shepherd's cottage, for she felt certain of soon finding her way back to her father and mother; and she would, indeed, have set out long before, but that her foot had somehow got hurt when prince gave her his last admonition, and she had never since been able for long walks, which she sometimes blamed as the cause of her temper growing worse. but if people are good-tempered only when they are comfortable, what thanks have they?--her foot was now much better; and as soon as the shepherdess had thus spoken, she resolved to set out at once, and work or beg her way home. at the moment she was quite unmindful of what she owed the good people, and, indeed, was as yet incapable of understanding a tenth part of her obligation to them. so she bade them good by without a tear, and limped her way down the hill, leaving the shepherdess weeping, and the shepherd looking very grave. when she reached the valley she followed the course of the stream, knowing only that it would lead her away from the hill where the sheep fed, into richer lands where were farms and cattle. rounding one of the roots of the hill she saw before her a poor woman walking slowly along the road with a burden of heather upon her back, and presently passed her, but had gone only a few paces farther when she heard her calling after her in a kind old voice-"your shoe-tie is loose, my child." but rosamond was growing tired, for her foot had become painful, and so she was cross, and neither returned answer, nor paid heed to the warning. for when we are cross, all our other faults grow busy, and poke up their ugly heads like maggots, and the princess's old dislike to doing any thing that came to her with the least air of advice about it returned in full force. "my child," said the woman again, "if you don't fasten your shoe-tie, it will make you fall." "mind your own business," said rosamond, without even turning her head, and had not gone more than three steps when she fell flat on her face on the path. she tried to get up, but the effort forced from her a scream, for she had sprained the ankle of the foot that was already lame. the old woman was by her side instantly. "where are you hurt, child?" she asked, throwing down her burden and kneeling beside her. "go away," screamed rosamond. "you made me fall, you bad woman!" the woman made no reply, but began to feel her joints, and soon discovered the sprain. then, in spite of rosamond's abuse, and the violent pushes and even kicks she gave her, she took the hurt ankle in her hands, and stroked and pressed it, gently kneading it, as it were, with her thumbs, as if coaxing every particle of the muscles into its right place. nor had she done so long before rosamond lay still. at length she ceased, and said:-"now, my child, you may get up." "i can't get up, and i'm not your child," cried rosamond. "go away." without another word the woman left her, took up her burden, and continued her journey. in a little while rosamond tried to get up, and not only succeeded, but found she could walk, and, indeed, presently discovered that her ankle and foot also were now perfectly well. "i wasn't much hurt after all," she said to herself, nor sent a single grateful thought after the poor woman, whom she speedily passed once more upon the road without even a greeting. late in the afternoon she came to a spot where the path divided into two, and was taking the one she liked the look of better, when she started at the sound of the poor woman's voice, whom she thought she had left far behind, again calling her. she looked round, and there she was, toiling under her load of heather as before. "you are taking the wrong turn, child." she cried. "how can you tell that?" said rosamond. "you know nothing about where i want to go." "i know that road will take you where you won't want to go," said the woman. "i shall know when i get there, then," returned rosamond, "and no thanks to you." she set off running. the woman took the other path, and was soon out of sight. by and by, rosamond found herself in the midst of a peat-moss--a flat, lonely, dismal, black country. she thought, however, that the road would soon lead her across to the other side of it among the farms, and went on without anxiety. but the stream, which had hitherto been her guide, had now vanished; and when it began to grow dark, rosamond found that she could no longer distinguish the track. she turned, therefore, but only to find that the same darkness covered it behind as well as before. still she made the attempt to go back by keeping as direct a line as she could, for the path was straight as an arrow. but she could not see enough even to start her in a line, and she had not gone far before she found herself hemmed in, apparently on every side, by ditches and pools of black, dismal, slimy water. and now it was so dark that she could see nothing more than the gleam of a bit of clear sky now and then in the water. again and again she stepped knee-deep in black mud, and once tumbled down in the shallow edge of a terrible pool; after which she gave up the attempt to escape the meshes of the watery net, stood still, and began to cry bitterly, despairingly. she saw now that her unreasonable anger had made her foolish as well as rude, and felt that she was justly punished for her wickedness to the poor woman who had been so friendly to her. what would prince think of her, if he knew? she cast herself on the ground, hungry, and cold, and weary. presently, she thought she saw long creatures come heaving out of the black pools. a toad jumped upon her, and she shrieked, and sprang to her feet, and would have run away headlong, when she spied in the distance a faint glimmer. she thought it was a will-o'-the-wisp. what could he be after? was he looking for her? she dared not run, lest he should see and pounce upon her. the light came nearer, and grew brighter and larger. plainly, the little fiend was looking for her--he would torment her. after many twistings and turnings among the pools, it came straight towards her, and she would have shrieked, but that terror made her dumb. it came nearer and nearer, and lo! it was borne by a dark figure, with a burden on its back: it was the poor woman, and no demon, that was looking for her! she gave a scream of joy, fell down weeping at her feet, and clasped her knees. then the poor woman threw away her burden, laid down her lantern, took the princess up in her arms, folded her cloak around her, and having taken up her lantern again, carried her slowly and carefully through the midst of the black pools, winding hither and thither. all night long she carried her thus, slowly and wearily, until at length the darkness grew a little thinner, an uncertain hint of light came from the east, and the poor woman, stopping on the brow of a little hill, opened her cloak, and set the princess down. "i can carry you no farther," she said. "sit there on the grass till the light comes. i will stand here by you." rosamond had been asleep. now she rubbed her eyes and looked, but it was too dark to see any thing more than that there was a sky over her head. slowly the light grew, until she could see the form of the poor woman standing in front of her; and as it went on growing, she began to think she had seen her somewhere before, till all at once she thought of the wise woman, and saw it must be she. then she was so ashamed that she bent down her head, and could look at her no longer. but the poor woman spoke, and the voice was that of the wise woman, and every word went deep into the heart of the princess. "rosamond," she said, "all this time, ever since i carried you from your father's palace, i have been doing what i could to make you a lovely creature: ask yourself how far i have succeeded." all her past story, since she found herself first under the wise woman's cloak, arose, and glided past the inner eyes of the princess, and she saw, and in a measure understood, it all. but she sat with her eyes on the ground, and made no sign. then said the wise woman:-"below there is the forest which surrounds my house. i am going home. if you pledge to come there to me, i will help you, in a way i could not do now, to be good and lovely. i will wait you there all day, but if you start at once, you may be there long before noon. i shall have your breakfast waiting for you. one thing more: the beasts have not yet all gone home to their holes; but i give you my word, not one will touch you so long as you keep coming nearer to my house." she ceased. rosamond sat waiting to hear something more; but nothing came. she looked up; she was alone. alone once more! always being left alone, because she would not yield to what was right! oh, how safe she had felt under the wise woman's cloak! she had indeed been good to her, and she had in return behaved like one of the hyenas of the awful wood! what a wonderful house it was she lived in! and again all her own story came up into her brain from her repentant heart. "why didn't she take me with her?" she said. "i would have gone gladly." and she wept. but her own conscience told her that, in the very middle of her shame and desire to be good, she had returned no answer to the words of the wise woman; she had sat like a tree-stump, and done nothing. she tried to say there was nothing to be done; but she knew at once that she could have told the wise woman she had been very wicked, and asked her to take her with her. now there was nothing to be done. "nothing to be done!" said her conscience. "cannot you rise, and walk down the hill, and through the wood?" "but the wild beasts!" "there it is! you don't believe the wise woman yet! did she not tell you the beasts would not touch you?" "but they are so horrid!" "yes, they are; but it would be far better to be eaten up alive by them than live on--such a worthless creature as you are. why, you're not fit to be thought about by any but bad ugly creatures." this was how herself talked to her. xii. all at once she jumped to her feet, and ran at full speed down the hill and into the wood. she heard howlings and yellings on all sides of her, but she ran straight on, as near as she could judge. her spirits rose as she ran. suddenly she saw before her, in the dusk of the thick wood, a group of some dozen wolves and hyenas, standing all together right in her way, with their green eyes fixed upon her staring. she faltered one step, then bethought her of what the wise woman had promised, and keeping straight on, dashed right into the middle of them. they fled howling, as if she had struck them with fire. she was no more afraid after that, and ere the sun was up she was out of the wood and upon the heath, which no bad thing could step upon and live. with the first peep of the sun above the horizon, she saw the little cottage before her, and ran as fast as she could run towards it, when she came near it, she saw that the door was open, and ran straight into the outstretched arms of the wise woman. the wise woman kissed her and stroked her hair, set her down by the fire, and gave her a bowl of bread and milk. when she had eaten it she drew her before her where she sat, and spoke to her thus:-"rosamond, if you would be a blessed creature instead of a mere wretch, you must submit to be tried." "is that something terrible?" asked the princess, turning white. "no, my child; but it is something very difficult to come well out of. nobody who has not been tried knows how difficult it is; but whoever has come well out of it, and those who do not overcome never do come out of it, always looks back with horror, not on what she has come through, but on the very idea of the possibility of having failed, and being still the same miserable creature as before." "you will tell me what it is before it begins?" said the princess. "i will not tell you exactly. but i will tell you some things to help you. one great danger is that perhaps you will think you are in it before it has really begun, and say to yourself, 'oh! this is really nothing to me. it may be a trial to some, but for me i am sure it is not worth mentioning.' and then, before you know, it will be upon you, and you will fail utterly and shamefully." "i will be very, very careful," said the princess. "only don't let me be frightened." "you shall not be frightened, except it be your own doing. you are already a brave girl, and there is no occasion to try you more that way. i saw how you rushed into the middle of the ugly creatures; and as they ran from you, so will all kinds of evil things, as long as you keep them outside of you, and do not open the cottage of your heart to let them in. i will tell you something more about what you will have to go through. "nobody can be a real princess--do not imagine you have yet been any thing more than a mock one--until she is a princess over herself, that is, until, when she finds herself unwilling to do the thing that is right, she makes herself do it. so long as any mood she is in makes her do the thing she will be sorry for when that mood is over, she is a slave, and no princess. a princess is able to do what is right even should she unhappily be in a mood that would make another unable to do it. for instance, if you should be cross and angry, you are not a whit the less bound to be just, yes, kind even--a thing most difficult in such a mood--though ease itself in a good mood, loving and sweet. whoever does what she is bound to do, be she the dirtiest little girl in the street, is a princess, worshipful, honorable. nay, more; her might goes farther than she could send it, for if she act so, the evil mood will wither and die, and leave her loving and clean.--do you understand me, dear rosamond?" as she spoke, the wise woman laid her hand on her head and looked--oh, so lovingly!--into her eyes. "i am not sure," said the princess, humbly. "perhaps you will understand me better if i say it just comes to this, that you must not do what is wrong, however much you are inclined to do it, and you must do what is right, however much you are disinclined to do it." "i understand that," said the princess. "i am going, then, to put you in one of the mood-chambers of which i have many in the house. its mood will come upon you, and you will have to deal with it." she rose and took her by the hand. the princess trembled a little, but never thought of resisting. the wise woman led her into the great hall with the pictures, and through a door at the farther end, opening upon another large hall, which was circular, and had doors close to each other all round it. of these she opened one, pushed the princess gently in, and closed it behind her. the princess found herself in her old nursery. her little white rabbit came to meet her in a lumping canter as if his back were going to tumble over his head. her nurse, in her rocking-chair by the chimney corner, sat just as she had used. the fire burned brightly, and on the table were many of her wonderful toys, on which, however, she now looked with some contempt. her nurse did not seem at all surprised to see her, any more than if the princess had but just gone from the room and returned again. "oh! how different i am from what i used to be!" thought the princess to herself, looking from her toys to her nurse. "the wise woman has done me so much good already! i will go and see mamma at once, and tell her i am very glad to be at home again, and very sorry i was so naughty." she went towards the door. "your queen-mamma, princess, cannot see you now," said her nurse. "i have yet to learn that it is my part to take orders from a servant," said the princess with temper and dignity. "i beg your pardon, princess," returned her nurse, politely; "but it is my duty to tell you that your queen-mamma is at this moment engaged. she is alone with her most intimate friend, the princess of the frozen regions." "i shall see for myself," returned the princess, bridling, and walked to the door. now little bunny, leap-frogging near the door, happened that moment to get about her feet, just as she was going to open it, so that she tripped and fell against it, striking her forehead a good blow. she caught up the rabbit in a rage, and, crying, "it is all your fault, you ugly old wretch!" threw it with violence in her nurse's face. her nurse caught the rabbit, and held it to her face, as if seeking to sooth its fright. but the rabbit looked very limp and odd, and, to her amazement, rosamond presently saw that the thing was no rabbit, but a pocket-handkerchief. the next moment she removed it from her face, and rosamond beheld--not her nurse, but the wise woman--standing on her own hearth, while she herself stood by the door leading from the cottage into the hall. "first trial a failure," said the wise woman quietly. overcome with shame, rosamond ran to her, fell down on her knees, and hid her face in her dress. "need i say any thing?" said the wise woman, stroking her hair. "no, no," cried the princess. "i am horrid." "you know now the kind of thing you have to meet: are you ready to try again?" "may i try again?" cried the princess, jumping up. "i'm ready. i do not think i shall fail this time." "the trial will be harder." rosamond drew in her breath, and set her teeth. the wise woman looked at her pitifully, but took her by the hand, led her to the round hall, opened the same door, and closed it after her. the princess expected to find herself again in the nursery, but in the wise woman's house no one ever has the same trial twice. she was in a beautiful garden, full of blossoming trees and the loveliest roses and lilies. a lake was in the middle of it, with a tiny boat. so delightful was it that rosamond forgot all about how or why she had come there, and lost herself in the joy of the flowers and the trees and the water. presently came the shout of a child, merry and glad, and from a clump of tulip trees rushed a lovely little boy, with his arms stretched out to her. she was charmed at the sight, ran to meet him, caught him up in her arms, kissed him, and could hardly let him go again. but the moment she set him down he ran from her towards the lake, looking back as he ran, and crying "come, come." she followed. he made straight for the boat, clambered into it, and held out his hand to help her in. then he caught up the little boat-hook, and pushed away from the shore: there was a great white flower floating a few yards off, and that was the little fellow's goal. but, alas! no sooner had rosamond caught sight of it, huge and glowing as a harvest moon, than she felt a great desire to have it herself. the boy, however, was in the bows of the boat, and caught it first. it had a long stem, reaching down to the bottom of the water, and for a moment he tugged at it in vain, but at last it gave way so suddenly, that he tumbled back with the flower into the bottom of the boat. then rosamond, almost wild at the danger it was in as he struggled to rise, hurried to save it, but somehow between them it came in pieces, and all its petals of fretted silver were scattered about the boat. when the boy got up, and saw the ruin his companion had occasioned, he burst into tears, and having the long stalk of the flower still in his hand, struck her with it across the face. it did not hurt her much, for he was a very little fellow, but it was wet and slimy. she tumbled rather than rushed at him, seized him in her arms, tore him from his frightened grasp, and flung him into the water. his head struck on the boat as he fell, and he sank at once to the bottom, where he lay looking up at her with white face and open eyes. the moment she saw the consequences of her deed she was filled with horrible dismay. she tried hard to reach down to him through the water, but it was far deeper than it looked, and she could not. neither could she get her eyes to leave the white face: its eyes fascinated and fixed hers; and there she lay leaning over the boat and staring at the death she had made. but a voice crying, "ally! ally!" shot to her heart, and springing to her feet she saw a lovely lady come running down the grass to the brink of the water with her hair flying about her head. "where is my ally?" she shrieked. but rosamond could not answer, and only stared at the lady, as she had before stared at her drowned boy. then the lady caught sight of the dead thing at the bottom of the water, and rushed in, and, plunging down, struggled and groped until she reached it. then she rose and stood up with the dead body of her little son in her arms, his head hanging back, and the water streaming from him. "see what you have made of him, rosamond!" she said, holding the body out to her; "and this is your second trial, and also a failure." the dead child melted away from her arms, and there she stood, the wise woman, on her own hearth, while rosamond found herself beside the little well on the floor of the cottage, with one arm wet up to the shoulder. she threw herself on the heather-bed and wept from relief and vexation both. the wise woman walked out of the cottage, shut the door, and left her alone. rosamond was sobbing, so that she did not hear her go. when at length she looked up, and saw that the wise woman was gone, her misery returned afresh and tenfold, and she wept and wailed. the hours passed, the shadows of evening began to fall, and the wise woman entered. xiii. she went straight to the bed, and taking rosamond in her arms, sat down with her by the fire. "my poor child!" she said. "two terrible failures! and the more the harder! they get stronger and stronger. what is to be done?" "couldn't you help me?" said rosamond piteously. "perhaps i could, now you ask me," answered the wise woman. "when you are ready to try again, we shall see." "i am very tired of myself," said the princess. "but i can't rest till i try again." "that is the only way to get rid of your weary, shadowy self, and find your strong, true self. come, my child; i will help you all i can, for now i can help you." yet again she led her to the same door, and seemed to the princess to send her yet again alone into the room. she was in a forest, a place half wild, half tended. the trees were grand, and full of the loveliest birds, of all glowing gleaming and radiant colors, which, unlike the brilliant birds we know in our world, sang deliciously, every one according to his color. the trees were not at all crowded, but their leaves were so thick, and their boughs spread so far, that it was only here and there a sunbeam could get straight through. all the gentle creatures of a forest were there, but no creatures that killed, not even a weasel to kill the rabbits, or a beetle to eat the snails out of their striped shells. as to the butterflies, words would but wrong them if they tried to tell how gorgeous they were. the princess's delight was so great that she neither laughed nor ran, but walked about with a solemn countenance and stately step. "but where are the flowers?" she said to herself at length. they were nowhere. neither on the high trees, nor on the few shrubs that grew here and there amongst them, were there any blossoms; and in the grass that grew everywhere there was not a single flower to be seen. "ah, well!" said rosamond again to herself, "where all the birds and butterflies are living flowers, we can do without the other sort." still she could not help feeling that flowers were wanted to make the beauty of the forest complete. suddenly she came out on a little open glade; and there, on the root of a great oak, sat the loveliest little girl, with her lap full of flowers of all colors, but of such kinds as rosamond had never before seen. she was playing with them--burying her hands in them, tumbling them about, and every now and then picking one from the rest, and throwing it away. all the time she never smiled, except with her eyes, which were as full as they could hold of the laughter of the spirit--a laughter which in this world is never heard, only sets the eyes alight with a liquid shining. rosamond drew nearer, for the wonderful creature would have drawn a tiger to her side, and tamed him on the way. a few yards from her, she came upon one of her cast-away flowers and stooped to pick it up, as well she might where none grew save in her own longing. but to her amazement she found, instead of a flower thrown away to wither, one fast rooted and quite at home. she left it, and went to another; but it also was fast in the soil, and growing comfortably in the warm grass. what could it mean? one after another she tried, until at length she was satisfied that it was the same with every flower the little girl threw from her lap. she watched then until she saw her throw one, and instantly bounded to the spot. but the flower had been quicker than she: there it grew, fast fixed in the earth, and, she thought, looked at her roguishly. something evil moved in her, and she plucked it. "don't! don't!" cried the child. "my flowers cannot live in your hands." rosamond looked at the flower. it was withered already. she threw it from her, offended. the child rose, with difficulty keeping her lapful together, picked it up, carried it back, sat down again, spoke to it, kissed it, sang to it--oh! such a sweet, childish little song!--the princess never could recall a word of it--and threw it away. up rose its little head, and there it was, busy growing again! rosamond's bad temper soon gave way: the beauty and sweetness of the child had overcome it; and, anxious to make friends with her, she drew near, and said: "won't you give me a little flower, please, you beautiful child?" "there they are; they are all for you," answered the child, pointing with her outstretched arm and forefinger all round. "but you told me, a minute ago, not to touch them." "yes, indeed, i did." "they can't be mine, if i'm not to touch them." "if, to call them yours, you must kill them, then they are not yours, and never, never can be yours. they are nobody's when they are dead." "but you don't kill them." "i don't pull them; i throw them away. i live them." "how is it that you make them grow?" "i say, 'you darling!' and throw it away and there it is." "where do you get them?" "in my lap." "i wish you would let me throw one away." "have you got any in your lap? let me see." "no; i have none." "then you can't throw one away, if you haven't got one." "you are mocking me!" cried the princess. "i am not mocking you," said the child, looking her full in the face, with reproach in her large blue eyes. "oh, that's where the flowers come from!" said the princess to herself, the moment she saw them, hardly knowing what she meant. then the child rose as if hurt, and quickly threw away all the flowers she had in her lap, but one by one, and without any sign of anger. when they were all gone, she stood a moment, and then, in a kind of chanting cry, called, two or three times, "peggy! peggy! peggy!" a low, glad cry, like the whinny of a horse, answered, and, presently, out of the wood on the opposite side of the glade, came gently trotting the loveliest little snow-white pony, with great shining blue wings, half-lifted from his shoulders. straight towards the little girl, neither hurrying nor lingering, he trotted with light elastic tread. rosamond's love for animals broke into a perfect passion of delight at the vision. she rushed to meet the pony with such haste, that, although clearly the best trained animal under the sun, he started back, plunged, reared, and struck out with his fore-feet ere he had time to observe what sort of a creature it was that had so startled him. when he perceived it was a little girl, he dropped instantly upon all fours, and content with avoiding her, resumed his quiet trot in the direction of his mistress. rosamond stood gazing after him in miserable disappointment. when he reached the child, he laid his head on her shoulder, and she put her arm up round his neck; and after she had talked to him a little, he turned and came trotting back to the princess. almost beside herself with joy, she began caressing him in the rough way which, not-withstanding her love for them, she was in the habit of using with animals; and she was not gentle enough, in herself even, to see that he did not like it, and was only putting up with it for the sake of his mistress. but when, that she might jump upon his back, she laid hold of one of his wings, and ruffled some of the blue feathers, he wheeled suddenly about, gave his long tail a sharp whisk which threw her flat on the grass, and, trotting back to his mistress, bent down his head before her as if asking excuse for ridding himself of the unbearable. the princess was furious. she had forgotten all her past life up to the time when she first saw the child: her beauty had made her forget, and yet she was now on the very borders of hating her. what she might have done, or rather tried to do, had not peggy's tail struck her down with such force that for a moment she could not rise, i cannot tell. but while she lay half-stunned, her eyes fell on a little flower just under them. it stared up in her face like the living thing it was, and she could not take her eyes off its face. it was like a primrose trying to express doubt instead of confidence. it seemed to put her half in mind of something, and she felt as if shame were coming. she put out her hand to pluck it; but the moment her fingers touched it, the flower withered up, and hung as dead on its stalks as if a flame of fire had passed over it. then a shudder thrilled through the heart of the princess, and she thought with herself, saying--"what sort of a creature am i that the flowers wither when i touch them, and the ponies despise me with their tails? what a wretched, coarse, ill-bred creature i must be! there is that lovely child giving life instead of death to the flowers, and a moment ago i was hating her! i am made horrid, and i shall be horrid, and i hate myself, and yet i can't help being myself!" she heard the sound of galloping feet, and there was the pony, with the child seated betwixt his wings, coming straight on at full speed for where she lay. "i don't care," she said. "they may trample me under their feet if they like. i am tired and sick of myself--a creature at whose touch the flowers wither!" on came the winged pony. but while yet some distance off, he gave a great bound, spread out his living sails of blue, rose yards and yards above her in the air, and alighted as gently as a bird, just a few feet on the other side of her. the child slipped down and came and kneeled over her. "did my pony hurt you?" she said. "i am so sorry!" "yes, he hurt me," answered the princess, "but not more than i deserved, for i took liberties with him, and he did not like it." "oh, you dear!" said the little girl. "i love you for talking so of my peggy. he is a good pony, though a little playful sometimes. would you like a ride upon him?" "you darling beauty!" cried rosamond, sobbing. "i do love you so, you are so good. how did you become so sweet?" "would you like to ride my pony?" repeated the child, with a heavenly smile in her eyes. "no, no; he is fit only for you. my clumsy body would hurt him," said rosamond. "you don't mind me having such a pony?" said the child. "what! mind it?" cried rosamond, almost indignantly. then remembering certain thoughts that had but a few moments before passed through her mind, she looked on the ground and was silent. "you don't mind it, then?" repeated the child. "i am very glad there is such a you and such a pony, and that such a you has got such a pony," said rosamond, still looking on the ground. "but i do wish the flowers would not die when i touch them. i was cross to see you make them grow, but now i should be content if only i did not make them wither." as she spoke, she stroked the little girl's bare feet, which were by her, half buried in the soft moss, and as she ended she laid her cheek on them and kissed them. "dear princess!" said the little girl, "the flowers will not always wither at your touch. try now--only do not pluck it. flowers ought never to be plucked except to give away. touch it gently." a silvery flower, something like a snow-drop, grew just within her reach. timidly she stretched out her hand and touched it. the flower trembled, but neither shrank nor withered. "touch it again," said the child. it changed color a little, and rosamond fancied it grew larger. "touch it again," said the child. it opened and grew until it was as large as a narcissus, and changed and deepened in color till it was a red glowing gold. rosamond gazed motionless. when the transfiguration of the flower was perfected, she sprang to her feet with clasped hands, but for very ecstasy of joy stood speechless, gazing at the child. "did you never see me before, rosamond?" she asked. "no, never," answered the princess. "i never saw any thing half so lovely." "look at me," said the child. and as rosamond looked, the child began, like the flower, to grow larger. quickly through every gradation of growth she passed, until she stood before her a woman perfectly beautiful, neither old nor young; for hers was the old age of everlasting youth. rosamond was utterly enchanted, and stood gazing without word or movement until she could endure no more delight. then her mind collapsed to the thought--had the pony grown too? she glanced round. there was no pony, no grass, no flowers, no bright-birded forest--but the cottage of the wise woman--and before her, on the hearth of it, the goddess-child, the only thing unchanged. she gasped with astonishment. "you must set out for your father's palace immediately," said the lady. "but where is the wise woman?" asked rosamond, looking all about. "here," said the lady. and rosamond, looking again, saw the wise woman, folded as usual in her long dark cloak. "and it was you all the time?" she cried in delight, and kneeled before her, burying her face in her garments. "it always is me, all the time," said the wise woman, smiling. "but which is the real you?" asked rosamond; "this or that?" "or a thousand others?" returned the wise woman. "but the one you have just seen is the likest to the real me that you are able to see just yet--but--. and that me you could not have seen a little while ago.--but, my darling child," she went on, lifting her up and clasping her to her bosom, "you must not think, because you have seen me once, that therefore you are capable of seeing me at all times. no; there are many things in you yet that must be changed before that can be. now, however, you will seek me. every time you feel you want me, that is a sign i am wanting you. there are yet many rooms in my house you may have to go through; but when you need no more of them, then you will be able to throw flowers like the little girl you saw in the forest." the princess gave a sigh. "do not think," the wise woman went on, "that the things you have seen in my house are mere empty shows. you do not know, you cannot yet think, how living and true they are.--now you must go." she led her once more into the great hall, and there showed her the picture of her father's capital, and his palace with the brazen gates. "there is your home," she said. "go to it." the princess understood, and a flush of shame rose to her forehead. she turned to the wise woman and said: "will you forgive all my naughtiness, and all the trouble i have given you?" "if i had not forgiven you, i would never have taken the trouble to punish you. if i had not loved you, do you think i would have carried you away in my cloak?" "how could you love such an ugly, ill-tempered, rude, hateful little wretch?" "i saw, through it all, what you were going to be," said the wise woman, kissing her. "but remember you have yet only begun to be what i saw." "i will try to remember," said the princess, holding her cloak, and looking up in her face. "go, then," said the wise woman. rosamond turned away on the instant, ran to the picture, stepped over the frame of it, heard a door close gently, gave one glance back, saw behind her the loveliest palace-front of alabaster, gleaming in the pale-yellow light of an early summer-morning, looked again to the eastward, saw the faint outline of her father's city against the sky, and ran off to reach it. it looked much further off now than when it seemed a picture, but the sun was not yet up, and she had the whole of a summer day before her. xiv. the soldiers sent out by the king, had no great difficulty in finding agnes's father and mother, of whom they demanded if they knew any thing of such a young princess as they described. the honest pair told them the truth in every point--that, having lost their own child and found another, they had taken her home, and treated her as their own; that she had indeed called herself a princess, but they had not believed her, because she did not look like one; that, even if they had, they did not know how they could have done differently, seeing they were poor people, who could not afford to keep any idle person about the place; that they had done their best to teach her good ways, and had not parted with her until her bad temper rendered it impossible to put up with her any longer; that, as to the king's proclamation, they heard little of the world's news on their lonely hill, and it had never reached them; that if it had, they did not know how either of them could have gone such a distance from home, and left their sheep or their cottage, one or the other, uncared for. "you must learn, then, how both of you can go, and your sheep must take care of your cottage," said the lawyer, and commanded the soldiers to bind them hand and foot. heedless of their entreaties to be spared such an indignity, the soldiers obeyed, bore them to a cart, and set out for the king's palace, leaving the cottage door open, the fire burning, the pot of potatoes boiling upon it, the sheep scattered over the hill, and the dogs not knowing what to do. hardly were they gone, however, before the wise woman walked up, with prince behind her, peeped into the cottage, locked the door, put the key in her pocket, and then walked away up the hill. in a few minutes there arose a great battle between prince and the dog which filled his former place--a well-meaning but dull fellow, who could fight better than feed. prince was not long in showing him that he was meant for his master, and then, by his efforts, and directions to the other dogs, the sheep were soon gathered again, and out of danger from foxes and bad dogs. as soon as this was done, the wise woman left them in charge of prince, while she went to the next farm to arrange for the folding of the sheep and the feeding of the dogs. when the soldiers reached the palace, they were ordered to carry their prisoners at once into the presence of the king and queen, in the throne room. their two thrones stood upon a high dais at one end, and on the floor at the foot of the dais, the soldiers laid their helpless prisoners. the queen commanded that they should be unbound, and ordered them to stand up. they obeyed with the dignity of insulted innocence, and their bearing offended their foolish majesties. meantime the princess, after a long day's journey, arrived at the palace, and walked up to the sentry at the gate. "stand back," said the sentry. "i wish to go in, if you please," said the princess gently. "ha! ha! ha!" laughed the sentry, for he was one of those dull people who form their judgment from a person's clothes, without even looking in his eyes; and as the princess happened to be in rags, her request was amusing, and the booby thought himself quite clever for laughing at her so thoroughly. "i am the princess," rosamond said quietly. "what princess?" bellowed the man. "the princess rosamond. is there another?" she answered and asked. but the man was so tickled at the wondrous idea of a princess in rags, that he scarcely heard what she said for laughing. as soon as he recovered a little, he proceeded to chuck the princess under the chin, saying-"you're a pretty girl, my dear, though you ain't no princess." rosamond drew back with dignity. "you have spoken three untruths at once," she said. "i am not pretty, and i am a princess, and if i were dear to you, as i ought to be, you would not laugh at me because i am badly dressed, but stand aside, and let me go to my father and mother." the tone of her speech, and the rebuke she gave him, made the man look at her; and looking at her, he began to tremble inside his foolish body, and wonder whether he might not have made a mistake. he raised his hand in salute, and said-"i beg your pardon, miss, but i have express orders to admit no child whatever within the palace gates. they tell me his majesty the king says he is sick of children." "he may well be sick of me!" thought the princess; "but it can't mean that he does not want me home again.--i don't think you can very well call me a child," she said, looking the sentry full in the face. "you ain't very big, miss," answered the soldier, "but so be you say you ain't a child, i'll take the risk. the king can only kill me, and a man must die once." he opened the gate, stepped aside, and allowed her to pass. had she lost her temper, as every one but the wise woman would have expected of her, he certainly would not have done so. she ran into the palace, the door of which had been left open by the porter when he followed the soldiers and prisoners to the throne-room, and bounded up the stairs to look for her father and mother. as she passed the door of the throne-room she heard an unusual noise in it, and running to the king's private entrance, over which hung a heavy curtain, she peeped past the edge of it, and saw, to her amazement, the shepherd and shepherdess standing like culprits before the king and queen, and the same moment heard the king say-"peasants, where is the princess rosamond?" "truly, sire, we do not know," answered the shepherd. "you ought to know," said the king. "sire, we could keep her no longer." "you confess, then," said the king, suppressing the outbreak of the wrath that boiled up in him, "that you turned her out of your house." for the king had been informed by a swift messenger of all that had passed long before the arrival of the prisoners. "we did, sire; but not only could we keep her no longer, but we knew not that she was the princess." "you ought to have known, the moment you cast your eyes upon her," said the king. "any one who does not know a princess the moment he sees her, ought to have his eyes put out." "indeed he ought," said the queen. to this they returned no answer, for they had none ready. "why did you not bring her at once to the palace," pursued the king, "whether you knew her to be a princess or not? my proclamation left nothing to your judgment. it said every child." "we heard nothing of the proclamation, sire." "you ought to have heard," said the king. "it is enough that i make proclamations; it is for you to read them. are they not written in letters of gold upon the brazen gates of this palace?" "a poor shepherd, your majesty--how often must he leave his flock, and go hundreds of miles to look whether there may not be something in letters of gold upon the brazen gates? we did not know that your majesty had made a proclamation, or even that the princess was lost." "you ought to have known," said the king. the shepherd held his peace. "but," said the queen, taking up the word, "all that is as nothing, when i think how you misused the darling." the only ground the queen had for saying thus, was what agnes had told her as to how the princess was dressed; and her condition seemed to the queen so miserable, that she had imagined all sorts of oppression and cruelty. but this was more than the shepherdess, who had not yet spoken, could bear. "she would have been dead, and not buried, long ago, madam, if i had not carried her home in my two arms." "why does she say her two arms?" said the king to himself. "has she more than two? is there treason in that?" "you dressed her in cast-off clothes," said the queen. "i dressed her in my own sweet child's sunday clothes. and this is what i get for it!" cried the shepherdess, bursting into tears. "and what did you do with the clothes you took off her? sell them?" "put them in the fire, madam. they were not fit for the poorest child in the mountains. they were so ragged that you could see her skin through them in twenty different places." "you cruel woman, to torture a mother's feelings so!" cried the queen, and in her turn burst into tears. "and i'm sure," sobbed the shepherdess, "i took every pains to teach her what it was right for her to know. i taught her to tidy the house and"-"tidy the house!" moaned the queen. "my poor wretched offspring!" "and peel the potatoes, and"-"peel the potatoes!" cried the queen. "oh, horror!" "and black her master's boots," said the shepherdess. "black her master's boots!" shrieked the queen. "oh, my white-handed princess! oh, my ruined baby!" "what i want to know," said the king, paying no heed to this maternal duel, but patting the top of his sceptre as if it had been the hilt of a sword which he was about to draw, "is, where the princess is now." the shepherd made no answer, for he had nothing to say more than he had said already. "you have murdered her!" shouted the king. "you shall be tortured till you confess the truth; and then you shall be tortured to death, for you are the most abominable wretches in the whole wide world." "who accuses me of crime?" cried the shepherd, indignant. "i accuse you," said the king; "but you shall see, face to face, the chief witness to your villany. officer, bring the girl." silence filled the hall while they waited. the king's face was swollen with anger. the queen hid hers behind her handkerchief. the shepherd and shepherdess bent their eyes on the ground, wondering. it was with difficulty rosamond could keep her place, but so wise had she already become that she saw it would be far better to let every thing come out before she interfered. at length the door opened, and in came the officer, followed by agnes, looking white as death and mean as sin. the shepherdess gave a shriek, and darted towards her with arms spread wide; the shepherd followed, but not so eagerly. "my child! my lost darling! my agnes!" cried the shepherdess. "hold them asunder," shouted the king. "here is more villany! what! have i a scullery-maid in my house born of such parents? the parents of such a child must be capable of any thing. take all three of them to the rack. stretch them till their joints are torn asunder, and give them no water. away with them!" the soldiers approached to lay hands on them. but, behold! a girl all in rags, with such a radiant countenance that it was right lovely to see, darted between, and careless of the royal presence, flung herself upon the shepherdess, crying,-"do not touch her. she is my good, kind mistress." but the shepherdess could hear or see no one but her agnes, and pushed her away. then the princess turned, with the tears in her eyes, to the shepherd, and threw her arms about his neck and pulled down his head and kissed him. and the tall shepherd lifted her to his bosom and kept her there, but his eyes were fixed on his agnes. "what is the meaning of this?" cried the king, starting up from his throne. "how did that ragged girl get in here? take her away with the rest. she is one of them, too." but the princess made the shepherd set her down, and before any one could interfere she had run up the steps of the dais and then the steps of the king's throne like a squirrel, flung herself upon the king, and begun to smother him with kisses. all stood astonished, except the three peasants, who did not even see what took place. the shepherdess kept calling to her agnes, but she was so ashamed that she did not dare even lift her eyes to meet her mother's, and the shepherd kept gazing on her in silence. as for the king, he was so breathless and aghast with astonishment, that he was too feeble to fling the ragged child from him, as he tried to do. but she left him, and running down the steps of the one throne and up those of the other, began kissing the queen next. but the queen cried out,-"get away, you great rude child!--will nobody take her to the rack?" then the princess, hardly knowing what she did for joy that she had come in time, ran down the steps of the throne and the dais, and placing herself between the shepherd and shepherdess, took a hand of each, and stood looking at the king and queen. their faces began to change. at last they began to know her. but she was so altered--so lovelily altered, that it was no wonder they should not have known her at the first glance; but it was the fault of the pride and anger and injustice with which their hearts were filled, that they did not know her at the second. the king gazed and the queen gazed, both half risen from their thrones, and looking as if about to tumble down upon her, if only they could be right sure that the ragged girl was their own child. a mistake would be such a dreadful thing! "my darling!" at last shrieked the mother, a little doubtfully. "my pet of pets?" cried the father, with an interrogative twist of tone. another moment, and they were half way down the steps of the dais. "stop!" said a voice of command from somewhere in the hall, and, king and queen as they were, they stopped at once half way, then drew themselves up, stared, and began to grow angry again, but durst not go farther. the wise woman was coming slowly up through the crowd that filled the hall. every one made way for her. she came straight on until she stood in front of the king and queen. "miserable man and woman!" she said, in words they alone could hear, "i took your daughter away when she was worthy of such parents; i bring her back, and they are unworthy of her. that you did not know her when she came to you is a small wonder, for you have been blind in soul all your lives: now be blind in body until your better eyes are unsealed." she threw her cloak open. it fell to the ground, and the radiance that flashed from her robe of snowy whiteness, from her face of awful beauty, and from her eyes that shone like pools of sunlight, smote them blind. rosamond saw them give a great start, shudder, waver to and fro, then sit down on the steps of the dais; and she knew they were punished, but knew not how. she rushed up to them, and catching a hand of each said-"father, dear father! mother dear! i will ask the wise woman to forgive you." "oh, i am blind! i am blind!" they cried together. "dark as night! stone blind!" rosamond left them, sprang down the steps, and kneeling at her feet, cried, "oh, my lovely wise woman! do let them see. do open their eyes, dear, good, wise woman." the wise woman bent down to her, and said, so that none else could hear, "i will one day. meanwhile you must be their servant, as i have been yours. bring them to me, and i will make them welcome." rosamond rose, went up the steps again to her father and mother, where they sat like statues with closed eyes, half-way from the top of the dais where stood their empty thrones, seated herself between them, took a hand of each, and was still. all this time very few in the room saw the wise woman. the moment she threw off her cloak she vanished from the sight of almost all who were present. the woman who swept and dusted the hall and brushed the thrones, saw her, and the shepherd had a glimmering vision of her; but no one else that i know of caught a glimpse of her. the shepherdess did not see her. nor did agnes, but she felt her presence upon her like the beat of a furnace seven times heated. as soon as rosamond had taken her place between her father and mother, the wise woman lifted her cloak from the floor, and threw it again around her. then everybody saw her, and agnes felt as if a soft dewy cloud had come between her and the torrid rays of a vertical sun. the wise woman turned to the shepherd and shepherdess. "for you," she said, "you are sufficiently punished by the work of your own hands. instead of making your daughter obey you, you left her to be a slave to herself; you coaxed when you ought to have compelled; you praised when you ought to have been silent; you fondled when you ought to have punished; you threatened when you ought to have inflicted--and there she stands, the full-grown result of your foolishness! she is your crime and your punishment. take her home with you, and live hour after hour with the pale-hearted disgrace you call your daughter. what she is, the worm at her heart has begun to teach her. when life is no longer endurable, come to me. "madam," said the shepherd, "may i not go with you now?" "you shall," said the wise woman. "husband! husband!" cried the shepherdess, "how are we two to get home without you?" "i will see to that," said the wise woman. "but little of home you will find it until you have come to me. the king carried you hither, and he shall carry you back. but your husband shall not go with you. he cannot now if he would." the shepherdess looked and saw that the shepherd stood in a deep sleep. she went to him and sought to rouse him, but neither tongue nor hands were of the slightest avail. the wise woman turned to rosamond. "my child," she said, "i shall never be far from you. come to me when you will. bring them to me." rosamond smiled and kissed her hand, but kept her place by her parents. they also were now in a deep sleep like the shepherd. the wise woman took the shepherd by the hand, and led him away. and that is all my double story. how double it is, if you care to know, you must find out. if you think it is not finished--i never knew a story that was. i could tell you a great deal more concerning them all, but i have already told more than is good for those who read but with their foreheads, and enough for those whom it has made look a little solemn, and sigh as they close the book. note: images of the original pages are available through the florida board of education, division of colleges and universities, palmm project, 2001. (preservation and access for american and british children's literature, 1850-1869.) see http://purl.fcla.edu/fcla/dl/uf00001806.jpg or http://purl.fcla.edu/fcla/dl/uf00001806.pdf emilie the peacemaker. by mrs. thomas geldart. author of "truth is everything;" "nursery guide;" "stories of england and her forty counties;" and "thoughts for home." mdcccli. blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of god.... matt v. 9. contents. chapter i. introduction chapter ii. the soft answer chapter iii. the lesson at the cottage chapter iv. the holidays chapter v. edith's trials chapter vi. emilie's trials chapter vii. better things chapter viii. good for evil chapter ix. fred a peacemaker chapter x. edith's visit to joe chapter xi. joe's christmas chapter xii. the christmas tree chapter xiii. the new home chapter xiv. the last chapter first. introduction. one bright afternoon, or rather evening, in may, two girls, with basket in hand, were seen leaving the little seaport town in which they resided, for the professed purpose of primrose gathering, but in reality to enjoy the pure air of the first summer-like evening of a season, which had been unusually cold and backward. their way lay through bowery lanes scented with sweet brier and hawthorn, and every now and then glorious were the views of the beautiful ocean, which lay calmly reposing and smiling beneath the setting sun. "how unlike that stormy, dark, and noisy sea of but a week ago!" so said the friends to each other, as they listened to its distant musical murmur, and heard the waves break gently on the shingly beach. although we have called them friends, there was a considerable difference in their ages. that tall and pleasing, though plain, girl in black, was the governess of the younger. her name was emilie schomberg. the little rosy, dark-eyed, and merry girl, her pupil, we shall call edith parker. she had scarcely numbered twelve mays, and was at the age when primrosing and violeting have not lost their charms, and when spring is the most welcome, and the dearest of all the four seasons. emilie schomberg, as her name may lead you to infer, was a german. she spoke english, however, so well, that you would scarcely have supposed her to be a foreigner, and having resided in england for some years, had been accustomed to the frequent use of that language. emilie schomberg was the daily governess of little edith. little she was always called, for she was the youngest of the family, and at eleven years of age, if the truth must be told of her, was a good deal of a baby. several schemes of education had been tried for this same little edith,--schools and governesses and masters,--but emilie schomberg, who now came to her for a few hours every other day, had obtained greater influence over her than any former instructor; and in addition to the german, french, and music, which she undertook to teach, she instructed edith in a few things not really within her province, but nevertheless of some importance; of these you shall judge. the search for primroses was not a silent search--edith is the first speaker. "yes, emilie, but it was very provoking, after i had finished my lessons so nicely, and got done in time to walk out with you, to have mamma fancy i had a cold, when i had nothing of the kind. i almost wish some one would turn really ill, and then she would not fancy i was so, quite so often." "oh, hush, edith dear! you are talking nonsense, and you are saying what you cannot mean. i don't like to hear you so pert to that kind mamma of yours, whenever she thinks it right to contradict you." "emilie, i cannot help saying, and you know yourself, though you call her kind, that mamma is cross, very cross sometimes. yes, i know she is very fond of me and all that, but still she _is_ cross, and it is no use denying it. oh, dear, i wish i was you. you never seem to have anything to put you out. i never see you look as if you had been crying or vexed, but i have so many many things to vex me at home." emilie smiled. "as to my having nothing to put me out, you may be right, and you may be wrong, dear. there is never any excuse for being what you call _put out_, by which i understand cross and pettish, but i am rather amused, too, at your fixing on a daily governess, as a person the least likely in the world to have trials of temper and patience." "yes, i dare say i vex you sometimes, but"--"well, not to speak of you, dear, whom i love very much, though you are not perfect, i have other pupils, and do you suppose, that amongst so many as i have to teach at miss humphrey's school, for instance, there is not one self-willed, not one impertinent, not one idle, not one dull scholar? my dear, there never was a person, you may be sure of that, who had nothing to be tried, or, as you say, put out with. but not to talk of my troubles, and i have not many i will confess, except that great one, edith, which, may you be many years before you know, (the loss of a father;) not to talk of that, what are your troubles? your mamma is cross sometimes, that is to say, she does not always give you all you ask for, crosses you now and then, is that all?" "oh no emilie, there are mary and ellinor, they never seem to like me to be with them, they are so full of their own plans and secrets. whenever i go into the room, there is such a hush and mystery. the fact is, they treat me like a baby. oh, it is a great misfortune to be the youngest child! but of all my troubles, fred is the greatest. john teases me sometimes, but he is nothing to fred. emilie, you don't know what that boy is; but you will see, when you come to stay with me in the holidays, and you shall say then if you think i have nothing to put me out." the very recollection of her wrongs appeared to irritate the little lady, and she put on a pout, which made her look anything but kind and amiable. the primroses which she had so much desired, were not quite to her mind, they were not nearly so fine as those that john and fred had brought home. now she was tired of the dusty road, and she would go home by the beach. so saying, edith turned resolutely towards a stile, which led across some fields to the sea shore, and not all emilie's entreaties could divert her from her purpose. "edith, dear! we shall be late, very late! as it is we have been out too long, come back, pray do;" but edith was resolute, and ran on. emilie, who knew her pupil's self-will over a german lesson, although she had little experience of her temper in other matters, was beginning to despair of persuading her, and spoke yet more earnestly and firmly, though still kindly and gently, but in vain. edith had jumped over the stile, and was on her way to the cliff, when her course was arrested by an old sailor, who was sitting on a bench near the gangway leading to the shore. he had heard the conversation between the governess and her headstrong pupil, as he smoked his pipe on this favourite seat, and playfully caught hold of the skirt of the young lady's frock, as she passed, to edith's great indignation. "now, miss, i could not, no, that i could'nt, refuse any one who asked me so pretty as that lady did you. if she had been angry, and commanded you back, why bad begets bad, and tit for tat you know, and i should not so much have wondered: but, miss, you should not vex her. no, don't be angry with an old man, i have seen so much of the evils of young folks taking their own way. look here, young lady," said the weather beaten sailor, as he pointed to a piece of crape round his hat; "this comes of being fond of one's own way." edith was arrested, and approached the stile, on the other side of which emilie schomberg still leant, listening to the fisherman's talk with her pupil. "you see, miss," said he, "i have brought her round, she were a little contrary at first, but the squall is over, and she is going home your way. oh, a capital good rule, that of your's, miss!" "what," said emilie smiling, "why, that 'soft answer,' that kind way. i see a good deal of the ways of nurses with children, ah, and of governesses, and mothers, and fathers too, as i sit about on the sea shore, mending my nets. i ain't fit for much else now, you see, miss, though i have seen a deal of service, and as i sit sometimes watching the little ones playing on the sand, and with the shingle, i keep my ears open, for i can't bear to see children grieved, and sometimes i put in a word to the nurse maids. bless me! to see how some of 'em whip up the children in the midst of their play. neither with your leave, nor by your leave; 'here, come along, you dirty, naughty boy, here's a wet frock! come, this minute, you tiresome child, it's dinner time.' now that ain't what i call fair play, miss. i say you ought to speak civil, even to a child; and then, the crying, and the shaking, and the pulling up the gangway. many and many is the little squaller i go and pacify, and carry as well as i can up the cliff: but i beg pardon, miss, hope i don't offend. only i was afraid, miss there was a little awkward, and would give you trouble." "indeed," said emilie, "i am much obliged to you; where do you live?" "i live," said the old man, "i may say, a great part of my life, under the sky, in summer time, but i lodge with my son, and he lives between this and brooke. in winter time, since the rheumatics has got hold of me, i am drawn to the fire side, but my son's wife, she don't take after him, bless him. she's a bit of a spirit, and when she talks more than i like, why i wish myself at sea again, for an angry woman's tongue is worse than a storm at sea, any day; if it was'nt for the children, bless 'em, i should not live with 'em, but i am very partial to them." "well, we must say good night, now," said emilie, "or we shall be late home; i dare say we shall see you on the shore some day; good night." "good night to you, ma'am; good night, young lady; be friends, won't you?" edith's hand was given, but it was not pleasant to be conquered, and she was a little sullen on the way home. they parted at the door of edith's house. edith went in, to join a cheerful family in a comfortable and commodious room; emilie, to a scantily furnished, and shabbily genteel apartment, let to her and a maiden aunt by a straw bonnet maker in the town. we will peep at her supper table, and see if miss edith were quite right in supposing that emilie schomberg had nothing to put her out. chapter second. the soft answer. an old lady was seated by a little ricketty round table, knitting; knitting very fast. surely she did not always knit so fast, germans are great knitters it is true, but the needles made quite a noise--click, click, click--against one another. the table was covered with a snow-white cloth. by her side was a loaf called by bakers and housekeepers, crusty; the term might apply either to the loaf or the old lady's temper. a little piece of cheese stood on a clean plate, and a crab on another, a little pat of butter on a third, and this, with a jug of water, formed the preparation for the evening meal of the aunt and niece. emilie went up to her aunt, gaily, with her bunch of primroses in her hand, and addressing her in the german language, begged her pardon for keeping supper waiting. the old lady knitted faster than ever, dropped a stitch, picked it up, looked out of the window, and cleared up, not her temper, but her throat; click, click went the needles, and emilie looked concerned. "aunt, dear," she said, "shall we sit down to supper?" "my appetite is gone, emilie, i thank you." "i am really sorry, aunt, but you know you are so kind, you wish me to take plenty of exercise, and i was detained to-night. miss parker and i stayed chattering to an old sailor. it was very thoughtless, pray excuse me. but now aunt, dear, see this fine crab, you like crabs; old peter varley sent it to you, the old man you knitted the guernsey for in the winter." no,--old miss schomberg was not to be brought round. crabs were very heavy things at night, very indigestible things, she wondered at emilie thinking she could eat them, so subject as she was to spasms, too. indeed she could eat no supper. she was very dull and not well, so emilie sat down to her solitary meal. she did not go on worrying her aunt to eat, but she watched for a suitable opening, for the first indication indeed, of the clearing up for which she hoped, and though it must be confessed some such thoughts as "how cross and unreasonable aunt is," did pass through her mind, she gave them no utterance. emilie's mind was under good discipline, she had learned to forbear in love, and for the exercise of this virtue, she had abundant opportunity. poor emilie! she had not always been a governess, subject to the trials of tuition; she had not always lived in a little lodging without the comforts and joys of family and social intercourse. her father had failed in business, in frankfort, and when emilie was about ten years of age, he had come over to england, and had gained his living there by teaching his native language. he had been dead about a twelve-month, and emilie, at the age of twenty-one, found herself alone in the world, in england at least, with the exception of the old german aunt, to whom i have introduced you, and who had come over with her brother, from love to him and his motherless child. she had a very small independence, and when left an orphan, the kind old aunt, for kind she was, in spite of some little infirmities of temper, persisted in sharing with her her board and lodging, till emilie, who was too active and right minded to desire to depend on her for support, sought employment as a teacher. the seaport town of l----, in the south of england, whither emilie and her father had gone in the vain hope of restoring his broken health, offered many advantages to our young german mistress. she had had a good solid education. her father, who was a scholar, had taught her, and had taught her well, so that besides her own language, she was able to teach latin and french, and to instruct, as the advertisements say, "in the usual branches of english education." she was musical, had a fine ear and correct taste, and accordingly met with pupils without much difficulty. in the summer months especially she was fully employed. families who came for relaxation were, nevertheless, glad to have their daughters taught for a few hours in the week; and you may suppose that emilie schomberg did not lead an idle life. for remuneration she fared, as alas teachers do fare, but ill. the sum which many a gentleman freely gives to his butler or valet, is thought exorbitant, nay, is rarely given to a governess, and emilie, as a daily governess, was but poorly paid. the expenses of her father's long illness and funeral were heavy, and she was only just out of debt; therefore, with the honesty and independence of spirit that marked her, she lived carefully and frugally at the little rooms of miss webster, the straw bonnet maker, in high street. from what i have told you already, you will easily perceive that emilie was accustomed to command her temper; she had been trained to do this early in life. her father, who foresaw for his child a life dependent on her character and exertion, a life of labour in teaching and governing others, taught emilie to govern herself. never was an only child less spoiled than she; but she was ruled in love. she knew but one law, that of kindness, and it made her a good subject. many were the sensible lessons that the good man gave her, as leaning on her strong arm he used to pace up and down the grassy slopes which bordered the sea shore. "look, emilie," he would say, "look at that governess marshalling her scholars out. do they look happy? think you that they obey that stern mistress out of _love_? listen, she calls to them to keep their ranks and not to talk so loud. what unhappy faces among them! emilie, my child, you may keep school some day; oh, take care and gain the love of the young ones, i don't believe there is any other successful government, so i have found it." "with me, ah yes, papa!" "with you, my child, and with all my scholars; i had little experience as a teacher, when first it pleased god to make me dependent on my own exertions as such, but i found out the secret. gain your pupils' love, emilie, and a silken thread will draw them; without that love, cords will not drag, scourges will scarcely drive them." emilie found this advice of her father's rather hard to follow now and then. her first essay in teaching was in mrs. parker's family. edith was to "be finished." and now poor emilie found that there was more to teach edith than german and french, and that there was more difficulty in teaching her to keep her temper than her voice in tune. edith was affectionate, but self-willed and irritable. her mamma's treatment had not tended to improve her in this respect. mrs. parker had bad health, and said she had bad spirits. she was a kind, generous, and affectionate woman, but was always in trouble. in trouble with her chimneys because they smoked; in trouble with her maids who did not obey her; and worst of all in trouble with herself; for she had good sense and good principle, but she had let her temper go too long undisciplined, and it was apt to break forth sometimes against those she loved, and would cause her many bitter tears and self-upbraidings. she took an interest in the poor german master, for she was a benevolent woman, and cheered his dying bed by promising to assist his daughter. she even offered to take her into her family; but this could not be thought of. good aunt agnes had left her country for the sake of emilie--emilie would not desert her aunt now. the scene at the supper table was not an uncommon one, but emilie was frequently more successful in winning aunt agnes to a smile than on this occasion. "perhaps i tried too much; perhaps i did not try enough, perhaps i tried in the wrong way," thought emilie, as she received her aunt's cold kiss, and took up her bed room candle to retire for the night. when aunt agnes said good night, it was so very distantly, so very unkindly, that an angry demand for explanation almost rose to emilie's lips, and though she did not utter it, she said her good night coldly and stiffly too, and thus they parted. but when emilie opened the bible that night, her eye rested on the words, "be ye kind one to another, tender-hearted, forgiving one another, as god for christ's sake hath forgiven you," then emilie could not rest. she did not forgive her aunt; she felt that she did not; but emilie was _human_, and human nature is proud. "i did nothing to offend her," reasoned pride, "it was only because i was out a little late, and i said i was sorry and i tried to bring her round. ah well, it will all be right to-morrow; it is no use to think of it now," and she prepared to kneel down to pray. just then her eye rested on her father's likeness; she remembered how he used to say, when she was a child and lisped her little prayer at his knee, "emilie, have you any unkind thoughts to any one? do you feel at peace with all? for god says, 'when thou bringest thy gift before the altar, and there rememberest that thy brother hath aught against thee, leave there thy gift before the altar, _first_ be reconciled to thy brother, and _then_ go and offer thy gift.'" on one or two occasions had emilie arisen, her tender conscience thus appealed to, and thrown her arms round her nurse's or her aunt's neck, to beg their forgiveness for some little offence committed by her and forgotten perhaps by them, and would then kneel down and offer up her evening prayer. so emilie hushed pride's voice, and opening her door, crossed the little passage to her aunt's sleeping room, and putting her arm round her neck fondly said, "dear aunt!" it was enough, the good old lady hugged her lovingly. "ah, emilie dear, i am a cross old woman, and thou art a dear good child. bless thee!" in half an hour after the inmates of the little lodging in high street were sound asleep, at peace with one another, and at peace with god. chapter third. the lesson at the cottage. edith was very busily searching for corallines and sea weeds, a few days after the evening walk recorded in our first chapter. she was alone, for her two sisters had appeared more than usually confidential and unwilling for her company, and her dear teacher was engaged that afternoon at the young ladies' seminary, so she tried to make herself happy in her solitary ramble. a boat came in at this moment, and the pleasant shout of the boatmen's voices, and the grating of the little craft as it landed on the pebbly shore, attracted the young lady's notice, and she stood for a few moments to watch the proceedings. amongst those on shore, who had come to lend a hand in pulling the boat in, edith thought that she recognised a face, and on a little closer inspection she saw it was old joe murray, who had stopped her course to the beach a few evenings before. she did not wish to encounter joe, so slipping behind the blue jacketed crowd, she walked quickly forwards, but joe followed her. "young lady," he said, "if you are looking for corallines, you can't do better than ask your papa some fine afternoon, to drive you as far as sheldon, and you'll find a sight of fine weeds there, as i know, for my boy, my poor boy i lost, i mean," said he, again touching the rusty crape on his hat, "my boy was very curious in those things, and had quite a museum of 'em at home." how could edith stand against such an attack? it was plain that the old man wanted to make peace with her, and, cheerfully thanking him, she was moving on, but the old boots grinding the shingle, were again heard behind her, and turning round, she saw joe at her heels. "miss, i don't know as i ought to have stopped you that night. i am a poor old fisherman, and you are a young lady, but i meant no harm, and for the moment only did it in a joke." "oh, dear," said edith, "don't think any more about it, i was very cross that night, and you were quite right, i should have got miss schomberg into sad trouble if i had gone that way. as it was, i was out too late. have you lost a son lately, said edith, i heard you say you had just now? was he drowned?" inquired the child, kindly looking up into joe's face. "yes miss, he was drowned," said joe, "he came by his death very sadly. will you please, miss, to come home with me, and i will shew you his curiosities, and if you please to take a fancy to any, i'm sure you are very welcome. i don't know any good it does me to turn 'em over, and look at them as i do times and often, but somehow when we lose them we love, we hoard up all they loved. he had a little dog, poor bob had, a little yapping thing, and i never took to the animal, 'twas always getting into mischief, and gnawing the nets, and stealing my fish, and i used often to say, 'bob, my boy, i love you but not your dog. no, that saying won't hold good now. i can't love that dog of yours. sell it, boy--give it away--get rid of it some how.' all in good part, you know, miss, for i never had any words with him about it. and now bob is gone--do you know, miss, i love that dumb thing with the sort of love i should love his child, if he had left me one. if any one huffs rover, (i ain't a very huffish man,) but i can tell you i shew them i don't like it, i let the creature lay at my feet at night, and i feed him myself and fondle him for the sake of him who loved him so. and you may depend miss, the dog knows his young master is gone, and the way he is gone too, for i could not bring him on the shore for a long while, but he would set up such a howl as would rend your heart to hear. and that made me love the poor thing i can tell you." "but how did it happen?" softly asked edith. "why miss it ain't at all an extraordinary way in which he met his death. it was in this way. he was very fond of me, poor boy, but he liked his way better than my way too often. and may be i humoured him a little too much. he was my benjamin, you must know miss, for his mother died soon after he was born. sure enough i made an idol of the lad, and we read somewhere in the bible, miss, that 'the idols he will utterly abolish.' but i don't like looking at the sorrow that way neither. i would rather think that 'whom the lord loveth he chasteneth.' well, miss, like father like son. my boy loved the sea, as was natural he should, but he was too venturesome; i used often to say, 'bob, the oldest sailor living can't rule the waves and winds, and if you are such a mad cap as to go out sailing in such equally weather on this coast, as sure as you are alive you will repent it.' he and some young chaps hereabouts, got such a wonderful notion of sailing, and though i have sailed many and many a mile, in large vessels and small, i always hold to it that it is ticklish work for the young and giddy. why sometimes you are on the sea, miss, ah, as calm as it is now--all in peace and safety--a squall comes, and before you know what you are about you are capsized. i had told him this, and he knew it, miss, but he got a good many idle acquaintances, as i told you, and they tempted him often to do bold reckless things such as boys call brave." "it was one morning at the end of september, bob says to me, 'father, we are going to keep my birthday; i am sixteen to-day,' and so he was, bless him, sixteen the very day he died. 'we are going to keep my birthday,' says he, 'newton, and somers, and franklin, and i, we are all going to witton,' that is the next town, miss, as you may know, 'we are going to have a sail there, and dine at grandmother's, and home again at night, eh father.' 'bob,' says i, 'i can't give my consent; that ticklish sailing boat of young woods' requires wiser heads and steadier hands than your's to manage. you know my opinion of sailing, and you won't grieve me, i hope, by going.' i might have told him, but i did not, that i did not like the lads he was going with, but i knew that would only make him angry, and do no good just as his heart was set upon a frolic with them, so i said nought of that, but i tried to win him, (that's my way with the young ones,) though i failed this time; go he would, and he would have gone, let me have been as angry as you please. but i have this comfort, that no sharp words passed my lips that day, and no bitter ones his. i saw he was set on the frolic, and i hoped no harm would come of it. how i watched the sky that day, miss, no mortal knows; how i started when i saw a sea gull skim across the waves! how i listened for the least sound of a squall! snap was just as fidgetty seemingly, and we kept stealing down to the beach, long before it was likely they should be back. as i stood watching there in the evening, where i knew they would land, i saw young newton's mother; she pulled me by my sleeve, anxious like, and said, 'what do you think of the weather joe?' 'why, missis,' said i, 'there is an ugly look about the sky, but i don't wish to frighten you; please god they'll soon be home, for bob promised to be home early.'" "well, miss, there we stood, the waves washing our feet, till it grew dark, and then i could stand it no longer. i said to the poor mother, 'keep a good heart,' but i had little hope myself, god knows, and off i made for witton. well, they had not been there, i found the grandmother had seen nothing of them. they were picked up a day or so after, all four of them washed up by the morning tide; their boat had drifted no one knows where, and no one knows how it happened; but i suppose they were driven out by the fresh breeze that sprung up, and not knowing how to manage the sails, they were capsized." "there they all lay. miss, in the churchyard. it was a solemn sight, i can tell you, to see those four coffins, side by side, in the church. they were all strong hearty lads, and all under seventeen. i go and sit on his grave sometimes, and spell over all i said, and all he said that day; and glad enough i am, that i can remember neither cross word nor cross look. ah, my lady, i should remember it if it had been so. we think we are good fathers and good friends to them we love while they are alive, but as soon as we lose 'em, all the kindness we ever did them seems little enough, while all the bad feelings we had, and sharp words we spoke, come up to condemn us." by this time they had reached the fisherman's cottage; it was prettily situated, as houses on the south coast often are, under the shadow of a fine over-hanging cliff. masses of rock, clad with emerald green, were scattered here and there, and the thriving plants in the little garden, gave evidence of the mildness of the air in those parts, though close upon the sea. the cottage was very low, but white and cheerful looking outside, and as clean and trim within as a notable and stirring woman could make it. joe's daughter-in-law, the same described by joe the other evening as the woman of a high spirit, was to-day absent on an errand to the town; and edith, who loved children, stopped at the threshold to notice two or three little curly-headed prattlers, who were playing together at grotto making, an amusement which cost grandfather many a half-penny. some dispute seemed to have arisen at the moment of their entrance between the young builders, for a good-humoured, plain-looking girl, of twelve, the nursemaid of the baby, and the care-taker of four other little ones, was trying to pacify the aggrieved. in vain--little susy was in a great passion, and with her tiny foot kicked over the grotto, the result of several hours' labour; first, in searching on the shore for shells and pebbles, and secondly, in its erection. then arose such a shriek and tumult amongst the children, as those only can conceive who know what a noise disappointed little creatures, from three to seven years old, can make. they all set upon susy, "naughty, mischievous, tiresome," were among the words. the quiet looking girl, who had been trying to settle the dispute, now interfered again. she led susy away gently, but firmly, into another part of the garden, where spying her grandfather, she took the unwilling and ashamed little girl for him to deal with, and ran hack to the crying children and ruined grotto. "oh, hush! dears, pray hush," said sarah, beginning to pick up the shells, "we will soon build it up again." this they all declared impossible, and cried afresh, but sarah persevered, and quietly went on piling up the shells, till at last one little mourner took up her coarse pinafore and wiping her eyes, said, "sarah does it very nicely." the grotto rose beautifully, and at last they were all quiet and happy again; all but poor susy, who, seeing herself excluded, kept up a terrible whine. "i wonder if susan is sorry," said sarah. "not she, not she, don't ask her here again," said they all. "why not," said the grandfather, who having walked about with susy awhile, and talked gravely to her, appeared to have brought about a change in her temper? "why because she will knock it down again the first time any thing puts her out." "won't you try her?" said sarah, pleadingly; but they still said "no! no!" "don't you mind the day, dick," said sarah, "when you pulled grandfather's new net all into the mud, and tangled his twine, and spoilt him a whole day's work?" "yes," said dick. "ah, and don't you mind, too, when he went out in the boat next day, and you asked to go with him, just as if nothing had happened, and you had done no harm, he said, 'ah, dick, if i were to mind what _revenge_ says, i would not take you with me; you have injured me very much, but i'll mind what _love_ says, and that tells me to return good for evil?'" "yes," says dick. "do you think you could have hurt any thing of grandfather's after that?" "no," said dick, "but i did not do it in a rage, as susy did." "you did mischief, though," said sarah; "but i want susy to give over going into these rages. i want to cure her. beating her does no good, mother says that herself; wont you all try and help to cure susy?" these children were not angels. i am writing of children as they are you know, and though they yielded, it was rather sullenly, and little susan was given to understand that she was not a very welcome addition. susy kept very close to sarah, sobbing and heaving, till the children seeing her subdued, made more room for her, and her smile returned. now the law of kindness prevailed, and when the time came to run down to the shore for some more shells, to replace those that had been broken, susy, at sarah's hint, ran first and fastest, and brought her little pinafore fullest of all. edith watched all this, and her good old mentor was willing that she should. "i suppose you have taught them this way of settling disputes," said edith to joe. "i, oh no, miss, i can't take all the credit. sarah, there, she has taken to me very much since my bob died, and she said to me the day of his funeral, when her heart was soft and tender-like, 'grandfather, tell me what i can do to comfort you.' 'oh, child,' says i, 'my grief is too deep for you to touch, but you are a kind girl, i'll tell you what to do to-night. leave me alone, and, oh, try and make the children quiet, for my head aches as bad as my heart. sally.'" "then sarah tried that day and the next, but found it hard work; the boys quarrelled and fought, and the little once scratched and cried, and their mother came and beat one or two of the worst, but all did no good. there was no peace till bed time; still i encouraged her and told her, you know, about 'a soft answer turning away wrath,' and since that time, she has less often given railing for railing; and has not huffed and worried them, as elder sisters are apt to do. she is a good girl, is sarah, but here comes the missis home from market." "the missis" certainly did not look very sweet, and her heavy load had heated her. she did not welcome edith pleasantly, which, the old man observing, led her away to a little room he occupied at the back of the cottage, and showed her the corallines. edith saw plainly that though the poor father offered her any of them she liked to take, he suffered in parting with them, so calling dick and mary, she asked if they would hunt for some for her, like those in grandfather's stores. they consented joyfully, and edith promising often to come and see the old man, ran down the cliff briskly, and hastened home. she thought a good deal as she walked, and asked herself if she should have had the patience and the gentleness of that poor cottage girl; if she should have soothed susy, and comforted dick and mary; if she should have troubled herself to kneel down in the broiling sun and build up a few trumpery shells into a grotto, to be upset and destroyed presently. she came to the conclusion that for good, pleasant, prettily behaved children, she might have done so, but for shrieking, passionate, quarrelsome little things as they appeared to her then, she certainly should not. she felt humbled at the contrast between herself and sarah; and when she arrived at home, for the first time, perhaps, in her life, she patiently bore her mamma's reproaches for being so late, and for the impropriety of walking away from her sisters, no one knew where. she was not yet quite skilled enough in the art of peace, to give the "soft answer;" but her silence and quietness turned away mrs. parker's wrath, and after dinner, edith prepared herself for the visit of her dear emilie. chapter fourth. the holidays. mrs. parker and her two elder daughters were going to pay a visit to town this summer, and as edith was not thought old enough to accompany them, mrs. parker resolved to ask emilie to take charge of her. the only difficulty was how to dispose of aunt agnes; aunt agnes wishing them to believe that she did not mind being alone, but all the while minding it very much. at last it occurred to emilie that perhaps mrs. crosse, at the farm in edenthorpe, a few miles off, would, if she knew of the difficulty, ask aunt agnes there for a few weeks. mrs. crosse and aunt agnes got on so wonderfully well together, and as she had often been invited, the only thing now was to get her in the mind to go. this was effected in due time, and mr. crosse came up to the lodgings for her and her little box, in his horse and gig, on the very evening that emilie was to go the parkers', to be installed as housekeeper and governess in the lady's absence. edith had come to see the dear old aunt off; and now re-entered the lodgings to help emilie to collect her things, and to settle with miss webster for the lodgings, before her departure. miss webster had met with a tenant for six weeks, and was in very good spirits, and very willing to take care of the schombergs' goods, which, to tell the truth, were not likely to oppress her either in number or value, with the exception of one cherished article, one relic of former days--a good semi-grand piano, which m. schomberg had purchased for his daughter, about a year before his death. miss webster looked very much confused as emilie bade her good-bye, and said--"miss schomberg, you have not, i see, left your piano unlocked." "no," said emilie, "certainly i have not; i did not suppose----" "why," replied miss webster, "the lodgers, seeing a piano, will be sure to ask for the key, miss, and to be sure you wo'nt object." emilie hesitated. did she remember the time when miss webster, indignant at emilie for being a fortnight behind-hand in her weekly rent, refused to lend a sofa for her dying father, without extra pay? did she recall the ill-made slops, the wretched attendance to which this selfish woman treated them during the pressure of poverty and distress? emilie was human, and she remembered all. she knew, moreover, that miss webster would make a gain of her instrument, and that it might suffer from six weeks' rough use. she stood twisting some straw plait that lay on the counter, in her fingers, and then coolly saying she would consider of it, walked out of the shop with edith, her bosom swelling with conflicting feelings. the slight had been to her _father_--to her dear dead father--she could not love miss webster, nor respect her--she could not oblige her. she felt so now, however, and despised the meanness of the lodging-house keeper, in making the request. edith was by her side in good spirits, though she was to miss the london journey. not every young lady would be so content to remain all the holiday-time with the governess; but edith loved her governess. happy governess, to be loved by her pupil! mrs. parker received emilie very kindly: she was satisfied that her dear child would be happy in her absence, and she knew enough of emilie, she said, to believe that she would see that mr. parker had his meals regularly and nicely served, and that the servants did not rob or run away, or the boys put their dirty feet on the sofa, or bright fender tops, or lead edith into mischief; in short, the things that emilie was to see to were so numerous, that it would have required more eyes than she possessed, and far more vigilance and experience than she lay claim to, to fulfill all mrs. parker's desires. amidst all the talking and novelty of her new situation, however, emilie was absent and thoughtful; she was dispirited, and yet she was not subject to low spirits either. there was a cause. she had a tender conscience--a conscience with which she was in the habit of conversing, and conscience kept whispering to her the words--"what things soever ye would that men should do unto you, do ye also to them." in vain she tried to silence this monitor, and at last she asked to withdraw for a few minutes, and scribbled a hasty note to miss webster; the first she wrote was as follows:-"dear miss w.--i enclose the key of the pianoforte. i should have acceded to your request, only i remembered standing on that very spot, by that very counter, a year ago, petitioning hard for the loan of a sofa for my dying father, who, in his feverish and restless state, longed to leave the bed for awhile. i remembered that, and i could not feel as if i could oblige you; but i have thought better of it, and beg you will use the piano." "yours truly, "emilie schomberg." she read the note before folding it, however; and somehow it did not satisfy her. she crumpled it up, took a turn or two in the room, and then wrote the following:-"dear miss webster--i am sorry that i for a moment hesitated to lend you my piano. it was selfish, and i hope you will excuse the incivility. i enclose the key, and as your lodgers do not come in until to-morrow, i hope the delay will not have inconvenienced you. "believe me, yours truly, "emilie schomberg." having sealed her little note, she asked mrs. parker's permission to send it into high street, and emilie schomberg was herself again. you will see, by-and-bye, how emilie returned miss webster's selfishness in a matter yet more important than the loan of the piano. it would have been meeting evil with evil had she retaliated the mean conduct of her landlady. she would undoubtedly have done so, had she yielded to the impulses of her nature; but "how then could i have prayed," said emilie, "forgive me my trespasses as i forgive them that trespass against me." the travellers set off early in the morning, and now began the holiday of both governess and pupil. they loved one another so well that the prospect of six weeks' close companionship was irksome to neither; but emilie had not a holiday of it altogether. miss edith was exacting and petulant at times, even with those she loved, and she loved none better than emilie. fred, the tormenting brother of whom edith had spoken in her list of troubles in our first chapter, was undeniably troublesome; and the three maid-servants set themselves from the very first to resist the governess's temporary authority; so we are wrong in calling these emilie's holidays. she had not, indeed, undertaken the charge very willingly; but mrs. parker had befriended her in extremity, and she loved edith dearly, notwithstanding much in her that was not loveable, so she armed herself for the conflict, and cheerfully and humbly commenced her new duties. fred and his elder brother john were at home for the holidays; they were high-spirited lads of fourteen and fifteen years of age, and were particularly fond of teasing both their elder sisters and little edith; a taste, by-the-bye, by no means peculiar to the master parkers, but one which we cannot admire, nevertheless. the two boys, with emilie and edith, were on their way to pay aunt agnes a little visit, having received from mrs. crosse, at the farm, a request for the honour of the young lady's company as well as that of her brothers. john and frederick were to walk, and emily and edith were to go in the little pony gig. as they were leaving the town, edith caught sight of john coming out of a shop which was a favourite resort of most of the young people and visitors of the town of l----. it was professedly a stationer's and bookseller's, and was kept by mrs. cox, a widow woman, who sold balls, fishing tackle, books, boats, miniature spades, barrows, garden tools, patent medicines, &c., and who had lately increased her importance, in the eyes of the young gentlemen, by the announcement that various pyrotechnical wonders were to be obtained at her shop. there are few boys who have not at some time of their boyhood had a mania for pyrotechnics--in plain english, _fire-works_--and there are few parents, and parents' neighbours, who can say that they relish the smell of gunpowder on their premises. mr. parker had a particular aversion to amusements of the kind. he was an enemy to fishing, to cricketing, to boating; he was a very quiet, gentlemanly, dignified sort of man, and, although a kind father, had perhaps set up rather too high a standard of quietness and order and sedateness for his children. it is a curious fact, but one which it would be rather difficult to disprove, that children not unfrequently are the very opposites of their parents, in qualities such as i have described. possibly they may not have been inculcated quite in the right manner; but that is not our business here. edith guessed what her brothers were after, and told her suspicious to emilie; but not until they were within sight of the farm-house. john and fred, who had been a short cut across the fields, were in high glee awaiting their arrival, and assisted edith and her friend to alight more politely than usual. aunt agnes was in ecstasies of delight to see her dear emilie, and she caressed edith most lovingly also. edith liked the old lady, who had a fund of fairy tales, such as the german language is rich in. often would edith go and sit by the old lady as she knitted, and listen to the story of the "flying trunk," or the "two swans," with untiring interest; and old ladies of a garrulous turn like good listeners. so aunt agnes called edith a charming girl, and edith, who had seldom seen aunt agnes otherwise than conversable and pleasant, thought her a very nice old lady. mrs. crosse was extremely polite; and in the bustle of greeting, and putting up the pony, and aunt agnes' questions, the fire-work affair was almost forgotten. when they all met at tea, the farmer, who had almost as great a horror of gunpowder as mr. parker--and in the vicinity of barns and stacks, with greater reason--declared he smelt a smell which he never tolerated in his house, and asked his boys if they had any about them. they denied it, but it was evident they knew something of the matter; and now emilie's concern was very great. after tea she took john by the arm, and looking into his face, said, "i am going to be very intrusive, sir; i am not your governess, and i have no right to control you, but i wish to be your friend, and may i advise you? don't take those fire-works out on mr. crosse's premises, you have no idea the mischief you might do. you could not have brought them to a worse place. be persuaded, pray do, to give it up." john, thus appealed to, laughed heartily at miss schomberg's fears, said something not very complimentary about miss s. speaking one word for the farmer's stack, and two for her own nerves, and made his escape to join his brother, and the two young farmers, who were delighted at the prospect of a frolic. what was to be done? the lads were gone out, and doubtless would send up their rockets and let off their squibs somewhere on the farm, which was a very extensive one. the very idea of fire-works would put aunt agnes into a terrible state of alarm, so emilie held her peace. to tell the farmer would, she knew, irritate him fearfully; and yet no time was to be lost. she was older than any of the party, and it was in reliance on her discretion that the visit had been permitted. she appealed to edith, but edith, who either had a little fancy to see the fire-works, or, who feared her brothers' ridicule, or who thought emilie took too much upon herself, gave her no help in the matter. "well, edith," said emilie, when the farmer's wife left the room to make some preparation for a sumptuous supper, "i have made up my mind what to do. i will not stay here if your brothers are to run any foolish risks with those fire-works. i will go home at once, and tell your papa, he will be in time to stop it; or i will apprise mr. crosse, and he can take what steps he pleases." "well, you will have a fine life of it, miss schomberg, if you tell any tales, i can tell you," said edith, pettishly, "and it really is no business of yours. they are not under your care if i am. oh, let them be. fred said he should let them off on the langdale hills, far enough away from the farm." but emilie was firm. she tied on her bonnet, and determined to make one more effort--it should be with fred this time. she followed the track of the lads, having first inquired of a farm-boy which road they had taken, and as they had loitered, and she walked very fast, she soon overtook them. they were seated on a bank by the road-side, when she got up to them, and john was just displaying his treasures, squibs to make miss edith jump, catherine wheels, roman candles, sky-rockets, and blue lights and crackers. the farmer's sons, jerry and tom, grinned delightedly. emilie stood for a few moments irresolute; the boys were rude, and looked so daring--what should she say? "young gentlemen," she began; they all took off their hats in mock deference. "a woman preaching, i declare." "go on. madam, hear! hear! hear!" said the young crosses. "young gentlemen," continued emilie, with emphasis, "it is to _you_ i am speaking. i am determined that those fire-works shall not be let off, if i can prevent it, on mr. crosse's premises. if you will not give up your intention, i shall walk to l--, and inform your father, and you know very well how displeased he will be." "who says we are going to let them off on mr. crosse's premises?" said fred, fiercely. "you are very interfering miss schomberg, will you go back to your our own business, and to little edith." "i will go to l----, master fred," said emilie, firmly, but kindly. "i shall be sorry to get you into trouble, and i would rather not take the walk, but i shall certainly do what i say if you persist." the boys looked doubtfully at one another. fred seemed a little disposed to yield, but to be conquered by his sister's governess was very humiliating. however, they knew from edith's account that emilie, though kind, was firm; and, therefore, after a little further altercation, they agreed not to send up the fire-works that night, but they promised her at the same time that she should not hear the last of it. they returned to the farm much out of humour, and having hidden them in the box of the pony gig, came in just in time for supper. the ride home was a silent one; edith saw that her brothers were put out, and began to think she did not like emilie schomberg to live with at all. emilie had done right, but she had a hard battle to fight; all were against her. no one likes to be contradicted, or as fred said, to be managed. emilie, however, went steadily on, speaking the truth, but speaking it in love, and acting always "as seeing him who is invisible." chapter fifth. edith's trials. "now, emilie, what do you think of my life?" said edith, one day after she and fred had had one of their usual squabbles. "what do you think of fred _now_?" "i think, edith, dear, that i would try and win him over to love and affection, and not thwart and irritate him as you do. have you forgotten old joe's maxim, 'a soft answer turneth away wrath?' but your grievous words too often stir up strife. you told me the other day, dear, how much the conduct of sarah murray pleased you; now you may act towards john and fred as sarah did to little susy." edith shook her head. "it is not in me, emilie, i am afraid." "no, dear," said emilie, "you are right, it is not _in_ you." "well then what is the use of telling me to do things impossible?" "i did not say impossible, edith, did i?" "no, but you say it is not in me to be gentle and all that, and i dare say it is not; but you don't get much the better thought of, gentle as you are. miss schomberg. john and fred don't behave better to you than they do to me, so far as i see." "edith, dear, you set out wrong in your attempts to do right," said emily, kindly. "it is not _in_ you; it is not _in_ any one by nature to be always gentle and kind. it is not in me i know. i was once a very petulant child, being an only one, and it was but by very slow process that i learned to govern myself, and i am learning it still." at this moment fred came in, bearing in one hand a quantity of paper, and in another a book with directions for balloon making. "now edith, you are a clever young lady," he began. "oh, yes," said edith, wrathfully, "when it suits you, you can flatter." "no, but edith, don't be cross, come! i want you to do me a service. i want you to cut me out this tissue paper into the shape of this pattern. i am going to send up a balloon to-morrow, and i can't cut it out, will you do it for me?" "yes, yes," said emilie, "we will do it together. oh, come that is a nice job, edith dear, i can help you in that," and emilie cleared away her own work quick as thought, and asked fred for particular directions how it was to be done, all this time trying to hide edith's unwillingness to oblige her brother, and making it appear that edith and she were of one mind to help him. fred, who since the fire-work affair had treated emilie somewhat rudely, and had on many occasions annoyed her considerably, looked in astonishment at miss schomberg. she saw his surprise and understood it. "fred," said she frankly, "i know what you are thinking of, but let us be friends. give me the gratification of helping you to this pleasure, since i hindered you of the other. you won't be too proud, will you, to have my help?" fred coloured. "miss schomberg," said he, "i don't deserve it of you, i beg your pardon;" and thus they were reconciled. oh, it is not often in great things that we are called upon to show that we love our neighbour as ourselves. it is in the daily, hourly, exercise of little domestic virtues, that they who truly love god may be distinguished from those who love him not. it was not because emilie was naturally amiable or naturally good that she was thus able to show this loving and forgiving spirit. she loved god, and love to him actuated her; she thus adorned the doctrine of her saviour in all things. young reader there is no such thing as a religion of words and feelings alone, it must be a religion of _acts_; a life of warfare against the sins that most easily beset you; a mortification of selfishness and pride, and a humble acknowledgment, when you have done your _very best_, that you are only unprofitable servants. had you heard emilie communing with her own heart, you would have heard no self gratulation. she was far from perfect even in the sight of man; in the sight of god she knew that in many things she offended. it is not a perfect character that i would present to you in emilie schomberg; but one who with all the weakness and imperfection of human nature, made the will of god her rule and delight. this is not natural, it is the habit of mind of those only who are created anew, new creatures in christ jesus. this you may be sure emilie did not fail to teach her pupil; but a great many such lessons may be received into the head without one finding an entrance to the heart, and edith was in the not very uncommon habit of looking on her faults in the light of misfortunes, just as any one might regard a deformed limb or a painful disorder. she was, indeed, too much accustomed to talk of her faults, and was a great deal too easy about them. "my dear," emilie would say after her confessions, "i do not believe you see how sinful these things are, or surely you would not so very, very, often commit them." this was the real state of the case; and it may be said of all those who are in the habit of mere confessions, that they do not believe things to be so very bad, because they do not understand how very good and holy is the god against whom they sin. edith had this to learn; books could not teach her this. she who taught her all else so well, could not teach her this; it was to be learned from a higher source still. well, you are thinking, some of you, that this is a prosy chapter, but you must not skip it. it is just what emily schomberg would have said to you, if you had been pupils of hers. the end of reading is not, or ought not to be, mere amusement; so read a grave page now and then with attention and thoughtfulness. chapter sixth. emilie's trials. the truth must be told of emilie; she was not clever with her hands, and she was, nevertheless, a little too confident in her power of execution, so willing and anxious was she to serve you. the directions fred gave her were far from clear; and after the paper was all cut and was to be pasted together, sorrowful to say, it would not do at all. fred, in spite of his late apology was very angry, and seizing the scissors said he should know better another time than to ask miss schomberg to do what she did not understand. "you have wasted my paper, too," said the boy, "and my time in waiting for what i could better have done myself." emilie was very sorry, and she said so; but a balloon could not exactly be made out of her sorrow, and nothing short of a balloon would pacify fred, that was plain. "must it be ready for to-morrow?" she asked. "yes, it _must_," he said. three other boys were going to send up balloons. it was the queen's coronation day, and he had promised to take a fourth balloon to the party; and the rehearsal of all this stirred up fred's ire afresh, and he looked any thing but kind at miss schomberg. what was to be done? edith suggested driving to the next market town to buy one; but her papa wanted the pony gig, so they could only sally forth to mrs. cox's for some more tissue paper, and begin the work again. this was very provoking to edith. "to have spent all the morning and now to be going to spend all the afternoon over a trumpery balloon, which you can't make after all, miss schomberg, is very tiresome, and i wanted to go to old joe murray's to-day and see if the children have picked me up any corallines." "i am very sorry, dear, my carelessness should punish you; but don't disturb me by grumbling and i will try and get done before tea, and then we will go together." this time emilie was more successful; she took pains to understand what was to be done, and the gores of her balloon fitted beautifully. "now edith, dear, ring for some paste," said emilie, just as the clock struck four; margaret answered the bell. margaret was the housemaid, and so far from endeavouring in her capacity to overcome evil with good, she was perpetually making mischief and increasing any evil there might be, either in kitchen or parlour, by her mode of delivering a message. she would be sure to add her mite to any blame that she might hear, in her report to the kitchen, and thus, without being herself a bad or violent temper, was continually fomenting strife, and adding fuel to the fire of the cook, who was of a very choleric turn. the request for paste was civilly made and received, but emilie unfortunately called margaret back to say, "oh, ask cook, please, to make it stiffer than she did the last that we had for the kite; that did not prove quite strong." margaret took the message down and informed cook that "miss schomberg did not think she knew how to make paste." "then let her come and make it herself," said cook. "she wants to be cook i think; she had better come. i sha'nt make it. what is it for?" "oh," said margaret, "she is after some foreign filagree work of hers, that's all." "well, i'm busy now and i am not going to put myself out about it, she must wait." emilie did wait the due time, but as the paste did not come she went down for it. "is the paste ready, cook?" she asked. "no, miss schomberg," was the short reply, and cook went on assiduously washing up her plates. "will you be so kind as to make it, cook, for i want it particularly that it may have as much time as possible to dry." "perhaps you will make it yourself then," was the gracious rejoinder. emilie was not above making a little paste, and as she saw that something had put cook out, she willingly consented; but she did not know where to get either flour or saucepan, and cook and margaret kept making signs and laughing, so that it was not very pleasant. she grew quite hot, as she had to ask first for a spoon, then for a saucepan, then for the flour and water; at last she modestly turned round and said, "cook, i really do not quite know how to make a little paste. i am ashamed to say it, but i have lived so long in lodgings that i see nothing of what is done in the kitchen. will you tell or show me? i am very ignorant." her kind civil tone quite changed cook's, and she said, "oh, miss, i'll make it, only you see, you shouldn't have said i didn't know how." emilie explained, and the cook was pacified, and gave miss schomberg a good deal of gratuitous information during the process. how she did not like her place, and should not stay, and how she disliked her mistress, and plenty more--to which emilie listened politely, but did not make much reply. she plainly perceived that cook wanted a very forbearing mistress, but she could not exactly tell her so. she merely said in her quaint quiet way, that every one had something to bear, and the paste being made, she left the kitchen. "well, i must say, miss schomberg has a nice way of speaking, which gets over you some how," said cook, "i wish i had her temper." more than one in the kitchen mentally echoed that wish of cook's. the balloon went on beautifully, and was completed by seven o'clock. fred was delighted when he came in to tea, and john no less so. all the rude speeches were forgotten, and emilie was as sympathetic in her joy as an elder sister could have been. "i don't know what you will do without miss schomberg," said mr. parker, as he sipped his tea. "she had better come and live with us," said fred, "and keep us all in order. i'm sure i should have no objection." emilie felt quite paid for the little self-denial she had exercised, when she found that her greatest enemy, he who had declared he would "plague her to death, and pay her off for not letting them send up their fire-works," was really conquered by that powerful weapon, _love_. fred had thought more than he chose to acknowledge of emilie's kindness; he could not forget it. it was so different to the treatment he had met with from his associates generally. it made him ask what could be the reason of emilie's conduct. she had nothing to get by it, that was certain, and fred made up his mind to have some talk with miss schomberg on the subject the first time they were alone. he had some trials at school with a boy who was bent on annoying him, and trying to stir up his temper; perhaps the peacemaker might tell him how to deal with this lad. fred was an impetuous boy, and now began to like miss schomberg as warmly as he had previously disliked her. on their way to old joe's house that night, emilie thought she would call in on miss webster, not having parted from her very warmly on the first night of the holidays. a fortnight of these holidays had passed away, and emilie began to long for her quiet evenings, and to see dear aunt agnes again. she looked quite affectionately up to the little sitting room window, where her geraniums stood, and even thought kindly of miss webster herself, to whom it was not quite so easy to feel genial. she entered the shop. the apprentice sate there at work, busily trimming a fine rice straw bonnet for the lodger within. she looked up joyously at emilie's approach. she thought how often that kind german face had been to her like a sunbeam on a dull path; how often her musical voice had spoken words of counsel, and comfort, and sympathy, to her in her hard life. how she had pressed her hand when she (the apprentice) came home one night and told her, "my poor mother is dead," and how she had said, "we are both orphans now, lucy. we can feel for one another." how she had taught her by example, often, and by word sometimes, not to answer again if any thing annoyed or irritated her, and in short how much lucy had missed the young lady only lucy could say. emilie inquired for her mistress, but the words were scarcely out of her lips, than she said, "oh, miss, she's so bad! she has scalt her foot, and is quite laid up, and the lodgers are very angry. they say they don't get properly attended to and so they mean to go. dear me, there is such a commotion, but her foot is very had, poor thing, and i have to mind the shop, or i would wait upon her more; and the girl is very inattentive and saucy, so that i don't see what we are to do. will you go and see miss webster, miss?" emilie cheerfully consented, leaving edith with lucy to learn straw plaiting, if she liked, and to listen to her artless talk. lucy had less veneration for the name of queen victoria than for that of schomberg. emilie was to her the very perfection of human nature, and accordingly she sang her praises loud and long. on the sofa, the very sofa for which m. schomberg had so longed, lay miss webster, the expression of her face manifesting the greatest pain. the servant girl had just brought up her mistress's tea, a cold, slopped, miserable looking mess. a slice of thick bread and butter, half soaked in the spilled beverage, was on a plate, and that a dirty one; and the tray which held the meal was offered to the poor sick woman so carelessly, that the contents were nearly shot into her lap. it was easy to see that love formed no part of betsey's service of her mistress, and that she rendered every attention grudgingly and ill. emilie went up cordially to miss webster, and was not prepared for the repulsive reception with which she met. she wondered what she could have said or done, except, indeed, in the refusal of the instrument, and that was atoned for. emilie might have known, however, that nothing makes our manners so distant and cold to another, as the knowledge that we have injured or offended him. miss webster, in receiving emilie's advances, truly was experiencing the truth of the scripture saying, that coals of fire should be heaped on her head. poor miss webster! "there! set down the tray, you may go, and don't let me see you in that filthy cap again, not fit to be touched with a pair of tongs; and don't go up to mrs. newson in that slipshod fashion, don't betsey; and when you have taken up tea come here, i have an errand for you to go. shut the door gently. oh, dear! dear, these servants!" this was so continually the lament of miss webster, that emilie would not have noticed it, but that she appeared so miserable, and she therefore kindly said, "i am afraid betsey does not wait on you nicely, miss webster, she is so very young. i had no idea of this accident, how did it happen?" how it happened took miss webster some time to tell. it happened in no very unusual manner, and the effect was a scalt foot, which she forthwith shewed miss schomberg. there was no doubt that it was a very bad foot, and emilie saw that it needed a good nurse more than a good doctor. mr. parker was a medical man, and emilie knew she should have no difficulty in obtaining that kind of assistance for her. but the nursing! miss webster was feverish and uneasy, and in such suffering that something must be done. at the sight of her pain all was forgotten, but that she was a fellow-creature, helpless and forsaken, and that she must be helped. all this time any one coming in might have imagined that emilie had been the cause of the disaster, so affronted was miss webster's manner, and so pettishly did she reject all her visitor's suggestions as preposterous and impossible. "will you give up your walk to-night, edith," said emilie on her return to the shop, "poor miss webster is in such pain i cannot leave her, and if you would run home and ask your papa to step in and see her, and say she has scalt her foot badly, i would thank you very much." emilie spoke earnestly, so earnestly that edith asked if she were grown very fond of that "sour old maid all of a sudden." "very fond! no edith; but it does not, or ought not to require us to be very fond of people to do our duty to them." "well, i don't see what duty you owe to that mean creature, and i see no reason why i should lose my walk again to-night. you treat people you don't love better than those you do it seems; or else your professions of loving me mean nothing. all day long you have been after fred's balloon, and now i suppose mean to be all night long after miss webster's foot." emilie made no reply; she could only have reproached edith for selfishness and temper at least equal to miss webster's, but telling lucy she should soon return, hastened to mr. parker's house, followed by edith; he was soon at the patient's side, and as emilie foretold, it was a case more for an attentive nurse than a skilful doctor. he promised to send her an application, but, "miss schomberg," said he, "sleep is what she wants; she tells me she has had no rest since the accident occurred. what is to be done?" "can you not send for a neighbour, miss webster, or some one to attend to your household, and to nurse you too. if you worry yourself in this way you will be quite ill." poor miss webster was ill, she knew it; and having neither neighbour nor friend within reach, she did what was very natural in her case, she took up her handkerchief and began to cry. "oh, come, miss webster," said emilie, cheerfully, "i will get you to bed, and lucy shall come when the shop is closed, and to-morrow i will get aunt agnes to come and nurse you. keep up your spirits." "ah, it is very well to talk of keeping up spirits, and as to your aunt agnes, there never was any love lost between us. no thank you, miss schomberg, no thank you. if i may just trouble you to help me to the side of my bed, i can get in, and do very well alone. _good_ night." emilie stood looking pitifully at her. "i hope i don't keep you, miss schomberg, pray don't stay, you cannot help me," and here miss webster rose, but the agony of putting her foot to the ground was so great that she could not restrain a cry, and emilie, who saw that the poor sufferer was like a child in helplessness, and like a child, moreover, in petulance, calmly but resolutely declared her intention of remaining until lucy could leave the shop. having helped her landlady into bed, she ran down-stairs to try and appease the indignant lodgers, who protested, and with truth, that they had rung, rung, rung, and no one answered the bell; that they wanted tea, that miss webster had undertaken to wait on them, that they were _not_ waited on, and that accordingly they would seek other lodgings on the morrow, they would, &c., &c. "miss webster, ma'am, is very ill to-night. she has a young careless servant girl, and is, i assure you, very much distressed that you should be put out thus. i will bring up your tea, ma'am, in five minutes, if you will allow me. it is very disagreeable for you, but i am sure if you could see the poor woman, ma'am, you would pity her." mrs. harmer did pity her only from emilie's simple account of her state, and declared she was very sorry she had seemed angry, but the girl did not say her mistress was ill, only that she was lying down, which appeared very disrespectful and inattentive, when they had been waiting two hours for tea. the shop was by this time cleared up, and lucy was able to attend to the lodgers. whilst emilie having applied the rags soaked in the lotion which had arrived, proceeded to get miss webster a warm and neatly served cup of tea. it would have been very cheering to hear a pleasant "thank you;" but miss webster received all these attentions with stiff and almost silent displeasure. do not blame her too severely, a hard struggle was going on; but the law of kindness is at work, and it will not fail. chapter seventh. better things. "ah, if miss schomberg had asked me to wait on _her_, how gladly would i have done it, night after night, day after day, and should have thought myself well paid with a smile; but to sit up all night with a person, who cares no more for me, than i for her, and that is nothing! and then to have to get down to-morrow and attend to the shop, all the same as if i had slept well, is no joke. oh, dear me! how sleepy i am, two o'clock! i was to change those rags at two; i really scarcely dare attempt it, she seems so irritable now." so soliloquized lucy, who, kindhearted as she was, could not be expected to take quite so much delight in nursing her cross mistress, who never befriended her, as she would have done a kinder, gentler person; but lucy read her bible, and she had been trying, though not so long as emilie, nor always so successfully it must be owned, to live as though she read it. "miss webster, ma'am, the doctor said those rags were to be changed every two hours. may i do it for you? i can't do it as well as miss schomberg, but i will do my very best not to hurt you." "i want sleep child," said miss webster, "i want _sleep_, leave me alone." "you can't sleep in such pain, ma'am," said poor lucy, quite at her wits ends. "don't you think, i must know that as well as you? there! there's that rush light gone out, and you never put any water in the tin; a pretty nurse you make, now i shall have that smell in my nose all night. you must have set it in a draught. what business has a rush light to go out in a couple of hours? i wonder." lucy put the obnoxious night shade out of the room, and went back to the bedside. for a long time she was unsuccessful, but at last miss webster consented to have her foot dressed, and even cheered her young nurse by the acknowledgment that she did it very well, considering; and thus the night wore away. quite early emilie was at her post, and was grieved to see that miss webster still looked haggard and suffering, and as if she had not slept. in answer to her inquiries, lucy said that she had no rest all night. "rest! and how can i rest, miss schomberg? i can't afford to lose my lodgers, and lose them i shall." "only try and keep quiet," said emilie, "and i will see that they do not suffer from want of attendance. _you_ cannot help them, do consent to leave all thought, all management, to those who can think and manage. may aunt agnes come and nurse you, and attend to the housekeeping?" "yes," was reluctantly, and not very graciously uttered. "well then, lucy will have time to attend to you. i would gladly nurse you myself, but you know i may not neglect miss parker; now take this draught, and try and sleep." "miss schomberg," said the poor woman, "you won't lack friends to nurse you on a sick bed; i have none." "miss webster, if i were to be laid on a sick bed, and were to lose aunt agnes, i should be alone in a country that is not my own country, without money and without friends; but we may both of us have a friend who sticketh closer than a brother, think of him, ma'am, now, and ask him to make your bed in your sickness." she took the feverish hand of the patient as she said this, who, bursting into a flood of tears, replied, "ah, miss schomberg! i don't deserve it of you, and that is the truth; but keep my hand, it feels like a friend's, hold it, will you, and i think i shall sleep a little while;" and emilie stood and held her hand, stood till she was faint and weary, and then withdrawing it as gently as ever mother unloosed an infant's hold, she withdrew, shaded the light from the sleeper's eyes, and stole out of the room, leaving the sufferer at ease, and in one of those heavy sleeps which exhaustion and illness often produce. her visit to the kitchen was most discouraging. betsey was only just down, and the kettle did not boil, nor were any preparations made for the lodgers' breakfast, to which it only wanted an hour. emilie could have found it in her heart to scold the lazy, selfish girl, who had enjoyed a sound sleep all night, whilst lucy had gone unrefreshed to her daily duties, but she forebore. "scolding never does answer," thought emilie, "and i won't begin to-day, but i must try and reform this girl at all events, by some means, and that shall be done at once." "come, betsey," said emilie pleasantly, "now, we shall see what sort of a manager you will be; you must do all you can to make things tidy and comfortable for the lodgers. is their room swept and dusted?" "oh, deary me, miss, what time have i had for that, i should like to know?" "well now, get every thing ready for their breakfast, and pray don't bang doors or make a great clatter with the china, as you set the table. every sound is heard in this small house, and your mistress has had no sleep all night." "well, she'll be doubly cross to day, then, i'll be bound. howsoever, i shall only stay my month, and it don't much matter what i do, she never gives a servant a good character, and i don't expect it." "no, and you will not deserve it if you are inattentive and unfeeling now. it is not doing as you would be done by, either. do now, betsey, forget, for a few days, that miss webster ever scolded or found fault with you. if you want to love any one just do him a kindness, and you don't know how fast love springs up in the heart; you would be much happier, betsey, i am sure. come _try_, you are not a cross girl, and you don't mean to be unkind now. i shall expect to hear from lucy, when i come again, how well you have managed together." fred went to mr. crosse's after breakfast, in the pony gig, for aunt agnes, who, at a summons from emilie, was quite willing to come and see after miss webster's household. she soon put mutters into a better train, both in kitchen and parlour, so that the pacified lodgers consented to remain. and though neither lucy nor betsey altogether liked aunt agnes, they found her quite an improvement on miss webster. it is not our object to follow miss webster through her domestic troubles nor through the tedious process of the convalescence of a scalt foot. we will rather follow edith into her chamber, and see how she is trying to learn the arts of the peacemaker there. edith's head is bent over a book, a torn book, and her countenance is flushed and heated. she is out of breath, too, and her hair is hanging disordered about her pretty face; not pretty now, however; it is an angry face--and an angry face is never pretty. has she been quarrelling with fred again? yes, even so. fred would not give up hans andersen's tales, which emilie had just given edith, and which she was reading busily, when some one came to see her about a new bonnet, so she left the book on the table, and in the mean time fred came in, snatched it up, and was soon deep in the feats of the "flying trunk." then came the little lady back and demanded the book, not very pleasantly, if the truth must be told. fred meant to give it up, but he meant to tease his sister first, and edith, who had no patience to wait, snatched at the book. fred of course resisted, and it was not until the book had been nearly parted from its cover, and some damage had ensued to the dress and hair of both parties that edith regained possession; not _peaceable_ possession, however, for both of the children's spirits were ruffled. edith flew to her room almost as fast as if she had been on the "flying trunk," in the fairy tale. when there, she could not read, and in displeasure with herself and with every one, dashed the little volume away and cried long and bitterly. edith had not been an insensible spectator of the constantly and self-denying gentle conduct of emilie. her example, far more than her precepts, had affected her powerfully, but she had much to contend with, and it seemed to her as if at the very times she meant to be kind and gentle something occurred to put her out. "i _will_ try, oh, i will try," said edith again and again, "but it is such hard work."--yes, edith, hard enough, and work which even emilie can scarcely help you in. you wrestle against a powerful and a cruel enemy, and you need great and powerful aid; but you have read your bible edith, and again and again has emilie said to you, "of yourself you can do nothing." edith had had a long conversation on this very subject only that morning with her friend, as they were walking on the sea shore, and under the influence of the calm lovely summer's sky, and within the sound of emilie's clear persuasive voice, it did not seem a hard matter to edith to love and to be loving. she could love fred, she could even bear a rough pull of the hair from him, she could stand a little teasing from john, who found fault with a new muslin frock she wore at dinner, and we all know it is not pleasant to have our dress found fault with; but this attack of fred's about the book, was _not_ to be borne, not by edith, at least, and thus she sobbed and cried in her own room, thinking herself the most miserable of creatures, and very indignant that emilie did not come to comfort her; "but she is gone out after that tiresome old woman, with her scalt foot, i dare say," said edith, "and she would only tell me i was wrong if she were here--oh dear! oh dear me!" and here she sobbed again. solitude is a wonderfully calming, composing thing; emilie knew that, and she did quite right to leave edith alone. it was time she should listen seriously to a voice which seldom made itself heard, but conscience was resolute to-day, and did not spare edith. it told her all the truth, (you may trust conscience for that,) it told her that the very reason why she failed in her efforts to do right was because she had a wrong _motive_; and that was, love of the approbation of her fellow creatures, and not real love to god. she would have quarrelled with any one else who dared to tell her this; but it was of no use quarrelling with conscience. conscience had it all its own way to-day, and went on answering every objection so quietly, and to the point, that by degrees edith grew quiet and subdued; and what do you think she did? she took up a little bible that lay on her table, and began to read it. she could not pray as yet. she did not feel kind enough for that. emilie had often said to her that she should be at peace with every one before she lifted up her heart to the "god of peace." she turned over the leaves and tried to find the chapter, which she knew very well, about the king who took account of his servants, and who forgave the man the great debt of ten thousand talents; and then when that man went out and found his servant who owed him but one hundred pence, he took him by the throat, and said, "pay me that thou owest." in vain did the man beseech for patience, he that had only just been forgiven ten thousand talents could not have pity on the man who owed him but one hundred pence. often had edith read this chapter, and very just was her indignation against the hard-hearted servant, who, with his king's lesson of mercy and forgiveness fresh in his memory, could not practise the same to one who owed him infinitely less than he had done his master; and yet here was little edith who could not forgive fred his injuries, when, nevertheless, god was willing to forgive hers. had fred injured her as she had injured god? surely not; and yet she might now kneel down and receive at once the forgiveness of all her _great_ sins. nay, more: she had been receiving mercy and patience at the hands of her heavenly father many years. she had neglected him, done many things contrary to his law, owed him, indeed, the ten thousand talents, and yet she was spared. she had a great deal of revenge in her heart still, however; and she could not, reason as she would, try as she would, read as she would, get it out, so she sunk down on her knees, and lifted up her heart very sincerely, to ask god to take it away. she had often said her prayers, and had found no difficulty in that, but now it seemed quite different. she could find no words, she could only feel. well, that was enough. he who saw in secret, saw her heart, and knew how it felt. she felt she needed forgiveness, and that she could only have it by asking it of him who had power to forgive sins. she took her great debt to jesus, and he cancelled it; she hoped she was forgiven, and now, oh! how ready she felt to forgive fred. how small a sum seemed his hundred pence--his little acts of annoyances compared with her many sins against god. now she felt and understood the meaning of the saviour's lesson to peter. she had entered the same school as peter, and though a slow she was a sincere learner. she is in the right way now to learn the true law of kindness. none but the _saviour,_ who was love itself, could teach her this. if any earthly teacher could have done so, surely emilie would have succeeded. she went down to tea softened and sad, for she felt very humble. the consideration of her great unlikeness to the character of jesus, affected her. "when he was reviled he reviled not again; when he suffered he threatened not;" and this thought made her feel more than any sermon or lecture or reproof she ever had in her life, how she needed to be changed, her whole self changed; not her old bad nature _patched_ up, but her whole heart made _new_. she did not say much at tea; she did not formally apologise to fred for her conduct to him. he looked very cross, so perhaps it was wiser to act rather than to speak; but she handed him the bread and butter, and buttered him a piece of toast, and in many little quiet ways told him she wished to be friends with him. john began at her frock again. she could not laugh, (she was not in a laughing humour,) but she said she would not wear it any more, during his holidays, if he disliked it so _very_ much. the greatest trial to her temper was the being told she looked cross. emilie, who could see the sun of peace behind the cloud, was half angry herself at this speech, and said to mr. parker, "if she looks cross she is not cross, sir, but i think she is not in very good spirits. every one looks a little sad sometimes;" and mr. porker, happily, being called out to a patient at that moment, gave edith opportunity to swallow her grief. after tea the boys prepared to accompany their sister and her governess in the usual evening walk. edith did not desire their company, but she did not say so; and they all went out very silent for them. on their road to the beach they met a man who had a cage of canaries to sell, the very things that fred had desired so long, and to purchase which he had saved his money. edith had no taste for noisy canaries; few great talkers have, for they do interrupt conversation must undeniably, but fred thought it would be most delightful to have them, and as he had a breeding cage which had belonged to one of his elder sisters years before, he asked the price and began to make his bargain. the birds were bought and the man dispatched to the house with them, with orders to call for payment at nine o'clock, before fred remembered that he did not exactly know where he should keep them. in the sitting room it would be quite out of the question he knew, for the noise would distract his mother. papa was not likely to admit canaries into his study for consultations; and fred knew only of one likely or possible place, but the door to that was closed, unless he could find a door to edith's heart, and he had just quarrelled with edith; what a pity! to make it up with her, however, just to gain his point, he was too proud to do, and was therefore gloomy and uncivil. "where are you going to keep your canaries fred?" asked his sister. "in the cage," said fred, shortly and tartly. "yes; but in what room?" "in my bed-room," said fred. "oh, i dare say! will you though?" said john, who as he shared his brother's apartment had some right to have a voice in the matter. "i am not going to be woke at daylight every morning by your canaries. and such an unwholesome plan; i am sure papa and mamma won't let you. what a pity you bought the birds! you can't keep them in our small house. get off your bargain, i would if i were you. besides, who will take care of them all the week? they will want feeding other days besides saturdays, i suppose." fred looked annoyed, and dropped behind the party. edith whispered to emilie, "go you on with john, i want to talk to fred." "fred, dear," said she, "will you keep your birds in my little room, where my old toys are? i will clear a place, and i shan't mind their singing, _do_ fred. i have often hindered your pleasures, now let me have the comfort of making it up a little to you, and i will feed them and clean them while you are at school in the week." "you may change your mind edith, and you know if my birds are in your room, i shall have to be there a good deal; and they will make a rare noise sometimes, and some one must take care of them all the week--i can only attend to them on saturdays, you know." "yes, i have been thinking of all that, and i expect i shall sometimes _wish_ to change my mind, but i shall not do it. i am very selfish i know, but i mean to try to be better, fred. take my little room, do." fred was a proud boy, and would rather have had to thank any one than edith just then; but nevertheless he accepted her offer, and thanked his little sister, though not quite so kindly as he might have done, and that is the truth. there is a grace in accepting as well as in giving. edith had given up what she had much prized, the independence of a little room, (it was but a little one,) a little room all to herself; but she did so because she felt love springing up in her heart. she acted in obedience to the dictates of the law of kindness, and she felt lighter and happier than she had done for a long time. fred was by degrees quite cheered, and amused his companions by his droll talk for some way. spying, however, one of his school-fellows on the rocks at a distance, he and john, joined him abruptly, and thus emilie and edith were left alone. sincerity is never loquacious, never egotistic. if you don't understand these words i will tell you what i mean. a person really in earnest; and sincere, does not talk much of earnestness and sincerity, still loss of himself. edith could not tell emilie of her new resolutions, of her mental conflict, but she was so loving and affectionate in her manner to her friend, that i think emilie understood; at any rate, she saw that edith was very pleasant, and very gentle that night, and loved her more than ever. she saw and felt there was a change come over her. they walked far, and on their return found the canaries arrived, and fred very busy in putting them up in their new abode. he had rather unceremoniously moved edith's bookcase and boxes, to make room for the bird cages. she did say, "i think you might have asked my leave," but she instantly recalled it. "oh, never mind; what pretty little things, i shall like to have them with me." it really was a trial to edith to see all her neat arrangements upset, and to find how very coolly fred did it, too. she sighed and thought, "ah, i shall not be mistress here now i see!" but fred was gone down stairs for some water and seed, and did not hear her laments. he was very full of his scheme for canary breeding at supper, and emilie was quite as full of sympathy in his joy as fred desired; she took a real interest in the matter. her father, she said, had given much attention to canary breeding, for the germans were noted for their management of canaries; she could help him, she thought, if he would accept her help. so they were very merry over the affair at supper time, and mr. parker, in his quiet way, enjoyed it too. suddenly, however, the merriment received a check. margaret, who had been to look at the birds, came in with the intelligence that muff, the pet cat of miss edith, was sitting in the dusk, watching the canaries with no friendly eye, and that she had even made a dart at the cage; and she prophesied that the birds would not be safe long. a bird of ill omen was margaret always; she thought the worst and feared the worst of every one, man or animal. "why, it is easy to keep the door of the cage shut," john remarked, but to keep puss out of her old haunts was not possible. muff was not a kitten, but a venerable cat, who had belonged to edith's elder sister, and was given to edith, the day that sister married, as a very precious gift; and edith loved that grey cat, loved her dearly. she always sat in the same place in that dear little room. edith had only that day made her a new red leather collar, and muff looked very smart in it. "muff won't hurt the birds, fred dear," said edith, "she is not like a common cat." whatever points of dissimilarity there might he between muff and the cat race in general, in this particular she quite resembled them; she loved birds, and would not be very nice as to the manner of obtaining them. what was to be done? fred had all manner of projects in his head for teaching the canaries to fly out and in the cage, to bathe, to perch on his finger, etc.; but if, whenever any one chanced to leave the door of the room open, muff were to bounce in, why there was an end to all such schemes. in short, muff would get the birds by fair means or foul, there was no doubt of that, and fred was desperate. i cannot tell how many times muff was called "a nasty cat," "a tiresome cat," "a vicious cat," and little edith's heart was full, for she did not believe any evil of her favourite; and to hear her so maligned, seemed like a personal insult; but she bore it patiently. she asked emilie at bed time what she should do about muff; she had so long been accustomed to her seat by the sunny window in edith's room, that to try and tempt her from it she knew would be vain. emilie agreed with her, but hoped muff would practise self-denial. before edith lay down to rest that night, she again thought over all that she had done through the day; again knelt down and asked for help to overcome that which was sinful within her, and then lay down to sleep. edith was but a child, and she could not forget muff; she thought, and very truly, that there was a general wish to displace her muff. not one in the house would be sorry to see muff sent away she know, and margaret at supper time seemed so pleased to report of muff's designs. this thought made her love muff all the more, but then there were fred's birds. it would be very sad if any of them should be lost through her cat; what should she do? she wished to win fred to love and gentleness. should she part with muff? miss schomberg (aunt agnes that is) had expressed a wish for a nice quiet cat, and this, her beauty, would just suit her. "shall i take muff to high-street to-morrow? i will," were her last thoughts, but the resolution cost her something, and edith's pillow was wet with tears. when she arose the next morning she felt as we are all apt to feel after the excitement of new and sudden resolves, rather flat; and the sight of muff sitting near a laurel bush in the garden, enjoying the morning sun, quite unnerved her. "part with muff! no, i cannot; and i don't believe any one would do such a thing for such a boy as fred. i cannot part with muff, that's certain. fred had better give up his birds, and so i shall tell him." all this is very natural, but what is very natural is often very wrong, and edith did not fuel that calm happiness which she had done the night before. when she received emilie's morning kiss, she said, "well, miss schomberg, i thought last night i had made up my mind to part with muff, but i really cannot! i do love her so!" "it would be a great trial to you, i should think," said emilie, "and one that no one could _ask_ of you, but if she had a good master, do you think you should mind it so very much? you would only have your own sorrow to think of, and really it would be a kindness if those poor birds are to be kept. the cat terrifies them by springing at the wires, and if they were sitting they would certainly be frightened off their nests." edith looked perplexed; "what shall i do emilie? i _do_ wish to please fred, i do wish to do as i would be done by; i really want to get rid of my selfish nature, and yet it will keep coming back." "watch as well as pray, dear," said emilie affectionately, "and you will conquer at last." they went down to breakfast together. "watch and pray." that word "watch," was r word in season to edith, she had _prayed_ but had well nigh forgotten to _watch_. she could not eat her meal, however, her heart was full with the greatness of the sacrifice before her. do not laugh at the word _great_ sacrifice. it was very great to edith; she loved with all her heart; and to part with what we love, be it a dog, a cat, a bird, or any inanimate possession, is a great pang. after breakfast she went into the little room where muff usually eat, and taking hold of the favourite, hugged and kissed her lovingly, then carrying her down stairs to the kitchen, asked cook for a large basket, and with a little help from margaret, tied her down and safely confined her; then giving the precious load to her father's errand boy, trotted into the town, and stopped not till she reached miss webster's door. her early visit rather astonished aunt agnes, who was at that moment busily engaged in dressing miss webster's foot, and at the announcement of betsey--"please ma'am little miss parker is called and has brought you a cat," she jumped so that she spilled miss webster's lotion. "a cat! a cat!" echoed the ladies. "i will have no cats here miss schomberg, if you please," said the irritable mistress. "i always did hate cats, there is no end to the mischief they do. i never did keep one, and never mean to do." miss schomberg went down stairs into miss webster's little parlour, and there saw edith untying her beloved muff. "well aday! my child, what brings you here? all alone too. surely emilie isn't ill, oh dear me something must be amiss." "oh no, miss schomberg, no, only i heard you say you would like a cat, and fred has got some new birds and i mayn't keep muff, and so will you take her and be kind to her?" "my dear child," said aunt agnes in a bewilderment, "i would take her gladly but miss webster has a bird you know, and is so awfully neat and particular, oh, it won't do; you must not bring her here, and i _must_ go back and finish miss webster's foot. she is very poorly to-day. oh how glad i shall be when my emilie comes back! good bye, take the cat, dear, away, pray do;" and, so saying, aunt agnes bustled off, leaving poor edith more troubled and perplexed with muff than ever. chapter eighth. good for evil. old joe murray was seated on the beach, nearer the town than his house stood, watching the groups of busy children, digging and playing in the sand, now helping them in their play, and now giving his hint to the nurses around him, when edith tapped him on the shoulder. there was something so unusually serious, not _cross_, in edith's countenance, that joe looked at her inquiringly. "there, set down the basket, nockells, and run back quick, tell papa i kept you; i am afraid you will get into disgrace." "mayn't i drown puss?" said nockells. "no! you cruel boy, _no!_" said edith, vehemently. "_you_ shall not have the pleasure, no one shall do it who would take a pleasure in it." "what is the matter miss?" asked joe, as soon as nockells turned away. "the matter, oh joe! i want muff drowned; my cat i mean, my dear cat;" and then she told her tale up to the point of miss webster's refusing to admit muff as a lodger, and cried most bitterly as she said, "and i won't have her ill-treated, so i will drown her, will you do it for me joe, please do now, or my courage will be gone? but i won't stay to look at it, so good-bye," said she, and slipping a shilling into joe's hand, ran home with the news to fred, that the cat was by this time at the bottom of the tea, and his canaries were safe for ever from her claws. fred was not a hard-hearted boy, and his sister's tale really grieved him. he kissed her several times over, as he said he now wished he had never bought the birds, that they had caused edith nothing but trouble and that he was very sorry. "i am not sorry, fred dear, at least i am only sorry for being forced to drown muff. i like to give you my room, and i like to give up my cat to you, and i shall not cry any more about it, so don't be unhappy." "and all this for me," said fred; "i who teased you so yesterday afternoon, and always am teasing you, i think!" how pleased emilie looked! she did not praise edith, but she gave her such a look of genuine approval as was a rich reward to her little pupil. "_this_ is the way. edith dear, to overcome evil with good; go on, _watch_ and pray, and you will subdue fred in time as well as your own evil tempers." how easy all this looks to read about! how swift the transition from bad to good! who has not felt, in reading rosamond and frank, a kind of envy that they so soon overcame their errors, so soon conquered their bad habits and evil dispositions? dear young reader, it is _not_ easy to subdue self; it is not easy to practise this law of kindness, love, and forbearance; it is not easy to live peaceably with all men, but believe me, it is not impossible. he who giveth liberally and upbraideth not, will give you grace, and wisdom, and help to do this if you ask it. the promise is, "ask and ye shall receive." edith in her helplessness naked strength of god and it was given. that which was given to her he will not withhold from you. only try him. for the comfort of those who may not have such a friend as emilie, we would remind our readers that the actual work of edith's change, for such it was, was that which no friend however wise and however good could effect. there is no doubt but that to her example edith owed much. it led her to _think_ and to _compare_, and was part of the means used by the all-wise god, to instruct this little girl; but if you have not emilie for a friend, you may all have the god, whom emilie served, for a friend. you may all read in the bible which she studied, and in which she learned, from god's love to man, how we should love each other. she read there, "if god so loved us, we ought also to love one another." the holidays drew to a close. the return of the mother and sisters was at hand. emilie was not without her fears for edith at this time, but she trusted in the help which she knew edith would have if she sought it, and was thus encouraged. the right understanding between her brothers and herself she was rejoiced to see daily increasing. it was not that there was nothing to ruffle the two most easily ruffled spirits. fred was not considerate, and would constantly recur to his old habit of tensing edith. edith was easily teased, and would rather order and advise fred, which was sure to bring on a breeze; but they were far less vindictive, less aggravating than formerly. they were learning to bear and forbear. edith had the most to bear, for although fred was impressed by her kind and altered conduct, and could never forget the generous act of sacrifice when she parted with muff to gratify him, he was as yet more actuated by impulse than principle, and nothing but principle, christian principle i mean, will enable us to be kind and gentle, and unselfish _habitually_, not by fits and starts, but every day. joe murray was sitting at his door smoking his pipe, and watching his little grandchildren as they played together (this time harmoniously) in the garden. they were not building a grotto, they were dancing, and jumping, and laughing, in the full merriment of good healthy happy children. emilie and edith greeted joe as an old friend, and joe seemed delighted to see them. the two children, who had been commissioned to search for corallines, rushed up to edith with a basket full of a heterogeneous collection, and amongst a great deal of little value there were some beautiful specimens of the very things edith wanted. she thanked the little murrays sincerely, and then looked at emilie. should she pay them? the look asked. it was evident the children had no idea of such a thing, and felt fully repaid by edith's pleasure. edith only wanted to know if it would take from that pleasure to receive money. she had been learning of late to study what people liked, and wished to do so now. emilie did not understand her look, and so edith followed her own course. "thank you, oh, thank you," she said. "it was very kind of you to collect me so many, they please me very much. i wish i knew of something that you would like as well as i like these, and if i can, i will give it to you, or ask mamma to help me." the boy not being troubled with bashfulness, immediately said, that of all things he should like a regular rigged boat, a ship, "a little-un" that would swim. the girl put her finger in her mouth and said "she didn't know." "are you going to have a boat?" said every little voice, "oh, what fun we shall have." "yes," said our peace-making friend, sarah. "you know that if dick gets any thing it is the same as if you all did. he is such a kind boy, miss, he plays with the little ones, and gives up to them so nicely, you'd be surprised." "i am glad of that," said emilie, "it will be such a pleasure to miss edith to give pleasure to them all--but come, jenny, you have not fixed yet what you will have." jenny said she did not want to be paid, but she had thought, perhaps miss parker might give them something, and if miss parker did not think it too much, she should like a shilling better than any thing. every one looked inquiringly, except sarah. sarah was but the uneducated daughter of a poor fisherman, but she studied human nature as it lay before her in the different characters of her brothers and sisters, and she guessed the workings of jenny's mind. "what do you want a shilling for?" said the mother sharply, who had joined the group. "you ought not to have asked for anything, what bad manners you have! the weeds cost you nothing, and you ought to be much obliged to miss parker for accepting them." "i wanted the shilling very much," persisted jenny, as edith pressed it into her hand, and off she ran, as though to hide her treasure. but edith had caught sight of something, and forgot shilling and every thing else in that glimpse. her own dear old muff sleeping on the hearth of the kitchen which she had not yet entered. i shall not tell you all the endearments she used to puss, they would look ridiculous on paper; they made even those who heard them smile, but she was so overjoyed that there was some excuse for her. mrs. murray rather damped her joy at once by saying, "oh, she's a sad thief, miss. she steals the fish terribly. i suppose you can't take her back, miss?" "ah, joe," said edith sorrowfully, "you see, you had better have drowned her." "so i think," said mrs. murray. "no, no, no," cried jane, coming forwards. "i have a shilling now, and barker the carrier will take her for that all the way to southampton, where aunt martha lives, and aunt martha loves cats, and will take care of muff; she shan't be drowned, miss," said jenny, kindly. the mother looked surprised, and they all admired jenny's kind intentions. emilie slipped another shilling into her hand as they went away, and said "you will find a use for it." "good night jenny, and thank you," said poor edith, with a sigh, for she had already looked forward to many joyful meetings with muff--her newly-found treasure. but as old joe, who followed them down the cliff said, there was no end to the trouble muff caused, what with stealing fish, and upsettings and breakings; and she would be happier at aunt martha's, where there was neither fish nor child, and more room to walk about in than muff enjoyed here. "but how kind of jenny," said edith, "how thoughtful for muff!" "no, miss, 't aint for muff exactly," said joe, "though she pitied you, as they all did, in thinking of drowning the cat; but bless the dear children, they are all trying in their way, i do believe; to please their mother, and to win her to be more happy and gentle like. you see she has had a hard struggle with them, so many as there are, and so little to do with; and that and bad health have soured her temper like; but she'll come to. oh miss edith, take my word for it, if ever you have to live where folks are cross and snappish, be _you_ good-humoured. a little of the leaven of sweetness and good temper lightens a whole lump of crossness and bad humour. one bright spirit in a family will keep the sun shining in _one_ spot; it can't then be _all_ dark, you see, and if there's ever such a little spot of sunshine, there must be some light in the house, which may spread before long, miss." "goodnight, joe," and "good night, ladies," passed, and the friends were left alone--alone upon the quiet beach. the sun had set, for it was late; the tide was ebbing, and now left the girls a beautiful smooth path of sand for some little distance, on which the sound of their light steps was scarcely heard, as they rapidly walked towards home. "who would think, edith, that our six weeks' holiday would be at an end to-morrow?" said emilie. "i don't know, emilie, i feel it much longer." "_do_ you? then you have not been so happy as i hoped to have made you, dear; i have been a great deal occupied with other things, but it could scarcely be helped." "no, emilie, i have not been happy a great part of the holidays, but i am happy now; happier at least, and it was no fault of yours at any time. i know now why i was so discontented with my condition, and why i thought i had more to try me than anybody else. i feel that i was in fault; that i _am_ in fault, i should say; but, oh emilie, i am trying, trying hard, to--" and here, edith, softened by the remembrance that soon she and her friend must part, burst into tears. "and you have succeeded, succeeded nobly, edith, my darling. i have watched you, and but that i feared to interfere, i would have noticed your victories to you. i may do so now." "my _victories_, emilie! are you making fun of me? i feel to have been so very irritable of late.--my _victories!_" "just because, dear, you take notice of your irritability as you did not use to do, and because you have constantly before your eyes that great pattern in whom was no sin." "emilie, i will tell you something--your patience, your example, has done me a great deal of good, i hope; but there is one thing in your kind of advice, which does me more good than all. you have talked more of the love of god than of any other part of his character, and the words which first struck me very much, when i first began to wish that i were different, were those you told me one sunday evening, some time ago. 'herein is love, not that we loved god, but that he loved us, and gave his son a ransom for sinners.' there seemed such a contrast between my conduct to god, and his to me; and then it has made me, i hope, a little more, (a _very_ little, you know,) i am not boasting, emilie, am i? it has made me a _little_ more willing to look over things which used to vex me so. what are fred's worst doings to me, compared with my _best_ to god?" thus they talked, and now, indeed, did the friends love one another; and heartily did each, by her bedside that night, thank god for his gospel, which tells of his love to man, the greatest illustration truly of the law of kindness. chapter ninth. fred a peacemaker. "talk not of wasted affection, affection never is wasted.... its waters returning back to their spring, like the rain shall fill them full of refreshment"--_h. w. longfellow_. "well fred," said emilie at the supper table, from which mr. parker was absent, "i go away to-morrow and we part better friends than we met, i think, don't we?" "oh yes, miss schomberg, we are all better friends, and it is all your doing." "my doing, oh no! fred, that _is_ flattery. i have not made edith so gentle and so good as she has of late been to you. _i_ never advised her to give up that little room to you nor to send poor muff away." "_didn't_ you? well, now i always thought you did; i always kid that to you, and so i don't believe i have half thanked edith as i ought." "indeed you might have done." "well, i hope i shall not get quarrelsome at school again, but i wish i was in a large school. i fancy i should be much happier. only being us five at mr. barton's, we are so thrown together, somehow we can't help falling out and interfering with each other sometimes. now there is young white, i never can agree with him, it is _impossible_." "dear me!" said emilie, without contradicting him, "why?" "he treats me so very ill; not openly and above-board, as we say, but in such a nasty sneaking way, he is always trying to injure me. he knows sometimes i fall asleep after i am called. well, he dresses so quietly, (i sleep in his room, i wish i didn't,) he steals down stairs and then laughs with such triumph when i come down late and get a lecture or a fine for it. if i am very busy over an exercise out of school hours, he comes and talks to me, or reads some entertaining book close to my ears, aloud to one of the boys, to hinder my doing it properly, but that is not half his nasty ways. could _you love_ such a boy miss schomberg?" "well, i would try to make him more loveable, fred, and then i might perhaps love him," said emilie. "ah, emilie, your 'overcome evil with good' rule would fail there _i_ can tell you; you may laugh." "no, i won't laugh, i am going to be serious. you will allow me to preach a short sermon to-night, the last for some time, you know, and mine shall be but a text, or a very little more, and then 'good night.' will you try to love that boy for a few weeks? _really_ try, and see if he does not turn out better than you expect. if he do not, i will promise you that you will be the better for it. love is never wasted, but remember, fred, it is wicked and sad to hate one another, and it comes to be a serious matter, for 'if any man love not his brother whom he hath seen, how can he love god whom he hath not seen.' good night." "good night, miss schomberg, you have taught me to like you," and oh, how i did dislike you once! thought fred, but he did not say so. miss webster's foot got well at last, but it was a long time about it. the lodgers went away at the end of the six weeks, and aunt agnes and emilie were quietly settled in their little apartments again. the piano was a little out of tune, but emilie expected as much, and now after her six weeks' holiday, so called, she prepared to begin her life of daily teaching. her kindness to miss webster was for some time to all appearance thrown away, but no, that cannot be--kindness and love can never be wasted. they bless him that gives, if not him that takes the offering. by and bye, however, a few indications of the working of the good system appeared. miss webster would offer to come and sit and chat with aunt agnes when emilie was teaching or walking; and aunt agnes in return taught miss webster knitting stitches and crochet work. miss webster would clean emilie's straw bonnet, and when asked for the bill, she would say that it came to nothing; and would now and then send up a little offering of fruit or fish, when she thought her lodgers' table was not well supplied. little acts in themselves, but great when we consider that they were those of an habitually cold and selfish person. she did not express love; but she showed the softening influence of affection, and emilie at least understood and appreciated it. fred had perhaps the hardest work of all the actors on this little stage; he thought so at least. joe white was an unamiable and, as fred expressed it, a sneaking boy. he had never been accustomed to have his social affections cultivated in childhood, and consequently, he grew up into boyhood without any heart as it is called. good mr. barton was quite puzzled with him. he said there was no making any impression on him, and that mr. barton could make none was very evident. who shall make it? even fred; for he is going to try emilie's receipt for the cure of the complaint under which master white laboured, a kind of moral ossification of the heart. will he succeed? we shall see. perhaps, had joe white at this time fallen down and broken his leg, or demanded in any way a _great_ sacrifice of personal comfort from his school-fellow, he would have found it easier to return good for his evil, than in the daily, hourly, calls for the exercise of forgiveness and forbearance which occurred at school. oh, how many will do _great_ things in the way of gifts or service, who will not do the little acts of kindness and self denial which common life demands. many a person has built hospitals or alms houses, and has been ready to give great gifts to the poor and hungry, who has been found at home miserably deficient in domestic virtues. dear children, cultivate these. you have, very few of you, opportunities for great sacrifices. they occur rarely in real life, and it would be well if the relations of fictitious life abounded less in them; but you may, all of you, find occasions to speak a gentle word, to give a kind smile, to resign a pursuit which annoys or vexes another, to cure a bad habit, to give up a desired pleasure. you may, all of you, practice the injunction, to live not unto yourselves. fred, i say, found it a hard matter to carry out emilie's plan towards joe white, who came back from home more evilly disposed than ever, and all the boys agreed he was a perfect nuisance. "i would try and make him loveable." those words of emilie's often recurred to fred as he heard the boys say how they disliked joe white worse and worse. so fred tried first by going up to him very gravely one day, and saying how they all disliked him, and how he hoped he would mend; but that did not do at all. fred found the twine of his kite all entangled next day, and john said he saw white playing with it soon after fred had spoken to him. "i'd go and serve him out; just you go and tangle his twine, and see how he likes it," said john. "i will--but no! i won't," bald fred, "that's evil for evil, and that is what i am not going to do. i mean to leave that plan off." an opportunity soon occurred for returning good for evil miss barton had a donkey, and this donkey, whose proper abode was the paddock, sometimes broke bounds, and regaled itself on the plants in the young gentlemen's gardens, in a manner highly provoking to those who had any taste for flowers. if joe white had any love for anything, it was for flowers. now, there is something so pure and beautiful in flowers; called by that good philanthropist wilberforce, the "smiles of god," that i think there must be a little tender spot in that heart which truly loves flowers. joe tended his as a parent would a child. his garden was his child, and certainly it did his culture credit. fred liked a garden too, and these boys' gardens were side by side. they were the admiration of the whole family, so neatly raked, so free from stones or weeds, so gay with flowers of the best kind. they were rival gardens, but undoubtedly white's was in the best order. john and fred always went home on a saturday, as mr. barton's house was not far from l----. joe was a boarder entirely, his home was at a distance, and to this fred parker ascribed the superiority of his garden. he was able to devote the whole of saturday, which was a holiday, to its culture. well, the donkey of which i spoke, one day took a special fancy to the boys' gardens; and it so happened, that he was beginning to apply himself to nibble the tops of joe's dahlias, which were just budding. joe was that day confined to the house with a severe cold, and little did he think as he lay in bed, sipping mrs. barton's gruel and tea, of the scenes that were being enacted in his own dear garden. fred fortunately spied the donkey, and though there had been lately a little emulation between them, who should grow the finest dahlias, he at once carried out the principle of returning good for evil, drove the donkey off, even though his course lay over his own flower beds, and then set to work to repair the damage done. a few minutes more, and all joe's dahlias would have been sacrificed. fred saved them, raked the border neatly, tied up the plants, and restored all to order again; and who can tell but those who thus act, the pleasure, the comfort of fred's heart? why, not the first prize at the horticultural show for the first dahlia in the country, would have given him half the joy; and a still nobler sacrifice he made--he did not tell of his good deeds. now, fred began to realise the pleasures of forbearance and kindness indeed. there could not have been a better way of reaching young white's heart than through his garden. fred's was a fortunate commencement. he never boasted of the act, but one of the boys told mr. barton, who did not fail to remind joe of it at a suitable time, and that time was when white presented his master with a splendid bouquet of dahlias for his supper table, when he was going to have a party of friends. the boys, who were treated like members of the family, were invited to join that party, and then did mr. barton narrate the scene of the donkey's invasion, of which, however, the guests did not perceive the point; but those for whom it was intended understood it all. at bed time that night, joe white begged his school-fellow's pardon for entangling his kite twine, and went to bed very humble and grateful, and with a little love and kindness dawning, which made his rest sweeter and his dreams happier. thus fred began his lessons of love; it was thus he endeavoured to make joe lovable, and congratulated himself on his first successful attempt. he did not speak in the very words of the poet, but his sentiments were the same, as he talked to john of his victory. "there is a golden chord of sympathy, fix'd in the harp of every human soul, which by the breath of kindness when 'tis swept, wakes angel-melodies in savage hearts; inflicts sore chastisements for treasured wrongs, and melts away the ice of hate to streams of love; nor aught but _kindness_ can that fine chord touch." joe murray was quite right in telling edith that a little of the leaven of kindness and love went a great way in a family. no man can live to himself, that is to say, no man's acts can affect himself only. had fred set an example of revenge and retaliation, other boys would have no doubt acted in like manner on the first occasion of irritation. now they all helped to reform joe white, and did not return evil for evil, as had been their custom. fred was the oldest but one of the little community, and had always been looked up to as a clever boy, up to all kinds of spore and diversion. he was the leader of their plays and amusements, and but for the occasional outbreaks of his violent temper would have been a great favourite. as it was, the boys liked him, and his master was undoubtedly very fond of fred parker. he was an honest truthful boy though impetuous and headstrong. permission was given the lads, who as we have said were six in number, to walk out one fine september afternoon without the guardianship of their master. they were to gather blackberries, highly esteemed by mrs. barton for preserves, and it was the great delight of the boys to supply her every year with this fruit. blackberrying is a very amusing thing to country children. it is less so perhaps in its consequences to the nurse, or sempstress, who has to repair the terrible rents which merciless brambles make, but of that children, boys especially, think little or nothing. on they went, each provided with a basket and a long crome stick, for the purpose of drawing distant clusters over ditches or from some height within the reach of the gatherer. at first they jumped and ran and sang in all the merriment of independence. the very consciousness of life, health, and freedom was sufficient enjoyment, and there was no end to their fun and their frolics until they came to the spot where the blackberries grew in the greatest abundance. then they began to gather and eat and fill their baskets in good earnest. the most energetic amongst them was fred, and he had opportunities enough this afternoon for practising kindness and self-denial, for white was in one of his bad moods, and pushed before fred whenever he saw a fine and easily to be obtained cluster of fruit; and once, (fred thought purposely,) upset his basket, which stood upon the pathway, all in the dust. still fred bore all this very well, and set about the gathering with renewed ardour, though one or two of the party called out, "give it him, parker; toss his out and see how he likes it." no, fred had begun to taste the sweet fruits of kindness, he would not turn aside to pluck the bitter fruits of revenge and passion. so he gave no heed to the matter, only leaving the coast clear for white whenever he could, and helping a little boy whom white had pushed aside to fill his basket. without any particular adventures, and with only the usual number of scratches and falls, and only the common depth of dye in lips and fingers, the boys sat down to rest beneath the shade of some fine trees, which skirted a beautiful wood. "i say," said john parker, "let us turn in here, we shall find shade enough, and i had rather sit on the grass and moss than on this bank. come along, we have only to climb the hedge." "but that would be trespassing," said one conscientious boy, who went by the name of simon pure, because he never would join in any sport he thought wrong, and used to recall the master's prohibitions rather oftener to his forgetful companions than they liked. "trespassing! a fig for trespassing," said john parker, clearing away all impediments, and bestriding the narrow ditch, planted a foot firmly on the opposite bank. "you may get something not so sweet as a fig for trespassing, john, though," said his brother fred, who came up at this moment. "man-traps and spring-guns are fictions my lad," said philip harcourt, a boy of much the same turn as john, not easily persuaded any way; "now for it, over parker; be quick, man," and over he jumped. then followed harcourt, white, and another little boy, whose name was arthur, leaving fred and simon pure in the middle of the road. the wood was, undoubtedly, a very delightful place, and more than one fine pheasant rustled amongst the underwood, and the squirrels leaped from bough to bough, whilst the music of the birds was charming. fred, himself, was tempted as he peeped over the gap, and stood irresolute. the plantation was far enough from the residence of the owner, nor was it likely that they could do much mischief beyond frightening the game, and as it was not sitting time, fred himself argued it could do no harm, but little riches, the boy called pure, who was a great admirer of fred, especially since the affair of the dahlias, begged him not to go; "mr. barton, you know, has such a great dislike to our trespassing," said riches, "and if we stay here resolutely they will be sure to come back." "don't preach to me," was the rather unexpected reply, for fred was not _perfect_ yet, though he had gained a victory or two over his temper of late. "i didn't mean to preach, but i do wish the boys would come home, it is growing late; and with our heavy baskets we shall only just get in in time." "halloo!" shouted fred, getting on the bank. "come back, won't you, or we shall be too late; come, john, you are the eldest, come along." but his call was drowned in the sound of their voices, which were echoing through the weeds, much to the annoyance, no doubt, of the stately pheasants who were not accustomed to human sounds like these. they were not at any great distance, and fred could just distinguish parts of their conversation. john and harcourt were urging white, a delicate boy, and no climber, to mount a high tree in the wood, to enjoy they said the glorious sea-view; but in reality to make themselves merry at his expense, being certain that if he managed to scramble up he would have some difficulty in getting down, and would get a terrible fright at least. white stood at the bottom of the tree, looking at his companions as they rode on one of the higher branches of a fine spruce fir. "don't venture! white," shouted fred as loudly as he could shout, "don't attempt it! they only want to make game of you, and you'll never get down if you manage to get up. take my advice now, don't try." "mind your own business," and a large sod of earth was the reply. the sod struck the boy on the face, and his nose bled profusely. "there," said young riches, "what a cowardly trick! oh! i think white the meanest spirited boy i ever saw. he wouldn't have flung that sod at you if you had been within arm's length of him; well, i do dislike that white." "i'll give it to him," said fred, as he vaulted over the fence, but immediately words, which emilie had once repeated to him when they were talking about offensive and defensive warfare, came into his mind, and he stopped short. those words were:--"if any man smite thee on thy right cheek turn to him the other also," and fred was in the road again. "well," said riches, "we have done and said all we can, let us be going home, their disobeying orders is no excuse for us, so come along parker--won't you? they have a watch, and their blackberries won't run away, i suppose." "can't we manage between us, though, to carry some of them?" said fred. "this large basket is not nearly full, let us empty one of them into it. there, now we have only left them two. i've got white's load. i've half a mind to set it down, but no i won't though. you will carry john's, won't you, that's lighter, and between them they may carry the other." they went on a few steps when they both turned to listen. "i thought," said fred, "i heard my name called. it could only be fancy, though. yet, hush! there it is! quite plain," and so it was. john called to him loudly to stop, and at that moment such a scream was heard echoing through the woods, as sent the wood pigeons flying terrified about, and started the hares from their hiding places. "stop, oh stop, fred, white can't get down," said john, breathless, "and i believe he will fall, if he hasn't already, he says he is giddy. pray come back and see if you can't help him, you are such a famous climber." fred could not refuse, and in less than five minutes he was on the spot, but it was too late. the branch had given way, and the boy lay at the foot of the tree senseless, to all appearance dead. there was no blood, no outward sign of injury, but--his face! fred did not forget for many years afterwards, its dreadful, terrified, ghastly expression. what was to be done? they were so horror-struck that for a few minutes they stood in perfect silence, so powerfully were they convinced that the lad had ceased to breathe, that they remained solemn and still as in the presence of death. to all minds death has great solemnities; to the young, when it strikes one of their own age and number, especially. "come," said fred, turning to riches, "come, we must not leave him here to die, poor fellow. take off his neck-handkerchief, harcourt, and run you, riches, to the stream close by, where we first sat down, and get some water. get it in your cap, man, you have nothing else to put it in. quick! quick!" "joe! joe!" said john, "only speak, only look, joe, if you can, we are so frightened."--no answer. "joe!" said fred, and he tried to raise him. no assistance and no resistance; joe fell back passive on the arm of his friend, yes, friend--they were no longer enemies you know. had fred returned evil for evil, had he rushed on him as he first intended when he received the sod from white, he would not have felt as he now did. the boys, who, out of mischief, to use the mildest word, tempted him to climb to a height, beyond that which even they themselves could have accomplished, were not to be envied in _their_ feelings. poor fellows, and yet they only did what many a reckless, mischievous school boy has done and is doing every day; they only meant to tease him a bit, to pay him off for being so spiteful all the way, and so cross to fred when he spoke. but it was no use trying to still the voice which spoke loudly within them, which told them that they had acted with heartless cruelty, and that their conduct had, perhaps, cost a fellow-creature his life. "will you wait with him whilst i run to l---for papa?" said fred. "what alone?" they cried. "alone! why there are four of you, will be at least when riches comes back." "oh no! no! do you stay fred, you are the only one that knows what you are after." "well, which of you will go then? it is near two miles, and you must run, for his _life_--mind that." no one stirred, and riches at this moment coming up with the water, fred told him in few words what he meant to do, and bade him go and stand by the poor lad. that was all that could be done, and "riches don't be hard on them; their consciences are telling them all you could tell them. don't lecture them, i mean; you would not like it yourself." off ran fred, and to his great joy, spying a cart, with one of farmer crosse's men in it, he hailed it, told his tale, and thus they were at l---in a very short space of time. terrified indeed was mrs. parker at the sight of her son driving furiously up in farmer crosse's spring-cart, and his black eye and swelled face did not tend to pacify her on nearer inspection. the father, a little more used to be called out in a hurry, and to prepare for emergencies, was not so alarmed, but had self-possession enough to remember what would be needed, and to collect various articles for the patient's use. the journey to the wood was speedily accomplished, but the poor lads who were keeping watch, often said afterwards that it seemed to them almost a lifetime, such was the crowd of fearful and wretched thoughts and forebodings, such the anxiety, and hopelessness of their situation. there in the silence of the wood lay their young companion, stretched lifeless, and they were the cause. the least rustle amongst the leaves they mistook for a movement of the sufferer; but he moved not. how did they watch mr. parker's face as he knelt down and applied his fingers to the boy's wrist first, and then to his heart! with what intense anxiety did they watch the preparations for applying remedies and restoratives! "was he, was he dead, _quite_ dead?" they asked. no, not dead, but the doctor shook his head seriously, and their exclamations of joy and relief were soon checked. not to follow them through the process of restoring animation, we will say that he was carefully removed to mr. barton's house, and tenderly watched by his kind wife. he had been stunned by the fall, but this was not the extent of the mischief. it was found upon examination that the spine had received irreparable injury, and that if poor white lived, which was doubtful, it would be as a helpless cripple. who can tell the reflections of those boys? who can estimate the misery of hearts which had thus returned evil for evil? it was a sore lesson, but one which of itself could yield no good fruit. it was a great grief to fred that his presence, in the excitable state of the sufferer, seemed to do him harm. he would have liked to sit by him, and share in the duties of his nursing, but whenever fred approached, white became restless and uneasy, and continually alluded, even in his delirium, to the sod he had thrown, and to other points of his ungrateful malicious conduct to his school-fellow. this feeling, however, in time wore away, and many an hour did fred take from play to go and sit by poor joe's couch. he had no mother to come and watch beside that couch, no kind gentle sister, no loving father. he was an orphan, taken care of by an uncle and aunt, who had no experience in training children, and were accustomed to view young persons in the light of evils, which it was unfortunately necessary to _bear_ until the _fault_ of youth should have passed away. will you not then cease to wonder that joe seemed to have so little heart? affection needs to be cultivated; his uncle thought that in sending him to school and giving him a good education, he was doing his duty by the boy. his aunt considered that if in the holidays she let him rove about as he pleased, saw to the repairs of his clothes, sent him back fitted out comfortably, with a little pocket money and a little _advice_, she had done _her_ duty by the child. but poor joe! no kind mother ever stole to his bedside to whisper warnings and gentle reproof if the conduct of the day had been wrong; no knee ever bent to ask for grace and blessing on that orphan boy; no sympathy was ever expressed in one of his joys or griefs; no voice encouraged him in self-denial; no heart rejoiced in his little victories over temper and pride. now, instead of blaming and disliking, will you not pity and love the unlovable and neglected lad? he had not been long under mr. barton's care, and after all, what could a schoolmaster do in twelve months, to remedy the evils which had been growing up for twelve years? he did his best, but the result was very little, and perhaps the most useful lesson joe ever had was that which fred gave him about the dahlias. chapter tenth. edith's visit to joe. fred and edith were sitting in the canary room one saturday afternoon, shortly after the event recorded in the last chapter; edith listening with an earnest interest to the oft-repeated tale of the fall in the wood. "how glad you must have felt, fred, when you thought he was dead, that you had not returned his unkindness." "glad! edith, i cannot tell you how glad; but glad is'nt the word, either. on my knees that night, and often since, i have thanked god who helped me to check the temper that arose. those words out of the bible did it: 'if any man smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also.' emilie told me that text one day, and i said i did'nt think i could ever do that, but i was helped somehow; but come, edith, let us go and see emilie schomberg, i have'nt seen her since all this happened, though you have. how beautifully you keep my cages edith! i think you are very clever; the birds get on better than they did with me. is there any one you would like to give a bird to, dear? for i am sure you ought to share the pleasures, you have plenty of the trouble of my canaries." "oh, i have pleasure enough, and their songs always seem like rejoicings over our reconciliation that day ever so long ago; you remember, don't you, fred? but i should like a bird _very_ much to give to miss schomberg; she seems low-spirited, and says she is often very lonely. a bird would be nice company for her, shall we take her one?" "it would be rather a troublesome gift without a cage, edith, but i have money enough, i think, and i will buy a cage, and then she shall have her bird." "we will hang it up to greet her on sunday morning, shall we?" thus the brother and sister set out, and it was a beautiful sight to their mother, who dearly loved them, to see the two who once were so quarrelsome and disunited now walking together in _love_. emilie was not at home, and they stood uncertain which way to walk, when fred said, "edith, i want some one to teach poor joe love; will you go with me and see him? you taught me to love you, and i think joe would be happier if he could see some one he could take a fancy to. papa said he might see one at a time now, and poor fellow, i do pity him so. will you go? it is a fine fresh afternoon, let us go to mr. barton's." the october sky was clear and the air bracing, and side by side walked fred and edith on their errand of mercy to poor neglected joe, their young hearts a little saddened by the remembrance of his sufferings, "is not his aunt coming?" asked edith. "no! actually she is not," replied fred. "she says in her letter she could not stand the fatigue of the journey, and that her physicians order her to try the waters of bath and cheltenham. unfeeling creature!" thus they chatted till they arrived at mr. barton's house. mrs. barton received them very kindly. "oh, miss parker, she said, my heart aches for that poor lad upstairs, and yet with all this trial, and the wonderful providential escape he has had, would you believe it? his heart seems very little affected. he is not softened that i can see. i told him to day how thankful he ought to be that god did not cut him off in all his sins, and he answered that they who tempted him into danger would have the most to answer for." ah, mrs. barton, it is not the way to people's hearts usually to find fault and upbraid them. there was much truth in what you said to joe, but truth sometimes irritates by the way and time in which it is spoken, and it seems in this case that the _kind_ of truth you told did not exactly suit the state of the boy's mind. edith did not say this of course to the good lady, whose intentions were excellent, but who was rather too much disposed to be severe on young persona, and certainly joe had tried her in many ways. "i will go and see whether joe would like to see edith may i, madam, asked fred?" permission was given. "my sister is here, joe, you have often heard me mention her, would you like to see her?" "oh, i don't know, my back is so bad. oh dear me, and your father tells me i am to lie flat in this way, months. what am i to do all through the christmas holidays too? oh! dear, dear me. well, yes, she may come up." with this not very gracious invitation little edith stepped upstairs, and being of a very tender nature, no sooner did she see poor joe's suffering state than she began to cry. they were tears of such genuine sympathy, such exquisite tenderness, that they touched joe. he did not withdraw the hand she held, and felt even sorry when she herself took hers away. "how sorry i am for you!" said edith, when she could speak, "but may i come and read to you sometimes, and wait upon you when there is no one else? i think i could amuse you a little, and it might pass the time away. i only mean when you have no one better, you know." joe's permission was not very cordial, he was so afraid of girls' _flummery_, as he called it "she plays backgammon and chess, joe, and i can promise you she reads beautifully." "well, i will come on monday," said edith, gaily, "and send me away if you don't want me; but dear me, do you like this light on your eyes? i'll ask mamma for a piece of green baize to pin up. good bye." as she was going out of the room joe called her back. "i have such a favour to ask of you, miss parker. don't bring that preaching german lady here of whom i have heard fred speak; i don't mind you, but i cannot bear so much preaching. mrs. barton and her together would craze me." edith promised, but she felt disappointed. she had hoped that emilie might have gained an entrance, and she knew that emilie would have found out the way to his heart, if she could once have got into his presence; but she concealed her disappointment having made the required promise, and ran after her brother. "i don't like going where i am so plainly not wanted, fred," said she on their way home, "oh, what a sad thing poor white's temper is for himself and every one about him." "yes edith, but _we_ are not always sweet-tempered, and you must remember that poor white has no mother and no father, no one in short to love." edith found at first that it required more judgment than she possessed to make her visit to joe white either pleasant or useful. illness had increased his irritability, and so far from submitting patiently to the confinement and restriction imposed, he was quite fuming with impatience to be allowed to sit up and amuse himself at least. how ingenious is affection in contriving alleviations! here joe sadly wanted some one whose wits were quickened by love. mrs. barton nursed him admirably; he was kept very neat and nice, and his room always had a clean tidy appearance; but it lacked the little tokens of love which oft-times turn the sick chamber into a kind of paradise. no flowers, no little contrivances for amusement, no delicate article of food to tempt his sickly appetite. poor joe! edith soon saw this, and yet it needs experience in illness to adapt one's self to sick nursing. besides she was afraid, she did not like to offer books and flowers, and these visits were quite dreaded by her. "will you not go and see joe, emilie?" asked edith, one day of her friend, as she was recounting the difficulties in her way. "you get at people's hearts much better than ever i could do." "my dear child," said emilie, "did not joe say that he begged you never would bring the preaching german to see him? oh no, dear, i cannot force my company on him. besides you have not tried long enough, kindness does not work miracles; try a little longer edith, and be patient with joe as god is with us. how often we turn away from him when he offers to be reconciled to us. think of that, dear." "fred is very patient and persevering; i often wonder, miss schomberg, that john, who really did cause the accident, seems to think less about joe than fred, who had not any thing to do with it." "it is not at all astonishing, edith. it requires that our actions should be brought to the light of god's word to see them in their true condition. an impenitent murderer thinks less of his crime than a true penitent, who has been moral all his life, thinks of his great sin of ingratitude and ungodliness." chapter eleventh. joe's christmas. christmas was at hand; christmas with its holidays, its greetings, its festive meetings, its gifts, its bells, and its rejoicings. that season when mothers prepare for the return of their children from school, and are wont to listen amidst storms of wind and snow for the carriage wheels; when little brothers and sisters strain their eyes to catch the first glimpse of the dear ones' approach along the snowy track; when the fire blazes within, and lamps are lit up to welcome them home; and hope and expectation and glad heart beatings are the lot of so many--of many, not of all. christmas was come, but it brought no hope, no gladness, no mirth to poor white, either present or in prospect. the music and the bells of christmas, the skating, the pony riding, the racing, the brisk walk, the home endearments were not for joe--poor joe. no mother longed for his return, no brother or little sister pressed to the hall door to get the first look or the first word; no father welcomed joe back to the hearth-warmth of home sweet home. poor orphan boy! joe's uncle and aunt wrote him a kind letter, quite agreed in mr. parker's opinion that a journey into lincolnshire was, in the state of his back and general health, out of the question, were fully satisfied that he was under the best care, both medical and magisterial, (they had never seen either doctor or master, and had only known of mr. barton through an advertisement,) and sent him a handsome present of pocket money, with the information that they were going to the south of france for the winter. joe bore the news of their departure very coolly, and carelessly pocketed the money, knowing as he did that he had a handsome property in his uncle's hands, and no one would have supposed from any exhibition of feeling that he manifested, that he had any feeling or any care about the matter. once, indeed, when a fly came to the door to convey harcourt to the railway, and he saw from the window of his room the happy school-boy jumping with glee into the vehicle, and heard him say to mr. barton, "oh yes, sir, i shall be met!" he turned to fred who sate by him and said, "no one is expecting _me_, no one in the whole world is thinking of me now, parker." fred told his mother of this speech, a speech so full of bitter truth that it made mrs. parker, kind creature as she was, shed tears, and she asked her husband if young white could not be removed to pass the christmas holidays with them. the distance was not great, and they could borrow mr. darford's carriage, and perhaps it might do him good. mr. parker agreed, and the removal was effected. for some days it seemed doubtful whether the change would be either for poor white's mental happiness or bodily improvement. the exertion, and the motion and excitement together, wrought powerfully on his nervous frame, and he was more distressed, and irritable than ever. he could not sleep, he ate scarcely any thing, he rarely spoke, and more than once mrs. parker regretted that the proposal had been made. in vain edith brought him plants from the little greenhouse, fine camellias, pots of snow-drops, and lovely anemones. they seemed rather to awaken painful than pleasing remembrances and associations, and once even when he had lain long looking at a white camellia he burst into tears. it is a great trial of temper, a great test of the sincerity of our purpose, when the means we use to please and gratify seem to have just the contrary effect. in the sick room especially, where kind acts, and gentle words, and patient forbearance are so constantly demanded, it is difficult to refrain from expressions of disappointment when all our endeavours fail; when those we wish to please and comfort, obstinately refuse to be pleased and comforted. often did fred and edith hold counsel as to what would give joe pleasure, but he was as reserved and gloomy as ever, and his heart seemed inaccessible to kindness and affection. besides, there were continual subjects of annoyance which they could scarcely prevent, with all the forethought and care in the world. the boys were very thoughtful, for boys; mrs. parker had it is true warned them not to talk of their out-of-door pleasures and amusements to or before joe, and they were generally careful; but sometimes they would, in the gladness of their young hearts, break out into praises of the fine walk they had just had on the cliff, or the glorious skating on the pond, of the beauty of the pony, and of undiscovered walks and rides in the neighbourhood. once, in particular, emilie, who was spending the afternoon with the parkers, was struck with the expression of agony that arose to joe's face from a very trifling circumstance. they were all talking with some young companion of what they would be when they grew up, and one of them appealing to joe, he quickly said, "oh, a sailor--i care for nobody at home and nobody cares for me, so i shall go to sea." "to sea!" the boy repeated in wonder. "and why not?" said joe, petulantly, "where's the great wonder of that?" there was a silence all through the little party; no one seemed willing to remind the poor lad of that which he, for a moment, seemed to forget--his helpless crippled state. it was only emilie who noticed his look of hopelessness; she sat near him and heard his stifled sigh, and oh, how her heart ached for the poor lad! this conversation and some remarks that the boy made, led mr. and mrs. parker seriously to think that he entertained hopes of recovery, and they were of opinion that it would be kinder to undeceive him, than to allow him to hope for that which could never he. mr. parker began to talk to him about it one day, very kindly, after an examination of his back, when white said, abruptly, "i don't doubt you are very skilful. sir, and all that, but i should like to see some other doctor. i have money enough to pay his fee, and uncle said i was to have no expense spared in getting me the best advice. sir j. ---comes here at christmas, i know, to see his father, and i should like to see him and consult him, sir, may i?" mr. parker of course could make no objection, and a day was fixed for the consultation. it was a very unsatisfactory one and at once crushed all joe's hopes. the result was communicated to him as gently and kindly as possible. mrs. parker was a mother, and her sympathy for poor joe was more lasting than that of the younger branches of the family. she went to him on the sunday evening following the physician's visit to tell him the whole truth, and she often said afterwards how she dreaded the task. joe lay on the sofa before the dining room window, watching the blue sea sit a distance, and thinking with all the ardour of youthful longing of the time when his back should be well, and he should be a voyager in one of those beautiful ships. he should have no regrets, and no friends to regret him; then he groaned at the pain and inconvenience and privation of his present state, and panted for restoration. mrs. parker entered and eat down by him. "is sir j. c---gone, ma'am?" "yes, he has been gone some minutes." "what does he say?" asked the lad earnestly. "he said very little to me, nothing indeed, only all that fudge i am always hearing--'rest, patience,' and so on." "he thinks it a very serious case, my dear; he says that the recumbent posture is very important." "but for how long, ma'am? i would lie twelve months patiently enough if i hoped then to be allowed to walk about, and to be able to do as other boys do." "sir j. c---thinks, joe, that you never will recover. i am grieved to tell you so, but it is the truth, and we think it best you should know it. your spine is so injured that it is impossible you should ever recover; but you may have many enjoyments, though not able to be active like other boys. you must keep up your spirits; it is the will of god and you must submit." poor mrs. parker having disburdened her mind of a great load, and performed her dreaded task, left the room, telling her husband that the boy bore it very well, indeed, he did not seem to feel it much. the bell being already out for church, she called the young people to accompany her thither, leaving one maid-servant and the errand boy at home, and poor joe to meditate on his newly-acquired information that he would be a cripple for life. edith looked in and asked softly, "shall i stay?" but the "no" was so very decided, and so very stern that she did not repeat the question, so they all went off together, a cheerful family party. the errand boy betook himself to a chair in the kitchen, where he was soon sound asleep, and the maid-servant to the back gate to gossip with a sailor; so joe was left alone with a hand-bell on the table, plenty of books if he liked to read them, and as far as outward comforts went with nothing to complain of. "and here i am a cripple for life," ejaculated the poor fellow, when the sound of their voices died away and the bell ceased; "and, oh, may that life be a short one! i wish, oh, i wish, i were dead! who would care to hear this? no one--i wish from my heart i were dead;" and here the boy sobbed till his poor weak frame was convulsed with agony, and he felt as if his heart (for he had a heart) would break. in his wretchedness he longed for affection, he longed for some one who would really care for him, "but _no one_ cares for me," groaned the lad, "no one, and i wish i might die to night." ah, joe, may god change you _very_ much before he grants that wish! after he had sobbed a while, he began to think more calmly, but his thoughts were thoughts of revenge and hatred. "_john_ has been the cause of it all." then he thought again, "they may well make all this fuss over me, when their son caused all my misery; let them do what they will they will never make it up to me, but they only tolerate me i can see, i know i am in the way; they don't ask me here because they care for me, not they, it's only out of pity;" and here, rolling his head from side to side, sobbed and cried afresh. "what would i give for some one to love me, for some one to wait on me because they loved me! but here i am to lie all my life, a helpless, hopeless, cripple; oh dear! oh dear! my heart _will_ break. those horrid bells! will they never have done?" * * * * * at the very moment when poor joe was thinking that no one on earth cared for him, that not a heart was the sadder for his sorrow, a kind heart not far off was feeling very much for him. "i shall not go to church to-night, aunt agnes," said emilie schomberg, "i shall go and hear what sir j.c.'s opinion of poor joe white is. i cannot get that poor fellow out of my mind." "no, poor boy, it is a sad case," said aunt agnes, "but why it should keep you from church, my dear, i don't see. _i_ shall go." so they trotted off, emilie promising to leave aunt agnes safe at the church door, where she met the parkers just about to enter. "oh emilie," said little edith, "poor joe! we have had sir j.c.'s opinion, and it is quite as had if not worse than papa's, there is so much disease and such great injury done. he is all alone, emilie, do go and sit with him." "it is just what i wish to do, dear, but do you think he will let me?" "yes, oh yes, try at least," said edith, and they parted. when emilie rang at the bell joe was in the midst of his sorrow, but thinking it might only be a summons for mr. parker, he did not take much notice of it until the door opened and the preaching german lady, as he called emilie, entered the room. when she saw his swollen eyes and flushed face, she wished that she had not intruded, but she went frankly up to him, and began talking as indifferently as possible, to give him time to recover himself, said how very cold it was, stirred the fire into a cheerful blaze, and then relapsed into silence. the silence was broken at times by heavy sighs, however--they were from poor joe. emilie now went to the piano, and in her clear voice sang softly that beautiful anthem, "i will arise and go to my father." it was not the first time that joe had shown something like emotion at the sound of music; now it softened and composed him. "i should like to hear that again," he said, in a voice so unlike his own that emilie was surprised. she sang it and some others that she thought he would like, and then said, "i hope i have not tired you, but i am afraid you are in pain." "i am," said joe, in his old gruff uncivil voice, "in great pain." "can i do any thing for you?" asked emilie, modestly. "no _nothing_, nothing can be done! i shall have to lie on my back as long as i live, and never walk or stand or do any thing like other boys--but i hope i shan't live long, that's all." emilie did not attempt to persuade him that it would not be as bad as he thought--that he would adapt himself to his situation, and in time grow reconciled to it. she knew that his mind was in no state to receive such consolation, that it rather needed full and entire sympathy, and this she could and did most sincerely offer. "i am _very_ sorry for you," she said quietly, "_very_ sorry," and she approached a little nearer to his couch, and looked at him so compassionately that joe believed her. "don't you think that fellow john ought to be ashamed of himself, and i don't believe he ever thinks of it," said joe, recurring to his old feeling of revenge and hatred. "perhaps he thinks of it more than you imagine," said emilie, "but don't fancy that no one cares about you, that is the way to be very unhappy." "it is _true_," said joe, sadly. "god cares for you," however, replied emily softly. "oh, if i could think that, it would be a comfort," miss schomberg, "and i do need comfort; i do, i do indeed, groaned the boy." emilie's tears fell fast. no words of sympathy however touching, no advice however wise and good, no act however kind could have melted joe as the tears of that true-hearted girl. he felt confidence in their sincerity, but that any one should feel for _him_, should shed tears for him, was so new, so softening an idea, that he was subdued. not another word passed on the subject. emilie returned to the piano, and soon had the joy of seeing joe in a tranquil sleep; she shaded the lamp that it might not awake him, covered his poor cold feet with her warm tartan, and with a soft touch lifted the thick hair from his burning forehead, and stood looking at him with such intense interest, suck earnest prayerful benevolence, that it might have been an angel visit to that poor sufferer's pillow, so soothing was it in its influence. he half opened his eyes, saw that look, felt that touch, and tears stole down his cheeks; tears not of anger, nor discontent, but of something like gratitude that after all _one_ person in the world cared for him. his sleep was short, and when he awoke, he said abruptly to emilie, "i want to feel less angry against john," miss schomberg, "but i don't know how. it was such a cruel trick, such a cowardly trick, and i cannot forgive him." "i don't want to preach," said emily, smiling, "but perhaps if you would read a little in this book you would find help in the very difficult duty of forgiving men their trespasses." "ah, the bible, but i find that dull reading; it always makes me low spirited, i always associate it with lectures from uncle and mr. barton. when i did wrong i was plied up with texts." emilie did not know what answer to make to this speech. at last she said, "do you remember the account of the saviour's crucifixion, how, when in agony worse than yours, he said, 'father forgive them.' may i read it to you?" he did not object, and emilie read that history which has softened many hearts as hard as joe's. he made but little remark as emilie closed the book, nor did she add to that which she had been reading by any comment, but; bidding him a kind good night, went to meet aunt agnes at the church door, and conduct her safely home. there is a turning point in most persons' lives, either for good or evil. joe white was able long afterwards to recall that miserable sunday evening, with its storm of agitation and revenge, and then its lull of peace and love. he who said, "peace, be still," to the tempestuous ocean, spoke those words to joe's troubled spirit, and the boy was willing to listen and to learn. would a long lecture on the sinfulness and impropriety of his revengeful and hardened state have had the same effect on joe, as emilie's hopeful, gentle, almost silent sympathy? we think not. "i would try and make him lovable," so said and so acted emilie schomberg, and for that effort had the orphan cause to thank her through time and eternity. joe was not of an open communicative turn, he was accustomed to keep his feelings and thoughts very much to himself, and he therefore did not tell either fred or edith of his conversation with emilie, but when they came to bid him good night, he spoke softly to them, and when john came to his couch he did not offer one finger and turn away his face, as he had been in the habit of doing, but said, "good night," freely, almost kindly. the work went on slowly but surely, still he held back forgiveness to john, and while he did this, he could not be happy, he could not himself feel that he was forgiven. "i do forgive him, at least i wish him no ill, miss schomberg," he said in one of his conversations with emilie. "i don't suppose i need be very fond of him. am i required to be that?" "what does the bible say, joe? 'if thine enemy hunger feed him, if he thirst give him drink.' '_i_ say unto you,' christ says, '_love_ your enemies.' he does not say don't hate them, he means _love_ them. do you think you have more to forgive john than jesus had to forgive those who hung him on the cross?" "it seems to me, miss schomberg, so different that example is far above me. i cannot be like him you know." "yet joe there have been instances of persons who have followed his example in their way and degree, and who have been taught by him, and helped by him to forgive their fellow-creatures." "but it is not in human nature to do it, i know, at least is not in mine." "but try and settle it in your mind, joe, that john did not mean to injure you, that had he had the least idea that you would fall he would never have tempted you to climb. if you look upon it as accidental on your part, and thoughtlessness on his, it will feel easier to forgive him perhaps, and i am sure you may. you are quite wrong in supposing that john does not think of it. he told edith only yesterday that he never could forgive himself for tempting you to climb, and that he did not wonder at your cold and distant way to him. poor fellow! it would make him much happier if you would treat him as though you forgave him, which you cannot do unless you _from your heart_ forgive him." chapter twelfth. the christmas tree. the conversation last recorded, between emilie and joe, took place a few days before christmas. every one noticed that joe was more silent and thoughtful than usual, but he was not so morose; he received the little attentions of his friend more gratefully, and was especially fond of having emilie talk to him, sing to him, or read to him. emilie and her aunt were spending a few days at the parkers' house, and it seemed to add very much to joe's comfort. this emilie was like a spirit of peace pervading the whole family. she was so sure to win edith to obey her mamma, to stop john if he went a little too far in his jokes with his sister, to do sundry little services for mrs. parker, and to make herself such an agreeable companion to emma, and caroline, that they all agreed they wished that they had her always with them. edith confessed to emilie one day that she thought emma and caroline wonderfully improved, and as to her mamma, how very seldom she was cross now. "we are very apt to think other persons in fault when we ourselves are cross and irritable, this may have been the case here, edith, may it not?" "well! perhaps so, but i am sure i am much happier than i was, emilie." "'_great peace_ have they that love god's law,' my dear, 'and nothing shall offend them.' what a gospel of peace it is edith, is it not?" the great work in hand, just now, was the christmas tree. these christmas trees are becoming very common in our english homes, and the idea, like many more beautiful, bright, domestic thoughts, is borrowed from the germans. you may be sure that emilie and aunt agnes were quite up to the preparations for this christmas tree, and so much the more welcome were they as christmas guests. "i have plenty of money," said joe, "but i don't know, somehow, what sort of present to make, miss schomberg, yet i think i might pay for all the wax lights and ornaments, and the filagree work you talk of." "a capital thought," said emilie, and she took his purse, promising to lay out what was needful to the best advantage. joe helped emilie and the miss parkers very efficiently as he lay "useless," he said, but they thought otherwise, and gave him many little jobs of pasting, gumming, etc. it was a beautiful tree, i assure you; but joe had a great deal of mysterious talk with emilie, apart from the rest, which, however, we must not divulge until christmas eve. a little box came from london on the morning of the day, directed to joe. edith was very curious to know its contents; so was fred, so was john; emilie only smiled. "joe, won't you unpack that box now, to gratify us all?" said mr. parker, as joe put the box on one side, nodded to emilie, and began his breakfast. no, joe could not oblige him. evening came at last, and the christmas tree was found to bear rich fruit. from many a little sparkling pendant branch hung offerings for joe; poor joe, who thought no one in the world cared for him. he lay on his reclining chair looking happier and brighter than usual, but as the gifts poured into his lap, gifts so evidently the offspring of tenderness and affection, so numerous, and so adapted to his condition, his countenance assumed a more serious and thoughtful cast. every cue gave him something. there is no recounting the useful and pretty, if not costly, articles that joe became possessor of. a beautiful tartan wrapper for his feet, from mrs. parker; a reading desk and book from mr. parker; a microscope from john and fred; a telescope from emilie and edith; some beautiful knitted socks from aunt agnes; a pair of edith and fred's very best canaries. when his gifts were arranged on his new table, a beautifully made table, ordered for him by mr. parker, and exactly adapted to his prostrate condition, and joe saw every one's looks directed towards him lovingly, and finally received a lovely white camellia blossom from edith's hand, he turned his face aside upon the sofa pillow and buried it in his hands. what could be the matter with him? asked mrs. parker, tenderly. had any one said any thing to wound or vex him? "oh no! no! no!" what was it then? was he overcome with the heat of the room? "no, oh no!" but might he be wheeled into the dining room, he asked? mr. parker consented, of course, but aunt agnes was sure he was ill. "take him some salvolatile, emilie, at once." "no aunt," said emilie, "he will be better without that, he is only overcome." "and is not that just the very thing i was saying, emilie, child, give him some camphor julep then; camphor julep is a very reviving thing doctor! mr. parker, won't you give him something to revive him." "i think," said emilie, who understood his emotion and guessed its cause, "i think he will be better alone. his spirits are weak, owing to illness, i would not disturb him." "come," said mrs. parker, "let us look at the tree, its treasures are not half exhausted." wonderful to say, although joe had given his purse to emilie for the adornment of the tree, there still were presents for every one from him; and what was yet more surprising to those who knew that joe had not naturally much delicacy of feeling or much consideration for others, each present was exactly the thing that each person liked and wished for. but john was the most astonished with his share; it was a beautiful case of mathematical instruments, such a case as all l---and all the county of hampshire together could not produce; a case which joe had bought for himself in london, and on which he greatly prided himself. john had seen and admired it, and joe gave this prized, cherished case to john--his enemy john. "it must be intended for you fred," said john, after a minute's consideration; "but no, here is my name on it." margaret, at this moment, brought in a little note from joe for john, who, when he had read it, coloured and said, "papa, perhaps you will read it aloud, i cannot." it was as follows:- dear john, i have been, as you must have seen, very unhappy and very cross since my accident; i have had my heart filled with thoughts of malice and revenge, and to _you_. i have not felt as though i could forgive you, and i have often told emilie and edith this; but they have not known how wickedly i have felt to you, nor how much i now need to ask your forgiveness for thoughts which, in my helpless state, were as bad as actions. often, as i saw you run out in the snow to slide or skate, i have wished (don't hate me for it) that you might fall and break your leg or your arm, that you might know a little of what i suffered. thank god, all that is passed away, and i now do not write so much to say i forgive you, for i believe from my heart you only meant to tease me a little, not to hurt me, but to ask you to pardon me for thoughts far worse and more evil than your thoughtless mischief to me. will you all believe me, too, when i say that i would not take my past, lonely, miserable feelings back again, to be the healthiest, most active boy on earth. emilie has been a good friend to me, may god bless her, and bless you all for your patience and kindness to. jos. white. pray do not ask me to come back to you to night, i cannot indeed. i am not unhappy, but since my illness my spirits are weak, and i can bear very little; your kindness has been too much. j.w. the contents of the little box were now displayed. it was the only costly present on that christmas tree, full as it was, and rich in love. the present was a little silver inkstand, with a dove in the centre, bearing not an olive branch, but a little scroll in its beak, with these words, which emilie had suggested, and being a favourite german proverb of hers. i will give it in her own language, in which by the bye it was engraved. she had written the letter containing the order for the plate to a fellow-countryman of hers, in london, and had forgotten to specify that the motto must be in english; but never mind, she translated it for them, and i will translate it for you. "friede ernã¤hrt, unfriede verzehrt." "in peace we bloom, in discord we consume." the inkstand was for mr. and mrs. parker, and the slip of paper said it was from their grateful friend, joe white. that was the secret. emilie had kept it well; they rather laughed at her for not translating the motto, but no matter, she had taught them all a german phrase by the mistake. where was she gone? she had slipped away from the merry party, and was by joe's couch. joe's heart was very full, full with the newly-awakened sense that he loved and that he was loved; full of earnest resolves to become less selfish, less thankless, less irritable. he knew his lot now, knew all that lay before him, the privations, the restrictions, the weakness, and the sufferings. he knew that he could never hope again to share in the many joys of boyhood and youth; that he must lay aside his cricket ball, his hoop, his kite, in short all his active amusements, and consign himself to the couch through the winter, spring, summer, autumn, and winter again. he felt this very bitterly; and when all the gifts were lavished upon him, he thought, "oh, for my health and strength again, and i would gladly give up _all_ these gifts, nay, i would joyfully be a beggar." but when he was alone, in the view of all i have written and more, he felt that he could forgive john, that in short he must ask john to forgive him, and this conviction came not suddenly and by chance, but as the result of honest sober consideration, of his own sincere communings with conscience. still he felt very desolate, still he could scarcely believe in emilie's assurance, "you may have god for your friend," and something of this he told miss schomberg, when she came to sit by him for awhile. she had but little faith in her own eloquence, we have said, and she felt now more than ever how dangerous it would be to deceive him, so she did not lull him into false peace, but she soothed him with the promise of him who loves us not because of our worthiness, but who has compassion on us out of his free mercy. herein is love indeed, thought poor joe, and he meditated long upon it, so long that his heart began to feel something of its power, and he sank to sleep that night happier and calmer than he had ever slept before, wondering in his last conscious moments that god should love _him_. poor joel he had much to struggle with; for if indulgence and over-weening affection ruin their thousands, neglect and heartlessness ruin tens of thousands. the heart not used to exercise the affection, becomes as it were paralyzed, and so he found it. he could not love as he ought, he could not be grateful as he knew he ought to be, and he found himself continually receiving acts of kindness, as matters of course, and without suitable feeling of kindness and gratitude in return; but the more he knew of himself the more he felt of his own unworthiness, the more gratefully he acknowledged and appreciated the love of others to him. the ungrateful are always proud. the humble, those who know how undeserving they are, are always grateful. chapter thirteenth. the new home. let us pass by twelve months, and see how the law of kindness is working then. mrs. parker is certainly happier, less troubled than she was two years ago; edith is a better and more dutiful child, and the sisters are far more sociable with her than formerly. the dove of peace has taken up its abode in the parker family. how is it in high street? emilie and aunt agnes are not there, but miss webster is still going on with her straw bonnet trade and her lodging letting, and she is really as good tempered as we can expect of a person whose temper has been bad so very long, and who has for so many years been accustomed to view her fellow creatures suspiciously and unkindly. but emilie is gone, and are you not curious to know where? i will tell you; she is gone back to germany--she and her aunt agnes are both gone to frankfort to live. the fact is, that emilie is married. she was engaged to a young professor of languages, at the very time when the christmas tree was raised last year in mr. parker's drawing room. he formed one of the party, indeed, and, but that i am such a very bad hand at describing love affairs, i might have mentioned it then; besides, this is not a _love story_ exactly, though there is a great deal about _love_ in it. lewes franks had come over to england with letters of recommendation from one or two respectable english families at frankfort, and was anxious to return with two or three english pupils, and commence a school in that town. his name was well known to mr. parker, who gladly promised to consign his two sons, john and fred to his care, but recommended young franks to get married. this franks was not loth to do when he saw emilie schomberg, and after rather a short courtship, and quite a matter of fact one, they married and went over to germany, accompanied by john, fred, and joe white. mr. barton, after the sad accident in the plantation, had so little relish for school keeping, that he very gladly resigned his pupils to young franks, who, if he had little experience in tuition, was admirably qualified to train the young by a natural gentleness and kindness of disposition, and sincere and stedfast christian principle. edith longed to accompany them, but that was not to be thought of, and so she consoled herself by writing long letters to emilie, which contained plenty of l---news. i will transcribe one for you. the following was dated a few months after the departure of the party, not the first though, you may be sure. l----, dec, 18- dearest emilie, i am thinking so much of you to-night that i must write to tell you so. i wish letters only cost one penny to frankfort, and i would write to you every day. i want so to know how you are spending your christmas at frankfort. we shall have no christmas tree this year. we all agreed that it would be a melancholy attempt at mirth now you are gone, and dear fred and john and poor joe. i fancy you will have one though, and oh, i wish i was with you to see it, but mamma is often very poorly now, and likes me to be with her, and i know i am in the right place, so i won't wish to be elsewhere. papa is very much from home now, he has so many patients at a distance, and sometimes he takes me long rides with him, which is a great pleasure. one of his patients is just dead, you will be sorry to hear who i mean--poor old joe murray! he took cold in november, going out with his life boat, one very stormy night, to a ship in distress off l---sands, the wind and rain were very violent, and he was too long in his wet clothes, but he saved with his own arm two of the crew; two boys about the age of his own poor bob. every one says it was a noble act; they were just ready to sink, and the boat in another moment would have gone off without them. his own life was in great danger, but be said he remembered your, or rather the saviour's, "golden rule," and could not hesitate. think of remembering that in a november storm in the raging sea! he plunged in and dragged first one and then another into the boat. these boys were brothers, and it was their first voyage. they told joe that they had gone to sea out of opposition to their father, who contradicted their desires in every thing, but that now they had had quite enough of it, and should return; but i must not tell you all their story, or my letter will he too long. joe, as i told you, caught cold, and though he was kindly nursed and sarah waited on him beautifully, he got worse and worse. i often went to see him, and he was very fond of my reading in the bible to him; but one day last week he was taken with inflammation of the chest, and died in a few hours. papa says he might have lived years, but for that cold, he was such a healthy man. i feel very sorry he is gone. i can't help crying when i think of it, for i remember he was very useful to me that may evening when we were primrose gathering. do you recollect that evening, emilie? ah, i have much to thank you for. what a selfish, wilful, irritable girl i was! so i am now at times, my evil thoughts and feelings cling so close to me, and i have no longer you, dear emilie, to warn and to encourage me, but i have jesus still. he is a good friend to me, a better even than you have been. i owe you a great deal emilie; you taught me to love, you showed me the sin of temper, and the beauty of peace and love. i go and see miss webster sometimes, as you wish; she is getting very much more sociable than she was, and does not give quite such short answers. she often speaks of you, and says you were a good friend to her; that is a great deal for her to say, is it not? how happy you must be to have every one love you! i am glad to say that fred's canaries are well, but they don't _agree_ at all times. there is no teaching canaries to love one another, so all i can do is to separate the fighters; but i love those birds, i love them for fred's sake, and i love them for the remembrances they awaken of our first days of peace and union. my love to joe, poor joe! do write and tell me how he goes on, does he walk at all? ever dear emilie, your affectionate edith. there were letters to john and fred in the same packet, and i think you will like to hear one of fred's to his sister, giving an account of the christmas festivities at frankfort. dear edith, i am very busy to-day, but i must give you a few lines to tell you how delighted your letters made us. we are very happy here, but _home_ is the place after all, and it is one of our good master's most constant themes. he is always talking to us about home, and encouraging us to talk of and think of it. emilie seems like a sister to us, and she enters into all our feelings as well us you could do yourself. well, you will want to know something about our christmas doings at school. they have been glorious i can tell you--such a christmas tree! such a lot of presents in our _shoes_ on christmas morning; such dinings and suppings, and musical parties! you must know every one sings here, the servants go singing about the house like nightingales, or sweeter than nightingales to my mind, like our dear "kanarien vogel." you ask for joe, he is very patient, and kind and good to us all, he and john are capital friends; and oh, edith, it would do your heart good to see how john devotes himself to the poor fellow. he waits upon him like a servant, but it is all _love_ service. joe can scarcely bear him out of his sight. herr franks was asked the other day, by a gentleman who came to sup with us, if they were brothers. john watches all joe's looks, and is so careful that nothing may be said to wound him, or to remind him of his great affliction more than needs be. it was a beautiful sight on new year's eve to see joe's boxes that he has carved. he has become very clever at that work, and there was an article of his carving for every one, but the best was for emilie, and she _deserted_ it. oh, how he loves emilie! if he is beginning to feel in one of his old cross moods, he says that emilie's face, or emilie's voice disperses it all, and well it may; emilie has sweetened sourer tempers than joe white's. but now comes a sorrowful part of my letter. joe is very unwell, he has a cough, (he was never strong you know,) and the doctor says he is very much afraid his lungs are diseased. he certainly gets thinner and weaker, and he said to me to-day what i must tell you. he spoke of his longings to travel (to go to australia was always his fancy.) "and now, fred," he said, "i never think of going _there_, i am thinking of a longer journey _still_." "a longer journey, joe!" i said, "well, you have got the travelling mania on you yet, i see." he looked so sad, that i said, "what do you mean joe?" he replied, "fred, i think nothing of journeys and voyages in this world now. i am thinking of a pilgrimage to the land where all our wandering's will have an end. i longed, oh fred, you know how i longed to go to foreign lands, but i long now as i never longed before to go to _heaven_." i begged him not to talk of dying, but he said it did not make him low spirited. emilie and he talked of it often. ah edith! that boy is more fit for heaven than any of us who a year or two ago thought him scarcely fit to be our companion, but as emilie said the other day, god often causes the very afflictions that he sends to become his choicest mercies. so it has been with poor white, i am sure. i find i have nearly filled my letter about joe, but we all think a great deal of him. don't you remember emilie's saying, "i would try to make him lovable." he is lovable now, i assure you. i am sorry our canaries quarrel, but that is no fault of yours. we have only two school-fellows at present, but herr franks does not wish for a large school; he says he likes to be always with us, and to be our companion, which if there were more of us he could not so well manage. we have one trouble, and that is in the temper of this newly arrived german boy, but we are going to try and make him lovable. he is a good way off it _yet_. i must leave john to tell you about the many things i have forgotten, and i will write soon. we have a cat here whom we call _muff_, after your old pet. her name often reminds me of your sacrifice for me. ah! my dear little sister, you heaped coals of fire on my head that day. truly you were not overcome of evil, you overcame evil with good. dear love to all at home. your ever affectionate brother, fred parker. chapter fourteenth. the last. "hush, dears! hush!" said a gentle voice, pointing to a shaded window. "he is asleep now, and we must have the window open for air this sultry evening. i would not rake that bed to-night, john, i think." "it is _his_ garden, emilie." "yes, i know"--and she sighed.-"it _is_ his garden, and his eye always sees the least weed and the least untidiness. he will be sure to notice it when he is drawn out to-morrow." "john there may be no to-morrow for joe, he is altered very much to-day, and it is evident to me he is sinking fast. he won't come down again, i think." "may i go and sit by him, emilie?" said the boy, quietly gathering up his tools and preparing to leave his employment. "yes, but be very still." it was a striking contrast; that fine, florid, healthy boy, whose frame was gaining vigour and manliness daily, whose blight eye had scarcely ever been dimmed by illness or pain, and that pale, deformed, weary sleeper. so emilie thought as she took her seat by the open window and watched them both. the roses and the carnations that john had brought to his friend were quietly laid on the table as he caught the first glimpse of the dying boy. there was that in the action which convinced emilie that john was aware of his friend's state and they quietly sat down to watch him. the stars came out one by one, the dew was falling, the birds were all hurrying home, children were asleep in their happy beds; many glad voices mingled by open casements and social supper tables, some few lingered out of doors to enjoy the beauties of that quiet august night, the last on earth of one, at least, of god's creatures. they watched on. "i have been asleep, emilie, a beautiful sleep, i was dreaming of my mother; i awoke, and it was you. john, _you_ there too! good, patient, watchful john. leave me a moment, quite alone with john, will you, emilie? moments are a great deal to me now." the friends were left alone, their talk was of death and eternity, on the solemn realities of which one of them was about to enter, and carefully as john had shielded joe, tenderly as he had watched over him hitherto, he must now leave him to pass the stream alone--yet not alone. emilie soon returned; it was to see him die. it was not much that he could say, and much was not needed. the agony of breathing those last breaths was very great. he had lived long near to god, and in the dark valley his saviour was still near to him. he was at peace--at peace in the dying conflict; it was only death now with whom he had to contend. being justified by faith, he had peace with god through the lord jesus christ. his last words were whispered in the ear of that good elder sister, our true-hearted, loving emilie. 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"what a treasure in a country house must not such an encyclopaedia of amusing knowledge afford, when the series has grown to a few volumes. not only an encyclopaedia of amusing and useful knowledge, but that which will give to memory a chronological chart of our acquisition of information. this admirable idea is well followed out in the little volume in our hands. the notiore are all clear, full, and satisfactory, and the engravings with which the volume is embellished are every way worthy of the literary part of the work."--_standard_. "the work is well done, and deserves notice as a striking memorial of the chief occurrences of 1850."--_atlas_. "books such as this are, and will be, the landmarks of social, scientific, mechanical, and moral progress; it extends to nearly four hundred pages of well-condensed matter, illustrated with numerous excellently engraved wood blocks."--_advertiser_. "it is a stirring and instructive volume for intelligent young people."--_evangelical_. the former volume, for 1849, still continues on sale. * * * * * new gift book for the season. * * * * * in 8vo. price 16s. bound in cloth, or 24s. morocco elegant, pilgrimages to english shrines. by mrs. s.c. hall. with notes and illustrations by f.w. fairholt, f.s.a. _among the interesting subjects of this volume will be found,_ the birth-place or john bunyan; the burial-place of john hampden; the residence of hannah more; the tomb of sir thomas gresham; the tomb of thomas gray; the birth-place of thomas chatterton; the birth-place of richard wilson; the house of andrew marvel; the tomb of john stow; the heart of sir nicholas crispe; the printing office of william caxton; shaftesbury house; the dwelling of james barry; the residence of dr. isaac watts; the prison of lady mary grey; the town of john kyrle (the man of ross); the tomb of william hogarth; the studio of thomas gainsborough, r.a. notices of the press "descriptions of such shrines come home with deep interest to all hearts--all english hearts--particularly when they are done with the earnestness which distinguishes mrs. hall's writings. that lady's earnestness and enthusiasm are of the right sort--felt for freedom of thought and action, for taste, and for genius winging its flight in a noble direction. they are displayed, oftentimes most naturally, throughout the attractive pages of this volume."--_observer._ "mrs. hall's talents are too well known to require our commendation of her 'pilgrimages,' which are every way worthy of the beautiful woodcuts that illustrate almost every page, and this is very high praise indeed."--_standard._ "the illustrations are very effective; and the whole work externally and internally, is worthy of the patronage of all who love to be instructed as well as amazed."_--church and state gazette._ "the book is a pleasant one; a collection of a great deal of curious information about a number of curious places and persons, cleverly and readily put together, and combined into an elegant volume."--_guardian_. popular juvenile books. by horatio alger, jr. _ragged dick series._ _to be completed in six volumes._ i. ragged dick; or, street life in new york. ii. fame and fortune; or, the progress of richard hunter. iii. mark, the match boy. iv. rough and ready; or, life among the new york newsboys. v. ben, the luggage boy. (in april, 1870.) vi. rufus and rose; or, the fortunes of rough and ready. (in december, 1870.) _price, $1.25 per volume._ _campaign series._ _complete in three vols._ i. frank's campaign. ii. paul prescott's charge. iii. charlie codman's cruise. _price, $1.25 per volume._ _luck and pluck series._ _to be completed in six volumes._ i. luck and pluck; or, john oakley's inheritance. others in preparation. _price, $1.50 per volume._ [illustration] [illustration: luck and pluck series. by horatio alger jr. luck and pluck.] luck and pluck; or, john oakley's inheritance. by horatio alger, jr. author of "ragged dick," "fame and fortune," "mark, the match boy," "rough and ready," "campaign series," etc. loring, publisher, 819 washington street, boston. entered according to act of congress, in the year 1869, by a. k. loring, in the clerk's office of the district court for the district of massachusetts. rockwell & churchill, printers and stereotypers, 122 washington street. to my young friends, isaac and george, this volume is affectionately dedicated. preface. "luck and pluck" appeared as a serial story in the juvenile department of ballou's magazine for the year 1869, and is therefore already familiar to a very large constituency of young readers. it is now presented in book form, as the first of a series of six volumes, designed to illustrate the truth that a manly spirit is better than the gifts of fortune. early trial and struggle, as the history of the majority of our successful men abundantly attests, tend to strengthen and invigorate the character. the author trusts that john oakley, his young hero, will find many friends, and that his career will not only be followed with interest, but teach a lesson of patient fortitude and resolute endeavor, and a determination to conquer fortune, and compel its smiles. he has no fear that any boy-reader will be induced to imitate ben brayton, whose selfishness and meanness are likely to meet a fitting recompense. new york, nov. 8, 1869. luck and pluck; or, john oakley's inheritance. chapter i. introducing two boys and a horse. "what are you going to do with that horse, ben brayton?" "none of your business!" "as the horse happens to belong to me, i should think it was considerable of my business." "suppose you prove that it belongs to you," said ben, coolly. "there is no need of proving it. you know it as well as i do." "at any rate, it doesn't belong to you now," said ben brayton. "i should like to know why not?" "because it belongs to me." "who gave it to you?" "my mother." "it wasn't hers to give." "you'll find that the whole property belongs to her. your father left her everything, and she has given the horse to me. just stand aside there; i'm going to ride." john oakley's face flushed with anger, and his eyes flashed. he was a boy of fifteen, not tall, but stout and well-proportioned, and stronger than most boys of his age and size, his strength having been developed by rowing on the river, and playing ball, in both of which he was proficient. ben brayton was a year and a half older, and half a head taller; but he was of a slender figure, and, having no taste for vigorous out-of-door amusements, he was not a match in strength for the younger boy. they were not related by blood, but both belonged to the same family, ben brayton's mother having three years since married squire oakley, with whom she had lived for a year previous as house-keeper. a week since the squire had died, and when, after the funeral, the will had been read, it was a matter of general astonishment that john, the testator's only son, was left entirely unprovided for, while the entire property was left to mrs. oakley. john, who was of course present at the reading of the will, was considerably disturbed at his disinheritance; not because he cared for the money so much as because it seemed as if his father had slighted him. not a word, however, had passed between him and his father's widow on the subject, and things had gone on pretty much as usual, until the day on which our story commences. john had just returned from the village academy, where he was at the head of a class preparing for college, when he saw ben brayton, the son of mrs. oakley by a former marriage preparing to ride out on a horse which for a year past had been understood to be his exclusive property. indignant at this, he commenced the conversation recorded at the beginning of this chapter. "stand aside there, john oakley, or i'll ride over you!" "will you, though?" said john, seizing the horse by the bridle. "that's easier said than done." ben brayton struck the horse sharply, hoping that john would be frightened and let go; but our hero clung to the bridle, and the horse began to back. "let go, i tell you!" exclaimed ben. "i won't!" said john, sturdily. the horse continued to back, until ben, who was a coward at heart, becoming alarmed, slid off from his back. "that's right," said john, coolly. "another time you'd better not meddle with my horse." "i'll meddle with you, and teach you better manners!" exclaimed ben, a red spot glowing in each of his pale cheeks. as he spoke, he struck john smartly over the shoulders with the small riding-whip he carried. john was not quarrelsome. i am glad to bear this testimony to his character, for i have a very poor opinion of quarrelsome boys; but he had a spirit of his own, and was not disposed to submit tamely to a blow. he turned upon ben instantly, and, snatching the whip from his hand, struck him two blows in return for the one he had received. "i generally pay my debts with interest, ben brayton," he said, coolly. "you ought to have thought of that before you struck me." a look of fierce vindictiveness swept over the olive face of his adversary as he advanced for another contest. "stand back there!" exclaimed john, flourishing the whip in a threatening manner. "i've paid you up, and i don't want to strike you again." "i'll make you smart for your impudence!" fumed ben, trying to get near enough to seize the whip from his hands. "i didn't strike first," said john, "and i shan't strike again, unless i am obliged to in self-defence." "give me that whip!" screamed ben, livid with passion. "you can't have it." "i'll tell my mother." "go and do it if you like," said john, a little contemptuously. "let go that horse." "it's my own, and i mean to keep it." "it is not yours. my mother gave it to me." "it wasn't hers to give." john still retained his hold of the saddle, and kept ben at bay with one hand. he watched his opportunity until ben had retreated sufficiently far to make it practicable, then, placing his foot in the stirrup, lightly vaulted upon the horse, and, touching him with the whip, he dashed out of the yard. ben sprang forward to stop him; but he was too late. "get off that horse!" he screamed. "i will when i've had my ride," said john, turning back in his saddle. "now, prince, do your best." this last remark was of course addressed to the horse, who galloped up the street, john sitting on his back, with easy grace, as firmly as if rooted to the saddle; for john was an admirable horseman, having been in the habit of riding ever since he was ten years old. ben brayton looked after him with a face distorted with rage and envy. he would have given a great deal to ride as well as john; but he was but an indifferent horseman, being deficient in courage, and sitting awkwardly in the saddle. he shook his fist after john's retreating form, muttering between his teeth, "you shall pay for this impudence, john oakley, and that before you are twenty-four hours older! i'll see whether my mother will allow me to be insulted in this way!" sure of obtaining sympathy from his mother, he turned his steps towards the house, which he entered. "where's my mother?" he inquired of the servant. "she's upstairs in her own room, mr. benjamin," was the answer. ben hurried upstairs, and opened the door at the head of the staircase. it was a spacious chamber, covered with a rich carpet, and handsomely furnished. at the time of his mother's marriage to squire oakley, she had induced him to discard the old furniture, and refurnish it to suit her taste. there were some who thought that what had been good enough for the first mrs. oakley, who was an elegant and refined lady, ought to have been good enough for one, who, until her second marriage, had been a house-keeper. but, by some means,--certainly not her beauty, for she was by no means handsome,--she had acquired an ascendency over the squire, and he went to considerable expense to gratify her whim. mrs. oakley sat at the window, engaged in needlework. she was tall and thin, with a sallow complexion, and pale, colorless lips. her eyes were gray and cold. there was a strong personal resemblance between ben and herself, and there was reason to think that he was like her in his character and disposition as well as in outward appearance. she was dressed in black, for the husband who had just died. "why have you not gone out to ride, ben?" she asked, as her son entered the room. "because that young brute prevented me." "whom do you mean?" asked his mother. "i mean john oakley, of course." "how could he prevent you?" "he came up just as i was going to start, and told me to get off the horse,--that it was his." "and you were coward enough to do it?" said his mother, scornfully. "no. i told him it was not his any longer; that you had given it to me." "what did he say then?" "that you had no business to give it away, as it was his." "did he say that?" demanded mrs. oakley, her gray eyes flashing angrily. "yes, he did." "why didn't you ride off without minding him?" "because he took the horse by the bridle, and made him contrary; i didn't want to be thrown, so i jumped off." "did you have the whip in your hand?" "yes." "then why didn't you lay it over his back? that might have taught him better manners." "so i did." "you did right," said his mother, with satisfaction; for she had never liked her husband's son. his frank, brave, generous nature differed too much from her own to lead to any affection between them. she felt that he outshone her own son, and far exceeded him in personal gifts and popularity with the young people of the neighborhood, and it made her angry with him. besides, she had a suspicion that ben was deficient in courage, and it pleased her to think that he had on this occasion acted manfully. "then i don't see why you didn't jump on the horse again and ride away," she continued. "because," said ben, reluctantly, "john got the whip away from me." "did he strike you with it?" asked mrs. oakley, quickly. "yes," said ben, vindictively. "he struck me twice, the ruffian! but i'll be even with him yet!" "you shall be even with him," said mrs. oakley, pressing her thin lips firmly together. "but i'm ashamed of you for standing still and bearing the insult like a whipped dog." "i tried to get at him," said ben; "but he kept flourishing the whip, so that i couldn't get a chance." "where is he now?" "he's gone to ride." "gone to ride! you let him do it?" "i couldn't help it; he was too quick for me. he jumped on the horse before i knew what he was going to do, and dashed out of the yard at full speed." "he is an impertinent young rebel!" said mrs. oakley, angrily. "i am ashamed of you for letting him get the advantage of you; but i am very angry with him. so he said that i had no business to give you the horse, did he?" "yes; he has no more respect for you than for a servant," said ben, artfully, knowing well that nothing would be so likely to make his mother angry as this. having once been in a subordinate position, she was naturally suspicious, and apprehensive that she would not be treated with a proper amount of respect by those around her. it was ben's object to incense his mother against john, feeling that in this way he would best promote his own selfish ends. "so he has no respect for me?" exclaimed mrs. oakley, angrily. "none at all," said ben, decisively. "he says you have no right here, nor i either." this last statement was an utter fabrication, as ben well knew; for john, though he had never liked his father's second wife, had always treated her with the outward respect which propriety required. he was not an impudent nor a disrespectful boy; but he had a proper spirit, and did not choose to be bullied by ben, whom he would have liked if he had possessed any attractive qualities. it had never entered his mind to grudge him the equal advantages which squire oakley, for his mother's sake, had bestowed upon her son. he knew that his father was a man of property, and that there was enough for both. when, however, ben manifested a disposition to encroach upon his rights, john felt that the time for forbearance had ceased, and he gave him distinctly to understand that there was a limit beyond which he must not pass. very soon after ben first entered the family john gave him a thrashing,--in self-defence, however,--of which he complained to his mother. though very angry, she feared to diminish her influence with his father by moving much in the matter, and therefore contented herself by cautioning ben to avoid him as much as possible. "some time or other he shall be punished," she said; "but at present it is most prudent for us to keep quiet and bide our time." now, however, mrs. oakley felt that the power was in her own hands. she had no further necessity for veiling her real nature, or refraining from gratifying her resentment. the object for which she had schemed--her husband's property--was hers, and john oakley was dependent upon her for everything. if she treated him ungenerously, it would create unfavorable comments in the neighborhood; but for this she did not care. the property was hers by her husband's will, and no amount of censure would deprive her of it. she would now be able to enrich ben at john's expense, and she meant to do it. henceforth ben would be elevated to the position of heir, and john must take a subordinate position as a younger son, or, perhaps, to speak still more accurately, as a poor relation with a scanty claim upon her bounty. "i'll break that boy's proud spirit," she said to herself. "he has been able to triumph over ben; but he will find that i am rather more difficult to deal with." there was an expression of resolution upon her face, and a vicious snapping of the eyes, which boded ill to our hero. mrs. oakley undoubtedly had the power to make him uncomfortable, and she meant to do it, unless he would submit meekly to her sway. that this was not very likely may be judged from what we have already seen of him. mrs. oakley's first act was to bestow on ben the horse, prince, which had been given to john a year before by his father. john had been accustomed to take a daily ride on prince, whom he had come to love. the spirited horse returned his young master's attachment, and it was hard to tell which enjoyed most the daily gallop, the horse or his rider. to deprive john of prince was to do him a grievous wrong, since it was, of all his possessions, the one which he most enjoyed. it was the more unjustifiable, since, at the time prince had been bought for john, squire oakley, in a spirit of impartial justice, had offered to buy a horse for ben also; but ben, who had long desired to own a gold watch and chain, intimated this desire to his mother, and offered to relinquish the promised horse if the watch and chain might be given him. squire oakley had no objection to the substitution, and accordingly the same day that prince was placed in the stable, subject to john's control, a valuable gold watch and chain, costing precisely the same amount, was placed in ben's hands. ben was delighted with his new present, and put on many airs in consequence. now, however, he coveted the horse as well as the watch, and his mother had told him he might have it. but it seemed evident that john would not give up the horse without a struggle. ben, however, had enlisted his mother as his ally, and felt pretty confident of ultimate victory. chapter ii. john receives some professional advice. john oakley had triumphed in his encounter with ben brayton, and rode off like a victor. nevertheless he could not help feeling a little doubtful and anxious about the future. there was no doubt that ben would complain to his mother, and as it was by her express permission that he had taken the horse, john felt apprehensive that there would be trouble between himself and his stepmother. i have already said, that, though a manly boy, he was not quarrelsome. he preferred to live on good terms with all, not excepting ben and his mother, although he had no reason to like either of them. but he did not mean to be imposed upon, or to have his just rights encroached upon, if he could help it. what should he do if ben persevered in his claim and his mother supported him in it? he could not decide. he felt that he must be guided by circumstances. he could not help remembering how four years before mrs. brayton (for that was her name then) answered his father's advertisement for a house-keeper; how, when he hesitated in his choice, she plead her poverty, and her urgent need of immediate employment; and how, influenced principally by this consideration, he took her in place of another to whom he had been more favorably inclined. how she should have obtained sufficient influence over his father's mind to induce him to make her his wife after the lapse of a year, john could not understand. he felt instinctively that she was artful and designing, but his own frank, open nature could hardly be expected to fathom hers. he remembered again, how, immediately after the marriage, ben was sent for, and was at once advanced to a position in the household equal to his own. ben was at first disposed to be polite, and even subservient to himself, but gradually, emboldened by his mother's encouragement, became more independent, and even at times defiant. it was not, however, until now that he had actually begun to encroach upon john's rights, and assume airs of superiority. he had been feeling his way, and waited until it would be safe to show out his real nature. john had never liked ben,--nor had anybody else except his mother felt any attachment for him,--but he had not failed to treat him with perfect politeness and courtesy. though he had plenty of intimations from the servants and others that it was unjust to him that so much expense should be lavished upon ben, he was of too generous a nature to feel disturbed by it, or to grudge him his share of his father's bounty. "there's enough for both of us," he always said, to those who tried to stir up his jealousy. "but suppose your father should divide his property between you? how would you like to see ben brayton sharing the estate?" "if my father chooses to leave his property in that way, i shan't complain," said john. "fortunately there is enough for us both, and half will be enough to provide for me." but john had never anticipated such a contingency as ben and his mother claiming the whole property, and, frank and unsuspicious as he was, he felt that his father would never have left him so entirely dependent upon his stepmother unless improper means had been used to influence his decision. there was a particular reason which he had for thinking thus. it was this: three days before his father died, he was told by the servant, on entering the house, that the sick man wished to see him. of course he went up instantly to the chamber where, pale and wasted, squire oakley lay stretched out on the bed. he was stricken by a disease which affected his speech, and prevented him from articulating anything except in a whisper. he beckoned john to the bedside, and signed for him to place his ear close to his mouth. john did so. his father made a great effort to speak, but all that john could make out was, "my will." "your will, father?" he repeated. the sick man nodded, and tried to speak further. john thought he could distinguish the word "drawer," but was not certain. he was about to inquire further, when his stepmother entered the room, and looked at him suspiciously. "why have you come here to disturb your sick father?" she asked, coldly. "i did not come here to disturb him," said john. "i came because he wished to speak to me." "has he spoken to you?" she asked, hastily. "he tried to, but did not succeed." "you should not allow him to make the effort. it can only do him harm. the doctor says he must be kept very quiet. you had better leave the room. he is safest in my care." john did leave the room, and though he saw his father afterwards, it was always in his stepmother's presence, and he had no farther opportunity of communicating with him. he could not help thinking of this as he rode along, and wondering what it was that his father wished to say. he knew that it must be something of importance, from the evident anxiety which the dying man manifested to speak to him. but whatever it was must remain unknown. his father's lips were hushed in death, and with such a stepmother john felt himself worse than alone in the world. but he had a religious nature, and had been well trained in the sunday school, and the thought came to him that whatever trials might be in store for him he had at least one friend, higher than any earthly friend, to whom he might look for help and protection. plunged in thought, he had suffered prince to subside into a walk, when, all at once, he heard his name called. "hallo, john!" looking up, he saw sam selwyn, son of lawyer selwyn, and a classmate of his at the academy. "is that you, sam?" he said, halting his horse. "that is my impression," said sam, "but i began to think it wasn't just now, when my best friend seemed to have forgotten me." "i was thinking," said john, "and didn't notice." "where are you bound?" "nowhere in particular. i only came out for a ride." "you're a lucky fellow, john." "you forget, sam, the loss i have just met with;" and john pointed to his black clothes. "excuse me, john, you know i sympathize with you in that. but i'm very fond of riding, and never get any chance. you have a horse of your own." "just at present." "just at present! you're not going to lose him, are you?" "sam, i am expecting a little difficulty, and i shall feel better if i advise with some friend about it. you are my best friend in school, and i don't know but in the world, and i've a great mind to tell you." "i'll give you the best advice in my power, john, and won't charge anything for it either, which is more than my father would. you know he's a lawyer, and has to be mercenary. not that i ought to blame him, for that's the way he finds us all in bread and butter." "i'll turn prince up that lane and tie him, and then we'll lie down under a tree, and have a good talk." john did as proposed. prince began to browse, apparently well contented with the arrangement, and the two boys stretched themselves out lazily beneath a wide-spreading chestnut-tree, which screened them from the sun. "now fire away," said sam, "and i'll concentrate all my intellect upon your case gratis." "i told you that prince was mine for the present," commenced john. "i don't know as i can say even that. this afternoon when i got home i found ben brayton just about to mount him." "i hope you gave him a piece of your mind." "i ordered him off," said john, quietly, "when he informed me that the horse was his now,--that his mother had given it to him." "what did you say?" "that it was not hers to give. i seized the horse by the bridle, till he became alarmed and slid off. he then came at me with his riding-whip, and struck me." "i didn't think he had pluck enough for that. i hope you gave him as good as he sent." "i pulled the whip away from him, and gave him two blows in return. then watching my opportunity i sprang upon the horse, and here i am." "and that is the whole story?" "yes." "and you want my advice?" "yes." "then i'll give it. sink or swim, live or die, survive or perish, stick to that horse, and defy ben brayton to do his worst." "it seems to me i've heard part of that speech before," said john, smiling. "as to the advice, i'll follow it if i can. i'm not afraid of anything ben brayton can do; but suppose his mother takes his part?" "do you think she will?" "i am afraid she will." "then defy her too," said sam, hastily. "i don't know about that," said john. "i am only a boy of fifteen, and she is my father's widow. if she chooses to take the horse away, i don't know that i can do anything." "ben brayton is a mean rascal. didn't he get a gold watch at the same time that you got the horse?" "yes; he might have had a horse too, but he preferred the watch and chain. they cost as much as prince." "and now he wants the horse too?" "so it seems." "that's what i call hoggish. i only wish ben brayton would come to school, and sit next to me." "what for?" asked john, a little surprised at this remark. "wouldn't i stick pins into him, that's all. i'd make him yell like--a locomotive," said sam, the simile being suggested by the sound of the in-coming train. john laughed. "that's an old trick of yours," he said, "i remember you served me so once. and yet you profess to be my friend." "i didn't stick it in very far," said sam, apologetically; "it didn't hurt much, did it?" "didn't it though?" "well, i didn't mean to have it. maybe i miscalculated the distance." "it's all right, if you don't try it again. and now about the advice." "i wouldn't be imposed upon," said sam. "between you and me i don't think much of your stepmother." "nor she of you," said john, slyly. "i heard her say the other day that you were a disgrace to the neighborhood with your mischievous tricks." "that is the 'most unkindest' cut of all," said sam. "i'd shed a few tears if i hadn't left my handkerchief at home. i have a great mind to tell you something," he added, more gravely. "well?" said john, inquiringly. "it's something that concerns you, only i happened to overhear it, which isn't quite fair and aboveboard, i know. still i think i had better tell you. you know my father was your father's lawyer?" "yes." "well, he as well as everybody else was surprised at the will that left everything to your stepmother, only he had the best reason to be surprised. i was sitting out on our piazza when i heard him tell my mother that only three months ago your father came to his office, and had a will drawn up, leaving all the property to you, except the thirds which your stepmother was entitled to." "only three months ago?" said john, thoughtfully. "yes." "and did he take away the will with him?" "yes; he thought at first of leaving it in my father's charge, but finally decided to keep it himself." "what can have become of it? he must have destroyed it since." "my father doesn't think so," said sam. "what does he think?" "mind you don't say a word of what i tell you," said sam, lowering his voice. "he thinks that mrs. oakley has put it out of the way, in order to get hold of the whole property herself." "i can hardly think she would be so wicked," said john, shocked at the supposition. "isn't it easier to believe that of her, than to believe that your father would deal so unjustly by you?" "i won't call it unjustly, even if he has really left her the whole property," said john. "still, i was surprised at being left out of the will. besides," he added, with a sudden reflection, "there's something that makes me think that the will you speak of is still in existence." "what's that?" asked sam. in reply john gave the particulars of his father's attempt to communicate with him, and the few words he was able to make out. "i understand it all now," said sam, quickly. "then you're ahead of me." "it's plain as a pike-staff. your father hid the will, fearing that your stepmother would get hold of it and destroy it. he wanted to tell you where it was. do you know of any secret drawer in your house?" john shook his head. "there must be one somewhere. now, if you want my advice, i'll give it. just hunt secretly for the drawer, wherever you think it may possibly be, and if you find it, and the will in it, just bring it round to my father, and he'll see that justice is done you. come, i'm not a lawyer's son for nothing. what do you say?" "i shouldn't wonder if you were right, sam." "you may depend upon it i am. i'm your lawyer, remember, and you are my client. i give advice on the 'no cure no pay' system. if it don't amount to anything i won't charge you a cent." "and if it does?" "if you get your property by my professional exertions, i trust to your generosity to reward me." "all right, sam." "of course you won't let your stepmother suspect what you're after. otherwise she might get the start of you, and find it herself, and then much good it would do you." "i'm glad to think it is still in existence, and that she hasn't destroyed it." "she would if she could, you may depend on that." "well, sam, i'm much obliged to you for your advice. i think i must be going now." "well, good-by, old fellow. keep a stiff upper lip, and don't give up the ship--horsemanship, i mean. i must go round to the office, and see if father doesn't need a little professional assistance." john leaped on prince's back, and turned him in the direction of home. the revelation which sam had made gave a new direction to his thoughts. if his father had really intended to give him a share of the estate, he felt that he ought to have it, and determined to institute a search as cautiously as possible. driving into the yard he saw ben sitting sullenly on the door-step. he eyed john with no very friendly glance. "where've you been?" he demanded. "up the road," said john, briefly. "it's the last time you'll ride _my_ horse." "it's not your horse." "you'll find out whose horse it is," muttered ben. "i don't care about disputing with you," said john, quietly, turning towards the stable. "my mother wishes to see you at once; do you hear?" said ben, unpleasantly. "she's going to make you apologize to me for your impudence." "i'll go in and see her as soon as i have put the horse in the stable," john answered, quietly. "i hate that fellow," muttered ben, following our hero with lowering eyes; "he puts on too many airs altogether. but my mother'll fix him." chapter iii. john's troubles begin. after putting prince in the stable, john went into the house slowly, for he was in no hurry to anticipate what he feared would be an unpleasant interview. "where is mrs. oakley, jane?" he asked of a servant whom he met in the hall. "she's in the sitting-room, master john," said jane. "she wants to see you immediately." "very well; i'll go in." he heard steps behind him, and, turning, found that ben was following him. "he wants to hear me scolded," thought john. "however, i won't take any notice." mrs. oakley was sitting in a rocking-chair. she looked up with a frown as john entered. she had never liked him, but since ben had declared, falsely, as we know, that john had no more respect for her than a servant, this dislike was greatly increased. [illustration] she was inwardly determined to make his life as uncomfortable as possible. "well, sir," she said, "so you have come at last." "i came as soon as ben told me you wished to see me," said john. "i only waited till i had put my horse into the stable." "_his_ horse!" repeated ben, by way of calling his mother's attention to the claim to ownership expressed in those words. "i suppose i ought to consider it lucky that you paid any attention to my words," said mrs. oakley. "i hope i have not failed in proper respect," said john. "it was very respectful in you to ride off with the horse, when i had told ben he might use it." "it was my horse," said john, firmly. "if ben wanted it, he might ask me." "ask you, indeed!" repeated ben, scornfully; "you won't catch me doing that." "it was enough that i told him that he might ride. didn't he tell you that?" "yes." "then what right had you to refuse?" "the horse is mine," said john. "it was given me by my father." "he allowed you to use it." "he gave it to me. at the same time he gave ben a watch, which he is wearing now. he has no more right to demand my horse than i have to claim his watch." "you seem to forget," said mrs. oakley, coldly, "that your father saw fit to leave me his property. the horse forms a part of that property, and belongs to me, and it is for me to say who shall ride on it. ben, you may ride on the horse to-morrow." "do you hear that?" demanded ben, triumphantly, looking towards john. "i suppose," said john, quietly, "you will order ben to let me have his watch to-morrow." "i shall do no such thing," said mrs. oakley, sharply, "and it is impudent in you to ask such a thing." "i don't see why it isn't fair," said john. "it appears to me rather mean in ben to want both, and leave me neither." "that is for me to decide," said mrs. oakley. "there is one thing more i have to speak to you about. my son tells me you were brutal enough to strike him with the whip. do you deny that?" "i never deny what's true." "then you did strike him." "yes, i struck him twice." "and you have the impudence to stand there, and say it to my face!" "you asked me, and i have answered you. i don't see why that should be called impudent." "you glory in your disgraceful action," said mrs. oakley, sharply. "did ben tell you that he struck me first?" asked john. "i am very glad to hear it. it was what you deserved," said mrs. oakley. "then," said john, firmly, "i gave him what he deserved. you can't expect me to stand still and be struck without returning it." "the only fault i find with ben is, that he did not strike you more than once," said mrs. oakley, in an excited tone. john glanced from the mother to her son, who was evidently pleased with the reproaches john was receiving, and said, quietly:-"i think ben had better not attempt it." "what do you mean by that?" demanded mrs. oakley, quickly. "i don't want to strike ben, or injure him in any way," said john; "but i mean to defend myself if i am attacked." and ben, though he chose to sneer, knew very well that, quietly as john spoke, he was thoroughly in earnest, and would do precisely as he said. he knew very well, too, that, though he was older and taller than john, he would very likely be worsted in an encounter. he preferred, therefore, that his mother should fight his battles for him. "you hear, mother," he said. "he defies you. i knew he would. you remember what i told you." mrs. oakley did remember very well, and the recollection made her angry. "john oakley," she said, "you will find that it won't do to insult me." "i have no wish to insult you, mrs. oakley," said john. "i have not forgotten who you are, and i shall try to treat you accordingly." "what do you mean by that?" said mrs. oakley, turning pale with rage. she was misled by the statement ben had made, and she thought john referred to the fact that she had been his father's house-keeper,--a point on which she felt sensitive. "i mean," said john, a little surprised at this outburst, "that i have not forgotten that you are my father's widow, and as such are entitled to my respect." "was that what you meant?" asked mrs. oakley, suspiciously. "certainly," said john. "what else could i mean?" mrs. oakley turned to ben, who shrugged his shoulders, intimating that he did not believe it. "all very fine," said his mother, "but words are cheap. if you think i am entitled to your respect, you will do as i require. will you promise this?" "i would rather not promise," said john. "if it is anything i ought to do, i will do it." "it _is_ something you ought to do," said mrs. oakley. "what is it?" "i require you immediately to apologize to my son benjamin, for the blows you struck him with the whip this afternoon." "i cannot do this," said john, firmly. "why can't you do it?" "because i had a good reason for striking him. he ought to apologize to me for striking me first." "catch me doing it!" said ben, scornfully. "i have no fault to find with him for striking you," said mrs. oakley. "on the contrary, i think him perfectly justified in doing so. you forced him off the horse after i had given him permission to ride, and i should have been ashamed of him if he had not resisted. i am glad he gave you such a lesson." once more john looked at ben, and was not surprised to see the smile of triumph that rose to his face as he listened to these words of his mother. "well," said mrs. oakley, impatiently, "what have you to say?" "what can i say? you are determined to find me in the wrong." "it is because you _are_ wrong. i demand once more, john oakley, will you apologize to my son?" "i will not," said john, firmly. "please to remember that you are left dependent upon me, and that your future comfort will be a good deal affected by the way in which you decide." "whatever happens," said john, who partly understood the threat, "i refuse to apologize, unless--" "unless what?" "if ben will say that he is sorry that he struck me, i will say the same to him." "ben will do nothing of the kind," said mrs. oakley, promptly. "i should be ashamed of him if he did." "catch me apologizing to such a whipper-snapper as you!" muttered ben. "then i have no more to say," said john. "but i have," said mrs. oakley, angrily. "you have chosen to defy me to my face, but you will bitterly repent of it. i'll break your proud spirit for you!" john certainly did not feel very comfortable as he left the room. he was not afraid of what his stepmother could do, although he knew she could annoy him in many ways, but it was disagreeable to him to feel at variance with any one. "if my poor father had only lived," he thought, "how different all would have been!" but it was useless to wish for this. his father was no longer on earth to protect and shield him from the malice of ben and his mother. trials awaited him, but he determined to be true to himself, and to the good principles which he had been taught. as for mrs. oakley, having once resolved to annoy john, she lost no time in beginning her persecutions. she had a small, mean nature, and nothing was too petty for her to stoop to. john and ben had been accustomed to occupy bedrooms on the second floor, very prettily furnished, and alike in every respect. it had been the policy of squire oakley to treat the two boys precisely alike, although ben had no claim upon him, except as the son of the woman whom he had married. now that he was dead, mrs. oakley determined that ben should occupy a superior position, and should be recognized throughout the house as the eldest son and heir. after her unsatisfactory interview with john, just described, in which he had refused to apologize, she summoned jane, and said:-"jane, you may remove john's clothes from the bedchamber where he has slept to the attic room next to your own." "is master john going to sleep there?" asked jane, in amazement. "certainly." "and shall i move master ben's things upstairs, also?" "of course not," said mrs. oakley, sharply. "what made you think of such a thing?" "beg pardon, ma'am; but who is going to have master john's room?" "you ask too many questions, jane. it is no concern of yours that i am aware of." jane did not venture to reply, but went out muttering:-"it's a shame, so it is, to put master john upstairs in that poor room, while ben stays downstairs. he's a young reprobate, so he is, just for all the world, like his mother." the fact was, that john was a favorite in the house, and ben was not. the latter was in the habit of domineering over the servants, and making all the trouble in his power, while john was naturally considerate, and always had a pleasant word for them. however, mrs. oakley's commands must be obeyed, and jane, much against her will, found herself obliged to remove john's things to the attic. she found john already in his chamber. "excuse me, master john," she said, "but i have orders to move your things up to the attic." "what!" exclaimed john, in amazement. jane repeated her words. "did mrs. oakley tell you to do that?" "yes, master john, and a shame it is." "is ben to go up into the attic too?" "the mistress said no." "wait a minute, jane; i'll go and speak to mrs. oakley." john went downstairs, and found his stepmother in the room where he had left her. "may i speak to you a moment, mrs. oakley?" he said. "have you come to apologize for your impertinence to me, and your rudeness to my son?" "no, i have not," said john. "then i don't care to speak to you." "excuse me, mrs. oakley, but jane tells me that you have ordered her to remove my things to the attic." "well?" "is ben to go into the attic too?" "no, he is not." "then why are you driving me from my room?" "you seem to forget that you are only a boy. this house is mine, and i shall make what arrangements i please." "the room in the attic is not nearly as good as my present room." "it is good enough for you." "i am willing to go up there if ben goes up, but i claim to be treated as well as he." "ben is older than you. besides, he is respectful and dutiful, while you are impertinent and disobedient. i shall treat you as well as you deserve." "why did you not make this change while my father was alive, mrs. oakley?" said john, significantly. mrs. oakley colored, for she understood very well the meaning of this question. "i do not intend to be catechised by you," she said, sharply. "i intend to do what i please in my own house, and i shall not submit to have my arrangements questioned." "may i ask how my room is going to be used?" said john, who wanted to be sure whether his stepmother had any motive for the change except hostility to himself. "no, you may not ask," she said, angrily; "or if you do, you need not expect any answer. and now i will thank you to leave the room, as i have something else to do besides answering impertinent questions." there was nothing more to say, and john left the room. "well, master john," said jane, who had waited till his return, "what will i do?" "you may move the things upstairs, jane," said john. "it's a shame," said jane, warmly. "never mind, jane," said john. "i don't like it much myself, but i dare say it'll all come out right after a while. i'll help you with that trunk. it's rather heavy to carry alone." "thank you, master john. ben wouldn't offer to help if he saw me breakin' my back under it. it's easy to see which is the gentleman." the room to which john's things were removed was uncarpeted, the floor being painted yellow. it had been used during squire oakley's life by a boy who was employed to run errands, but who had been dismissed by mrs. oakley, who was disposed to be economical and save his wages. the bed was a common cot bedstead, comfortable indeed, but of course quite inferior to the neat french bed in which john had been accustomed to sleep. there was a plain pine table and bureau, in which john stored his things. there was a small cracked mirror, and a wash-stand with the paint rubbed off in spots. altogether it was hardly suitable for a gentleman's son to sleep in. john, however, was not proud, and would not have minded if there had not been malice on the part of his stepmother. he had scarcely got moved when a step was heard on the attic stairs, and ben came up to enjoy the sight of john's humiliation. "so you've got a new room, john?" he said, smiling maliciously. "so it seems," said john, quietly. "i'm sorry to lose so agreeable a neighbor," he continued. "are you?" said john, looking at him searchingly. "but you'll be more at home up here," said ben. "what do you mean by that?" "i mean it's more suitable for you." "ben brayton," said john, his eyes flashing, "if you have come up here to insult me, the sooner you go down the better. your mother has moved me up here, for what reason i don't know. the only satisfaction i have in the change is, that it removes me further from you." "you're uncommon polite since you've moved into this elegant apartment," said ben, tauntingly. "elegant or not, it is mine, and i want it to myself," said john. "leave the room!" he advanced towards ben as he spoke. ben thought a moment of standing his ground, but there was something in john's eye that looked threatening, and he concluded that it would be the best policy to obey. with a parting taunt he backed out of the chamber, and john was left to himself. chapter iv. ben brayton's ride. john took his place at the supper-table as usual; but neither mrs. oakley nor ben, though they spoke freely to each other, had a word to say to him. if john had been conscious of deserving such neglect, he would have felt disturbed; but as he felt that all the blame for what had occurred rested with ben and his mother, he ate with his usual appetite, and did not appear in the least troubled by their silence, nor by the scornful looks which from time to time mrs. oakley directed towards him. after supper he went up into his little room, and prepared his lesson in virgil for the next day. he was at the head of his class, and was resolved to let no troubles at home interfere with his faithful preparation of his lessons. ben did not attend school. in fact, he was not very partial to study, and though squire oakley had offered to bear his expenses at the academy, and afterwards at college, ben had persuaded his mother that his health was not firm enough to undertake a long course of study. while, therefore, john was occupied daily for several hours at the academy, ben had lived like a gentleman of leisure, spending considerable time at the billiard rooms in the village, and in lounging on the hotel piazza. he managed to get through considerable money, but his mother had always kept him well supplied. although he did not wish to go to college himself, he did not fancy the idea of john's going, since this would increase the superiority of the latter over him. he knew very well that a liberal education would give john a certain position and influence which he was not likely to attain, and he determined to prevent his obtaining it. when, therefore, john had gone to school the next morning, ben attacked his mother on the subject. "are you going to send john to college, mother?" he asked. "why do you ask?" "because i don't want him to go." "why not?" "he'll put on no end of airs if he goes, and turn up his nose at me, because i don't happen to know so much about latin and greek, and such rigmarole." "i wish you would make up your mind to go to college, ben," said his mother, earnestly, for she was very ambitious for her son. "it's of no use, mother. i'm seventeen, and it would take three years to get ready, and hard study at that." "you have studied latin already." "i don't remember anything about it. i should have to begin all over again." "well," said mrs. oakley, reluctantly giving up the idea, "you might study law without going to college." "i don't think i should like to be a lawyer. it's too hard work." "you needn't be, but you could go to the law school, and study long enough to get a degree. you would make some aristocratic acquaintances, and it would be an honorable profession to belong to." "well," said ben, "i don't know but i'll enter the law school in a year, or two. there is no hurry. i suppose you'll give me enough money so that i won't have to earn my living? i say, mother, how much property did old oakley leave?" considering the obligations under which mrs. oakley was placed to her late husband it might have been supposed that she would reprove ben for the disrespectful manner in which he spoke of him; but, as may be guessed, she cared nothing for her husband, except for what she could get out of him, and was not in the least disturbed by the manner in which ben referred to him. "this house and the land around it," she said, "are estimated at ten thousand dollars. there are, besides, stocks, bonds, and mortgages to the amount of fifty thousand dollars." "sixty thousand dollars in all!" exclaimed ben, his eyes sparkling. "you're quite a rich woman, mother." "yes," said mrs. oakley, complacently, "i suppose i am." "it's a little different from when you came here four years ago on a salary of twenty dollars a month. you were pretty hard up, then." "yes, ben, but we can hold up our heads with anybody now." "i say, mother," said ben, persuasively, "as i'm your only son, i think you might give me ten thousand dollars right out. you'd have fifty thousand left." mrs. oakley shook her head. "you're too young, ben," she said. "some time or other you shall be well provided for." "i'm seventeen," grumbled ben. "i'm old enough to look after property." "i'll tell you what i'll do, ben," said mrs. oakley. "i will give you an allowance of ten dollars a week from now till you are twenty-one. then, if you behave well, i will make over to you twenty thousand dollars." "you might say thirty. you're not saving a third for john oakley, are you?" mrs. oakley's face hardened. "no," she said; "he's been too insolent to me. i suppose i must give him something, but he shall never have a third." "five hundred dollars will be enough for him," said ben, with contemptible meanness, considering that but for the accident of his father's second marriage the whole property--one hundred and twenty times as much--would have gone to john. "i can't tell you how much he will get," said mrs. oakley. "it depends on how he behaves. if he had treated us with greater respect, his chances would be a great deal better." "he's a proud upstart!" "but his pride shall be broken. i'm determined upon that." "then you won't send him to college? that would make him prouder still. besides," added ben, his habitual meanness suggesting the thought, "it costs a good deal to keep a fellow at college." "no," said mrs. oakley, "he shan't go to college." "good!" said ben, his eyes sparkling; "that will be a bitter pill for him, for he wants to go." "how soon would he be ready?" "in about a year." "you may set your mind at rest on that point. he shan't go." "all right, mother. when are you going to pay me my allowance?" he said, insinuatingly. mrs. oakley took out her purse, and placed a ten-dollar bill in his hand. "that's for the first week," she said. "couldn't you make it fifteen, mother?" "no, ten must do for the present." "are you going to allow john anything?" "he doesn't deserve anything. when he does, i will allow him fifty cents a week." ben strolled over to the billiard rooms, and spent the forenoon playing billiards with another young fellow as idle and unpromising as himself. he then walked over to the hotel, and bought a dozen cigars, one of which he began to smoke. at one o'clock he returned home to dinner. john was not present at this meal. the intermission between morning and afternoon schools at the academy was but an hour, and he had been accustomed to carry his lunch with him. he was not released until four o'clock in the afternoon. "well, mother," said ben, "how about the horse? are you going to give up to john?" "certainly not; you may consider the horse yours," said mrs. oakley. "john'll make a fuss." "let him," said mrs. oakley. "he'll find that i can make a fuss too." "i'll go out to ride this afternoon," said ben, with satisfaction. "i'll get started just before four o'clock, so as to meet john on his way from school. he'll look mad enough when he sees me;" and ben laughed, as he fancied john's looks. "it is a very good plan," said mrs. oakley, approvingly. "we'll see if he dares to interfere with you again." the more ben thought of it, the better he was pleased with this plan. all the academy boys knew that the horse was john's, and they would now see him upon it. he would be likely to meet many of them, and this would make john's humiliation the greater. at half-past three he went out to the barn. "mike," he said, to the hostler, "you may saddle prince. i am going to ride out." "master john's horse?" "no, _my_ horse." "your horse, sir? prince belongs to master john." "how dare you stand there contradicting me?" said ben, haughtily. "the horse is mine. my mother has given it to me." "it's a shame, then," said mike to himself, "for master john sets a sight by that horse. the old woman's mighty queer." it was lucky for mike that mrs. oakley was not aware of the disrespectful term applied to her in mike's thoughts, or he would probably have been discharged at short notice. but the fact was, that none of the servants liked her. feeling a little doubtful of her own position, she always spoke to them in a haughty tone, as if they were far beneath her, and this, instead of increasing their respect, only diminished it. mike saddled prince, and led him out into the yard. "you must be careful, master ben," he said. "the horse has got a spirit of his own, and he isn't used to you." ben was a poor horseman, and he knew it; but he was too proud to admit it to mike. "don't trouble yourself," he said, haughtily. "if john can manage him, i can." "he's used to master john." "well, he's got to get used to me," said ben. "if he don't behave well it will be the worse for him. you haven't given me the whip." "you'd better not use it much, master ben. he won't stand a whip very well." "keep your advice till it is asked for," said ben. "all right, sir," said mike, and handed him the whip. he followed him with his eyes as he rode out of the yard. "he don't sit like master john. it wouldn't take much to throw him off. however, i've warned him, and he must have his own way if he breaks his neck." although ben had spurned mike's warning with so much disdain, he thought of it as he rode up the street, and let prince take his own gait. the truth was, he did not feel very secure in his seat, and did not feel very much confidence in his own horsemanship. indeed, he would not have cared to ride out this afternoon, but for the anticipated pleasure of mortifying john. he rode leisurely along, taking the direction of the academy, which was nearly a mile distant. he looked at his watch, and estimated that he would meet the pupils of the academy as they emerged from school. he was right in his reckoning. at precisely four o'clock there was a bustle about the doors, and with merry shouts the boys poured out into the street. among them were john oakley and sam selwyn, who, as intimate friends and classmates, generally were found in company. they turned up the street which led by mr. selwyn's office, and in the direction of john oakley's home. "john," said sam, suddenly, "i do believe that is ben brayton riding on your horse." john looked up the street, and saw that sam was right. "you are right, sam," he said. "did you tell him he might ride on it?" "no." "then what business has he with it?" "his mother told him he might take it. she has taken it from me." "she's an old--" "don't call names, sam. i'll tell you more about it another time." meanwhile ben had seen the boys coming from the academy. among others he recognized john and sam, and his eyes flashed with anticipated triumph. hitherto he had been content to let the horse go on at his own rate, but now he thought it was time to make a display. he thought it would annoy john to have him dash by at gallant speed, while he, the rightful owner, was obliged to stand out of the path, unable to interfere. he therefore brought the whip down with considerable emphasis upon prince's side. unfortunately he had not foreseen the consequences of the blow. prince took the bit between his teeth, and darted forward with reckless speed, while ben, seeing his mistake too late, pale and terrified, threw his arms around the horse's neck, and tried to keep his seat. john started forward, also in alarm, for though he had no reason to like ben, he did not want him to be hurt, and called "prince!" the horse recognized his master's voice, and stopped suddenly,--so suddenly that ben was thrown off, and landed in a puddle of standing water in a gully by the side of the road. prince stopped quietly for his master to come up. "are you hurt, ben?" asked john, hurrying up. ben rose from the puddle in sorry plight. he was only a little bruised, but he was drenched from head to foot with dirty water, and patches of yellow mud adhered to his clothes. "you did this!" he said, furiously to john. "you are entirely mistaken. i hope you are not hurt," said john, calmly. "you frightened the horse on purpose." "that's a lie, ben," said sam, indignantly. "it's a lie, and you know it." "i understand it all. you don't deceive me," said ben, doggedly. "will you ride home?" asked john. ben refused. in fact, he was afraid to trust himself again on prince's back. "then i suppose i must." and john sprang lightly upon the horse's back, and rode towards home, followed by ben in his soiled clothes. mrs. oakley, looking from her window, beheld, with wondering anger, john riding into the yard, and her son following in his soiled clothes. "what's he been doing to ben?" she thought, and hurried downstairs in a furious rage. chapter v. ben is comforted. "what have you been doing to my son, you young reprobate?" demanded mrs. oakley of john. her hands trembled convulsively with passion, as if she would like to get hold of our hero, and avenge ben's wrongs by inflicting punishment on the spot. john was silent. "why don't you speak, you young rascal?" demanded mrs. oakley, furiously. "i am neither a reprobate nor a rascal, mrs. oakley," said john, calmly, "and i do not choose to answer when addressed in that way." "ben," said mrs. oakley, turning to her son, "what has he done to you? how happens it that you come home in such a plight?" "i was thrown over the horse's head into a mud-puddle," said ben. "didn't _he_ have anything to do with it?" asked mrs. oakley, determined to connect john with ben's misfortune, if possible. "he spoke to the horse," said ben. "and then he threw you?" "yes." ben answered thus, being perfectly willing that his mother should charge his fall upon john, as this would create additional prejudice between them. it was contemptible meanness on his part, but meanness was characteristic of him, and he had no hesitation in stooping to falsehood, direct or indirect, if by so doing he could compass his object. "it is as i thought," said mrs. oakley, thinking it unnecessary to inquire further. "of course, as soon as you were thrown, he jumped on the horse and rode home. you're carrying matters with a high hand, young man; but you'll find that i'm your match. get off that horse, directly." "that was my intention," said john. "i am sorry, mrs. oakley," he continued, "that ben has not seen fit to give you a correct account of what has happened. if he had, it would have been unnecessary for me to speak." "it is unnecessary for you to speak now, john oakley," said his stepmother, sharply. "do you mean to charge my son with telling a falsehood? if that is the case, take care what you say." "ben has not told a falsehood, but he is trying to make you believe that i caused his fall." "i have no doubt you did." "then you are mistaken. why didn't he tell you that when i first saw the horse he was running at great speed, in consequence of ben's having imprudently struck him severely with the whip? he is a spirited horse, and won't stand the whip." "he is like you in that, i suppose," said mrs. oakley, sneering. "he _is_ like me in that," said john, quietly. "you would both be better if you had to stand it," said his stepmother, angrily. john did not see fit to reply to this. "is this true, ben?" she asked. "yes," said ben, reluctantly. "i struck the horse; but it was not till john spoke to him that he threw me off." "so i supposed," said mrs. oakley, significantly. "i see, mrs. oakley," said john, "you are determined to find me guilty of causing ben's fall. if i could be mean enough to do such a thing, and so risk his life, i should despise myself. prince was rushing up the street with tremendous speed, and i was frightened at ben's danger; i called out to prince, but he stopped so suddenly that ben was thrown into the puddle, or he might have been seriously hurt." there was so much sincerity in what john said, that mrs. oakley, though very much against her will, could hardly help believing him. determined, however, to make out a case against him, she said:-"as soon as you saw him off, you jumped on the horse and rode home, leaving him to get home as he could. that was a very generous and noble thing to do!" "ask ben if i did not ask him to ride home," said john. ben, in answer to his mother's glance, said, rather unwillingly:-"yes, he asked me to ride home, but he knew i wouldn't after being thrown once. i won't get on the brute's back again, i promise you." mrs. oakley was disappointed to find that the case she was trying to make out against john had failed at all points, and that he was cleared even by the testimony of her principal witness. "you had better come in and change your clothes, ben," she said. "i am afraid you will take cold. and do you"--turning to john--"take the horse round to the stable. he's an ugly brute, and i'll take care that he doesn't endanger your life any more." john led prince round to the stable, and delivered him into the hands of mike. "where's master ben?" inquired mike. "he got thrown off." "i thought how it would be," said mike. "he can't ride no more'n a stick. i told him not to take the whip, but he wouldn't heed a word i said." "that's how he got thrown. he struck the horse violently, and he was running away with him when he heard my voice and stopped." "did master ben get hurt?" "not much. he fell into a puddle, and dirtied his clothes." "maybe he'll be wiser next time." "he says he won't ride prince again." "all the better for you, master john." "i don't know, mike," said john, soberly. "i'm afraid mrs. oakley will sell him. she says he is an ugly brute, and she won't have any more lives endangered." "ugly brute!" repeated mike, indignantly. "there's not a bit of ugliness about him. he wants to be treated well, and i'd like to know who don't. and he's so attached to you, master john!" "yes, mike, it'll be hard to part with him." and john's lips quivered as he looked with affection at the noble horse, to which he had become much attached. besides, it was his father's gift, and as such had an additional value for him, as, owing to his disinheritance, he had nothing else of value by which he could remember the parent whose loss he was made to feel more and more, as his stepmother's injustice and harsh treatment, and ben's meanness and hostility served daily to increase. it almost seemed to him as if prince was the only friend he had left, and that he must be parted even from him. meanwhile ben was changing his clothes in his room. the adventure which had just happened to him did not make him feel very pleasant. in the first place, it is rather disagreeable to be thrown violently into a puddle of dirty water, and ben might be excused for not liking that. ben's pride was touched, since it had been demonstrated in the most public manner that he could not manage prince, while it was well known that john could. ben knew boys well enough to feel sure that he would be reminded from time to time of his adventure, and he did not like to be laughed at. why was it that john always seemed to get the better of him? he went out expressly to triumph over john in presence of his schoolmates, and this had been the humiliating result. "why was i such a fool as to use the whip?" thought ben, vexed with himself. "if it had not been for that, it would have been all right." but he had used the whip, and it was all wrong. as to using the horse any more, he did not care to do it. to tell the truth, ben, who, as we know, was not very courageous, was afraid of prince. he suspected that the horse would remember the blow he had given him, and would be likely to serve him the same trick the next time he mounted him. so he resolved that he would never ride out on prince again; but he was equally anxious that john should also be prevented from using him. the words that his mother had last used led him to hope that she would agree to sell him, and, what was still more important in his eyes, _give him the money_ resulting from the sale. under these circumstances the triumph would still be his, and he would enjoy john's grief for the loss of his horse. when ben descended from his chamber, in a clean suit, he found that his mother had taken measures to console him for his mortifying adventure. the tea-table was spread, and two or three delicacies such as he particularly liked were set before his plate. ben surveyed this with satisfaction, for he was something of a gourmand. "i thought you might be hungry, ben," said his mother; "so i got some of that marmalade that you like so well, and here is some hot mince-pie." "that's just what i like, mother." "we will sit down at once. john can come when he gets ready." "what are you going to do about that horse, mother?" asked ben, rather indistinctly, for his mouth was full. "i did intend to keep him for your use; but if he is likely to play such tricks as he has to-day, i suppose i had better sell him." "yes, mother, sell him. i'll never mount such a vicious brute again, and i suppose you won't keep him just for john's use." "of course not. it costs considerable to keep a horse. besides, he'd be flinging out that he could manage the horse, and you couldn't." "of course he would. but the horse is used to him, you know, and that is why he doesn't find any trouble with him. but you gave me the horse, you know, mother." "but you don't want him." "no, i don't; but i suppose you'll give me the money you sell him for." "i don't know about that," said mrs. oakley, hesitatingly. "he cost a hundred and fifty dollars. that is too much money for you to have." "why is it?" said ben. "i give you ten dollars a week now." "yes; but that goes for small expenses. if i wanted now to buy anything expensive, i couldn't do it." "what is there you want?" "i don't know yet," said ben; "i haven't thought, but i should like to have the money." mrs. oakley still hesitated. "i know it would make john awful mad," said ben, cunningly appealing to his mother's hatred of our hero, "to think that prince was sold, and that i had the money. perhaps it's that you're thinking of. but i didn't suppose you'd be influenced by anything he could say or do." "john may be angry or not; it is entirely indifferent to me," said mrs. oakley, falling into the trap laid for her. "i was only thinking whether it would be well for you. i don't know but i will let you have the money,--that is, i will put it in the savings-bank in your name, and you can let me know when you want to use it, and what for." "all right," said ben, who determined that when he once got hold of the money he would not consult anybody as to its disposal. "when will you sell it, mother?" "to-morrow, perhaps. i hear that mr. barnes, the livery stable-keeper, has just lost a valuable horse. perhaps he may like to buy it." "he'll buy it fast enough," said ben. "i heard him say the other day that he should like to have prince. he likes fast horses. how surprised john will be when he comes home, and finds prince is missing!" ben laughed as he fancied john's anger, and this thought, together with the money which would so soon be placed to his account, quite restored his spirits, somewhat to john's surprise, who did not understand the reasons which he had for being cheerful. so prince's fate was decided, and a new trial awaited john. chapter vi. open hostilities. from his early boyhood john had been intended by his father to receive a collegiate education. if he should acquit himself with credit in college, he was afterwards to have his choice of studying a profession, or entering mercantile life. at the age of eleven he commenced latin at the academy, and two years afterwards greek, and in these he had advanced so far that in a year he would be qualified to enter college. there were six boys in the preparatory class to which he belonged, among them being sam selwyn, his intimate friend, who has already been introduced to the reader. from the first john had stood at the head of the class, both in latin and greek, sam ranking second. although they were rivals in scholarship, there had never been the shadow of a difference between them arising from this cause. both were of a generous nature, and were strongly attached to each other, and it had long been understood between them that when admitted to college they would room together. john had often talked with his father about going to college, and squire oakley had strong hopes of john's maintaining a high position in his college class, and doing him credit at the institution where he had himself graduated. this made it all the more remarkable that john's interests had been so entirely neglected in the disposition of his property made by his will. as john was on his way to school, on the morning succeeding ben's fall from the horse, he was overtaken by sam selwyn. "how's your amiable brother this morning, john?" asked sam. "meaning ben?" "of course. i hope his health hasn't suffered seriously from his unexpected bath. poor fellow! he had a pretty good fright." "yes, i don't think he'll trouble prince very soon again." "i shan't soon forget how frightened he looked with both arms around the horse's neck. i should have felt like laughing, only i was afraid he might come to harm. now you'll have prince to yourself." "i don't know about that, sam. i rather think, from something mrs. oakley said, that she means to sell prince." "sell _your_ horse!" exclaimed sam, indignantly. "she says it isn't mine. she's given it to ben. as ben don't dare to use it, i am afraid prince will have to go," said john, sadly. "i wouldn't stand it!" exclaimed sam, in excitement. "it's an imposition." "but what can i do?" "the horse is yours." "not legally, i am afraid. i can't prove it, and mrs. oakley says it was only mine to use." "whether you can prove it or not, the horse is yours, and i say it will be an outrageous thing if it is sold. at any rate you ought to demand the money that is received for it." "i'll tell you what i have made up my mind to do. mrs. oakley may say that the horse is expensive to keep, but as ben received a watch and chain at the same time i got the horse, it is only fair that i should have a watch in place of it, if it is sold." "of course, that is only reasonable." "not that a watch would pay me for the loss of prince. i'd rather have him than three watches; but it doesn't cost anything to keep a watch." "that's true; but i hope you'll be able to keep the horse." "so do i," said john; but he had very little expectation of it. "well, there's hope ahead, old fellow," said sam, cheerfully. "next year we'll enter college, and then you'll be out of the way of master ben and your kind stepmother, for forty weeks in the year, at any rate." "i hope so," said john, slowly. "you _hope so_?" repeated sam. "you don't expect mrs. oakley will remove to cambridge, so that you may still be favored with her charming company?" "i don't feel sure of going to cambridge myself," said john, soberly. "you don't mean to say you're afraid you won't pass the examination? if you don't, there'll be precious little chance for the rest of us." "that isn't what i mean," said john. "i think i should pass the examination. at any rate i am not afraid of it." "what _are_ you afraid of then?" asked sam, in surprise. "i am afraid mrs. oakley won't let me go." "but your father always meant you to go. she knows that." "yes, she knows it, for father used often to refer to the time when i would be in college, in her presence. but i am afraid that won't make much difference with her." "has she said anything about it?" "no, not yet; but it will cost considerable to keep me at cambridge." "well, your father left a good deal of property." "yes; but it was left to mrs. oakley." "there's enough to pay your expenses at college, and maintain mrs. oakley and ben handsomely." "i know that, but i am sorry to say that mrs. oakley and ben both dislike me, and it will be reason enough with them to keep me at home because they know i am anxious to go." "it's a burning shame," said sam, indignantly, "that such a woman as that should have the control over you. as for ben brayton, i always did despise him. he's a mean fellow, and a coward to boot." "i don't like ben much," said john. "and he returns the compliment." "yes, he has taken a dislike to me, i don't know why, for i have always treated him well, though i couldn't like him." "i say, john," said sam, "if you don't go to college, it'll knock all my plans into a cocked hat. you were to room with me, you know." "yes, sam, i have been looking forward to that a long time." "what a jolly time we should have! i shan't have half so much pleasure in going to college if you don't go with me. you're such a good scholar, too, it would be a great pity. but perhaps it may not be so bad as you think. mrs. oakley may be only too glad to get rid of you." by this time they had reached the door of the academy. the bell sounded, summoning the pupils to their morning exercises, and john and sam had other things to think of, for a while at least. at the close of the afternoon john returned home. he went into the house to carry his virgil and greek reader, being accustomed to prepare a part of his lessons out of school. on going out into the yard, he saw ben lounging lazily against a fence, whittling. "are you going out to ride, john?" he asked, in an unusually friendly tone. "i think i will ride a little way," said john. "i got enough of it yesterday," said ben. "you were unlucky. if you had not struck prince it would have been all right." "i don't care about trying it again. i hope you'll have a pleasant ride." "thank you," said john, unsuspiciously. he went out to the barn, and opened the door that led to the stables. he made his way at once to prince's stall, and looked in. _it was empty!_ surprised, but not yet suspecting what had really happened, he called out to mike, whom he saw outside:-"where's prince, mike?" "shure, sir, didn't you know he was sold?" "sold? when?" "this morning, master john." "who bought him?" "mr. barnes, the man that keeps the livery stable. he was here this morning. he and the mistress came in, and they soon struck a bargain." john's heart swelled with anger and sorrow, but he asked, calmly:-"do you know what price mr. barnes gave for prince?" "yes, master john; i heard him say that he would give one hundred and ninety dollars. the mistress wanted two hundred; but she finally let him have prince at that, and a good bargain it is to him too." john left the stable outwardly calm, but much disturbed in mind. "mrs. oakley might at least have let me know what she meant to do," he said, bitterly. "my poor father's gift too." ben waited for john's return with malicious interest. he wanted to witness and enjoy his disappointment. "i thought you were going to ride?" he said, with a smile of mockery. "can you tell me where your mother is?" asked john, coldly. "she's in the house, i suppose. do you want to see her?" "yes." john entered the house without taking any further notice of ben. he found his stepmother in the sitting-room. she looked up, as he entered, with a glance of satisfaction, for she saw that she had made him unhappy. "mike tells me you have sold prince, mrs. oakley," he commenced. "yes. what of it?" "as he was my horse, i think you might have let me know what you intended to do." "prince was not your horse," she said, sharply. "he was my poor father's gift to me." "nonsense! he merely let you call him yours. the horse was mine." "he was as much mine as ben's watch is his. are you going to sell ben's watch?" "no, i am not. if that is all you have to say, you may leave the room." "it is not. i will not object to your selling the horse, because it would cost something to keep him; but it is only fair that the money for which he was sold should be given to me, or enough to buy a watch and chain like ben's." "you are very modest in your expectations, young man," sneered mrs. oakley. "i'm only asking what is just." "you seem to forget whom you are speaking to. if you think you can bully me, you will find yourself entirely mistaken." "i am not in the habit of bullying anybody. i only want my rights," said john. "then you'll have to want. you may as well understand, first as last, john oakley,"--and his stepmother raised her voice angrily,--"that i am mistress in this house, and owner of this property. you are entirely dependent upon me for the bread you eat and the clothes you wear, and it will be prudent for you to treat me respectfully, if you want any favors. do you understand that?" "i understand what you say, mrs. oakley," said john, indignantly. "you seem to have forgotten that every cent of this property belonged to my father, and would now be mine, if my father had not married you. you had better remember _that_, when you talk about my being dependent upon you, and favor ben at my expense." mrs. oakley turned white with rage. "what do you mean by your impertinence, you young rascal?" she shrieked, rising to her feet, and glaring at john. "i mean this," he exclaimed, thoroughly provoked, "that i don't believe my father ever intended to leave you all his property. i believe there is another will somewhere, and i mean to find it." "leave the room!" exclaimed mrs. oakley, in a voice almost inarticulate with rage. "you'll repent those words, john oakley. you're in my power, and i'll make you feel it." john left the room, his anger hot within him. when he reflected coolly upon what had passed, he did repent having spoken about the will. it might set mrs. oakley upon the track, and if she found it, he feared that she would have no scruples in destroying it, and then his last chance of obtaining his rights would be gone. chapter vii. mrs. oakley decides what to do. mrs. oakley was not only angry, but very much disturbed at the words which john had imprudently uttered. they startled her, because they intimated john's suspicion of something which she had good reason for knowing to be a fact. mrs. oakley knew that her husband had executed a later will, and, though she did not know where it was, she believed it still to be in existence! the will under which she inherited bore a date only two months after her marriage with squire oakley. she had cunningly influenced him to make it. he did so without proper consideration, and gave the will into her custody. but, though his wife carefully concealed from him her real character, she could not do so entirely. little things, which came under his observation, led him to believe that she entertained a secret dislike for john, and, only three months before his death, squire oakley, to protect john's interests, made a second will, which superseded the first, and limited his wife to that portion of his property which she could legally claim,--that is, one third. he did not see fit to apprise his wife of this step. but she was watchful and observant, and something led her to suspect what had been done. she determined to find out secretly, and with this end went to the desk where her husband kept his private papers, one day when she supposed him to be absent, and began to search for the suspected will. after a while she found it, and, spreading it open, began to read:-"i, henry oakley, being of sound mind," etc. she had read so far, when a heavy hand was laid upon her shoulder. turning with a start, she saw her husband, his face dark with anger, looking sternly at her. "give me that document, mrs. oakley," he said, abruptly. she did not dare do otherwise than obey. "by what right do you come here to pry into my private papers?" he demanded. "i am your wife," she said. "that is true. you are my wife; but that does not authorize your stealing in here like a thief, and secretly examining papers, which would have been shown you if they had been intended for your eyes." "does not that paper relate to me?" she asked, boldly. "it relates to my property." "it is your will." "yes." "and it makes the one which i hold of no value." "it does." "so you are secretly plotting against my interests," she said, angrily. "i suspected as much, and i determined to find out." "the will of which you speak never ought to have been made. it disinherits my son, and places him in your power." "could you not trust me to provide for him?" asked mrs. oakley. "i fear not," said her husband. and her eyes fell before his steady glance. she felt that she was better understood than she had supposed. "so you have placed me in john's power," she said, bitterly. "i have done nothing of the kind." "have you not left the property to him?" "you well know that you are entitled by law to one-third of my estate." "one-third!" "yes." "and he is to have two-thirds?" "why should he not? if i had not married a second time he would have had the whole." "and my son ben is left unprovided for?" questioned mrs. oakley, in a tone of mingled anger and disappointment. "ben has no claim upon me." "poor boy! so he will be penniless." "you appear to forget that your share of the property will amount to twenty thousand dollars. he need not suffer, unless his mother should refuse to provide for him." but this did not suit mrs. oakley's views. she was not at all reconciled to the thought that john oakley, whom she disliked, would inherit forty thousand dollars, while she and ben must live on half that sum. she was fond of money and the position it would bring, and although twenty thousand dollars would once have seemed to her a great fortune, her desires had increased with her prosperity, and she now thought it a hardship that she should be limited to such a trifle. she was by no means reconciled to the thought that ben must play second fiddle to his rich stepbrother. still john was young, and if she were his guardian that would be something. so she smoothed her face and said:-"i suppose you have appointed me john's guardian?" squire oakley shook his head. "i have appointed mr. selwyn to that position. it is more fitting that a lawyer should have the care of property," he said. there was another reason which he did not mention. he thought that john's interests would be safer in mr. selwyn's hands than in those of his wife. "this is an insult to me," said mrs. oakley, angry and disappointed. "it will be declaring to the world that you have no confidence in me." "nothing of the kind. even were you his real mother, there would be nothing strange in my leaving him to the guardianship of another." but mrs. oakley looked angry, and for days afterwards wore an offended and injured look. she appeared to forget from what poverty and dependence squire oakley had delivered her, and how many favors he had lavished upon ben, who had no claim upon him save in his relationship to her. three days afterwards, squire oakley asked his wife for the will which she had had in her possession for nearly three years. "why do you want it?" she asked. "because it is of no value now, since i have made a later will. i wish to destroy it." mrs. oakley said she would look for it. if she did so, she took care not to look in the right place, for she reported that it was mislaid, and she could not find it. "it is rather strange that you should have mislaid a document which might have been of such importance," said squire oakley, significantly. "i am always mislaying things," said she, forcing a laugh. "i will look again to-morrow." but the will was not found, and squire oakley drew his own deductions from this fact. painful as it was to suspect his wife, he feared that his second will would not be safe if she could once get it into her possession. he saw, too late, that he had married a selfish and unscrupulous woman. he determined, therefore, to conceal the document, which so vitally affected his son's interests, in a hiding-place where it would be safe from mrs. oakley's prying disposition. he did so. but he did not foresee at that time how soon he would be struck with paralysis that would affect his speech, and render it difficult for him to reveal the secret to those who ought to know it. so it happened, however. from the time paralysis attacked him, mrs. oakley kept vigilant watch over him, and did all she could to keep john away from his father's bedside, lest the secret should be revealed to him. meanwhile, she sought everywhere for the missing will, but couldn't find it. the most she feared was that it had been placed in the lawyer's hands for safe-keeping. it ought to have been. squire oakley, as he lay on his sick-bed, regretted bitterly that it had not been so disposed of. it would have saved him from much anxiety. john obtained one interview with him, as we know, but his father was unable to impart to him the desired information, and the sudden entrance of mrs. oakley destroyed his last chance. the rest we know. squire oakley died; his wife produced the earlier will, which she now had no difficulty in finding, and under that claimed and inherited the whole property. a search was instituted for the late will, under the lawyer's directions, but it was not found. mrs. oakley found herself, to her secret delight, the undisputed mistress of her late husband's handsome estate. she had hoped that john knew nothing of the later will; but the words to which he gave utterance at the close of the last chapter undeceived her. it was clear that he knew something of it, and he had expressed a determination to find it. that it was somewhere in the house, mrs. oakley believed, and, if so, it was very possible that john might stumble upon it. the result would be that she would be compelled to surrender two-thirds of the property, and he would become independent of her. aside from the large pecuniary loss, she could not bear to think of john's release from her persecutions. at present, she pleased herself with thinking that he was in her power, and that she could "break his proud spirit," as she termed it, though, as we have seen, john was disposed to be respectful, and only displayed such a proper spirit as his self-respect demanded. "if i could only find the will myself," thought mrs. oakley, "there would be no further trouble." she did not say to herself, that, should such a discovery be made, it would plainly be her duty to make it known to squire selwyn, who had always been her late husband's lawyer. she did not consider what she should do with it, but we who have obtained a glimpse of her character may easily guess that in her hands it would not have benefited john much. the point for mrs. oakley to consider was how to protect herself against any sudden discovery of john's. she saw that it would be dangerous for her to have him continue in the house, and she resolved to send him away. where, she could not at once decide. having determined upon this, it occurred to her once more to visit her husband's desk, and examine it carefully, in the hope of discovering some secret drawer, in which the will might have been concealed. it was now evening. she lit a lamp, and went to the small room which squire oakley had used for reading and writing in, and went at once to the desk. it was old-fashioned, with a variety of small drawers. these she had examined more than once, but she opened them again, in the hope of discovering some false bottom, which had served as a means of concealment. while she was intent upon her search, she heard a slight noise at the door, and, looking up, was startled to find john looking into the room. "what are you prying into my actions for?" she demanded, sharply, a little embarrassed at being caught thus employed, and especially by john. "i am not," said john. "why are you here, then?" "by accident entirely; i was passing through the entry, and, seeing a light in here, i just glanced in." "i wanted to find a receipt," said mrs. oakley, thinking it best to offer some plausible explanation. "a bill was presented me for payment that i think has already been paid." "can i assist you?" "no," said mrs. oakley, coldly. "i shall probably find it soon." john was not deceived by this explanation. he felt sure that mrs. oakley was searching for the will; but this he kept to himself. "i must get rid of him at once," said his stepmother. "once get him out of the house, and i'll explore it thoroughly. i shan't feel safe till the will is found." chapter viii. mr. ephraim huxter. mrs. oakley had determined to send john away, this resolution was easily formed, but it was not quite so easy to decide where to send him. there were plenty of boarding-schools where he might be sent, but these would be expensive, and, besides, mrs. oakley was of opinion that john knew enough already. he was very much the superior of ben in scholarship, and for this she was sorry. she would like to have apprenticed him to a trade; but if this was done while ben lived in idleness, mr. selwyn would be sure to remonstrate, and as the will was not yet found she felt in some fear of his opinion. it was about this time that the stage arrived one afternoon before the gate, and a tall, shabbily dressed man, with a battered valise, descended, and walking up the front path rang the bell. the servant who answered the summons thought she recognized him as a peddler who had called there about a month before. "we don't want anything," she said, abruptly, nearly shutting the door in the stranger's face. "what do you mean?" he demanded, staring at her in surprise. "i want to see your mistress." "it's no use. she won't take anything of you." "what do you mean by your impudence?" he said, angrily. "hoity-toity," said the girl. "you put on airs enough for a peddler; but it's of no use. you may take your rubbish off somewhere else." "who's a peddler, i should like to know? if you don't open that door pretty quick, i'll tell my sister to dismiss you without a character." "your sister!" repeated the girl, taken by surprise. "what has your sister got to do with me?" "she gives you a home, and pays you wages, i reckon." "aint you a peddler, then?" demanded the girl, incredulously. "i am mrs. oakley's brother, and you'd better invite me into the house, if you want to stay in it yourself." "excuse me, sir. i made a mistake. if you'll walk in i'll tell mrs. oakley you're here." "that's the first sensible word you've spoken. i'll put my valise here in the entry." "well," thought the servant, "if that's mrs. oakley's brother, i don't think much of her family. i always thought she belonged to a poor set." she went upstairs to the front chamber, where her mistress liked to sit, and said:-"your brother's downstairs. he says he would like to see you." "my brother!" repeated her mistress, not looking overpleased. "yes, he is down in the parlor." "very well, i will go down and see him." the ill-dressed stranger was stretched out in a rocking-chair, in an attitude more comfortable than graceful. he was gazing about the room, and noting with much complacency the evidences of comfort and luxury which the handsome furniture exhibited. it was thus that mrs. oakley found him. "how do you do, brother ephraim?" she said, coldly, advancing, and just giving him the tips of her fingers. "i'm pretty well," he answered. "so the old gentleman's dead, hey?" "if you mean my husband," she answered, still with coldness, "you are right." "it's all right about the property, hey? how much is left to you?" "the whole." "whew!" whistled mr. ephraim huxter.--"well, you have worked your cards well, that's a fact." "i'll thank you, ephraim," said mrs. oakley, with dignity, "not to use such low language, or indulge in such insinuations. i did my duty by my husband, and he showed his confidence in me by leaving me his property." "well, perhaps that's the right way to put it," said mr. huxter. "i'm glad you have feathered your nest so well." "i must again request you not to indulge in such language," said mrs. oakley, in tones of displeasure. mr. huxter was evidently perplexed. "come, jane," said he, "there's no use in trying to deceive me. you made a good thing of it in marrying old oakley, and you needn't pretend to be broken-hearted because he is dead, and has left you his fortune." "hush!" said mrs. oakley, closing the door; "what if the servants should hear you talking in this way?" "well, there is something in that. that girl of yours that came to the door took me for a peddler. she wasn't going to let me in." mrs. oakley glanced at her brother's soiled linen and stained clothes, and did not express any surprise. "i brought my valise," said her brother. "i suppose it'll be convenient for me to stay a few days." mrs. oakley assented rather ungraciously,--in truth she did not care much to present such a man as her brother. she felt that it would make it still more difficult to obtain the position which she desired to maintain in the village. "i thought maybe i could help you in settling up the estate," said mr. huxter. "i don't think i shall require any assistance. mr. oakley was a good business man, and the task is an easy one," said his sister, coldly. "how much does the property amount to?" asked mr. huxter,--the property being in his eyes the main thing to be considered. "i can't say exactly." "well, you can give a guess." but mrs. oakley did not care to have her brother understand her exact position as regarded money matters. she saw clearly enough that he was already speculating how to turn her prosperity to his own advantage, and this she was determined he should not do. she would like to have kept him at a distance, but she was already feeling one of the inconveniences of wealth. there are some whose chief enjoyment of wealth arises from the happiness which it enables them to impart to others, and some, in mrs. oakley's position, would have been glad to do something for such of their relatives as were in struggling circumstances; but it was not so with her. she was of a stingy, penurious disposition, and did not mean that her money should benefit any one but benjamin and herself, except the small sum which she felt obliged to spend on john. "no, i don't think i could form any estimate," she said. "mr. oakley has recently died, you know." "has he left as much as fifty thousand?" "fifty thousand!" exclaimed mrs. oakley; "what are you thinking of?" "it isn't much less, i am thinking. at any rate, you're a rich woman." "i am comfortably provided for." "i wish i was as comfortably provided for," said mr. huxter. "seems to me your ideas have risen some, jane, since you used to live with me, and bind shoes for a living. you and ben wouldn't have been very comfortable, i reckon, if i hadn't helped you once upon a time." "as to that," said mrs. oakley, "i worked for my board. it was no great favor on your part." "at any rate, you thought yourself lucky to get a home. now, things are changed considerably. you are a rich woman, and--well, i'm hard up." "you always were shiftless, ephraim," said mrs. oakley, who saw what her brother was coming to. "shiftless!" repeated mr. huxter, in an injured tone. "i don't know what you call shiftless. i've been a hard-working man; but luck's never been on my side." mr. huxter's nose had a suspicious redness, which seemed to indicate whiskey might have had something to do with his want of luck. this was in fact the case. if he had never made much headway, it was partly, at least, his own fault, as his sister knew well enough. but she knew also that there was very little chance of his amending in that particular, and though she gave him little encouragement by her manner, she felt that she should have to help him at last. "how are your family?" asked mrs. oakley. "oh, about as usual. wife's always scoldin' and complainin', and the children are fractious. i don't know what makes 'em behave so. my home aint a very happy one, that's a fact." mrs. oakley knew that very well. for more than two years, when left a widow, with ben on her hands, she had found a home in her brother's family, which proved so far from agreeable, that she finally determined to leave it, and do as well as she could for herself outside. she had been lucky enough to obtain a situation in mr. oakley's family as house-keeper, and this proved the starting-point of a new and prosperous career. during mr. oakley's life, mr. huxter had never been near her. this had been at mrs. oakley's special request. she felt that her brother was not calculated to do her any particular credit, and she had succeeded, though with some difficulty, in keeping him at a distance. she had accomplished this by an occasional present, and the distinct intimation that these would cease unless her brother should respect her wishes. now that she was a widow, he considered that the prohibition was at an end, and had presented himself unexpectedly, and was by no means welcome. at this moment ben, who wished to see his mother, and was not aware of his uncle's arrival, entered the room, and, observing the shaggy appearance of the visitor, whom apparently he did not recognize, surveyed him with unconcealed contempt. chapter ix. more about mr. huxter. mr. ephraim huxter, on perceiving ben, wreathed his homely features into what was intended for a gracious smile, and, rising, took his nephew's rather unwilling hand. "so this is ben," he said. "bless me, what a young gentleman he's grown, to be sure! don't you remember me, ben?" "no, i don't," said ben, but not truly, for he had recognized his uncle at first sight. indeed, any one who had ever seen mr. huxter would be likely to remember his harsh features and ungainly form. "it is your uncle ephraim," said his mother. "humph!" said ben, not feeling it necessary to express any pleasure. with his improved fortunes, his pride had developed, and he had come to look upon his mother's brother as a low person, who was immeasurably his inferior. "yes, ben has become quite a gentleman," said his uncle, surveying his broadcloth suit, and gold watch-chain ostentatiously displayed over his vest. "but i dare say he hasn't forgotten when he used to run round in a shirt and overalls, and hoed potatoes at three cents an hour." ben did remember distinctly, and the recollection was far from pleasing; so he thought it best to forget it. "i don't remember anything of the kind," he said, rather roughly. "i suppose you'd want to be paid better now, ha, ha!" said mr. huxter, laughing as if he thought it a capital joke. "i don't know anything about hoeing potatoes," said ben, haughtily. "i'm not a laborer." "no, of course not," said mr. huxter. "you and your mother are now rich; but i hope you won't look down on your poor uncle and cousins, who have to grub along as well as they can for a living. things were different once, to be sure. once my humble home was thrown open to receive you, and i was glad to give you a shelter, though a lowly one, in your hour of need. i shall always be glad to think of that, though my wife and little ones should starve before my face." mr. huxter deliberately drew from his pocket a red cotton handkerchief, and raised it to his eyes, not to wipe away the tears, for there were none, but to increase the pathos of his remarks. but even with this help they failed to produce the desired effect. mrs. oakley remained cool and unaffected, and ben, turning from his uncle to his mother, said:-"how soon will supper be ready?" "you may go and ask hannah to set the table at once," said mrs. oakley. ben left the room with alacrity, without taking further notice of his uncle. "the young cub! i'd like to flog him!" thought his uncle; but he did not consider it polite to give utterance to this thought. "what a gentlemanly appearance ben has!" he said, instead. "yes," said mrs. oakley, more graciously; for her pride in ben was her great, and perhaps it might be said, her only weakness, cool and calculating woman as she was. "i think he will do me credit, brother ephraim." "indeed he will. i am quite proud of him," said mr. huxter, who thought he saw the best way to ingratiate himself with his sister. "i can hardly believe he's the same little ben that used to run round the farm barefooted. he don't like to think of those old times, ha, ha!" "no," said mrs. oakley; "he has a proud spirit, benjamin has." "that's all well enough as long as he has money to support it. 'poor and proud' don't go so well together, sister jane." "i don't know," said mrs. oakley. "i was once poor, but i never lost my pride. if i had i should have given right up, and made no effort to better myself." "i know who you're thinking of. you're thinking of me. you think i haven't got any proper pride. well, i don't know as i have. misfortunes have come thick and fast, and i've had a hard row to hoe. hard work and poverty are enough to take away a man's pride." mr. huxter certainly did not look as if he could ever have had much to be proud of; but then, pride and merit do not always go together, and appearances are sometimes deceitful. "well," said mrs. oakley, now graciously, "perhaps matters may take a turn with you. i cannot do much, for i have mr. oakley's son to provide for, as well as benjamin and myself; but i may be able to do something." "thank you, jane," said mr. huxter, more cheerfully. "i was sure you would not harden your heart against your only brother, and leave his family to suffer, while you were living on the fat of the land." "we will talk further this evening, ephraim," said mrs. oakley. "excuse me for five minutes, while i go out to the kitchen to see if supper is nearly ready." "certainly, jane. i don't mind confessing that i feel rather hungry myself. i didn't take any dinner at the half-way house, to-day, for dinner costs money, and with my narrow means i didn't feel as if i could spare half a dollar." "i am glad you mentioned it. i will see that some cold meat be placed on the table. you must require something hearty." "it's my praising ben that fetched her," said mr. huxter, when, being left to himself, he began to reflect upon the cause of his sister's sudden and agreeable change of manners. "i shall have to flatter up the young rascal, i expect, though i'd a good deal rather give him a taste of a horsewhip. so he turns up his nose at me, does he? he forgets the time when he'd have been obliged to beg from house to house but for me. maybe he won't always be prosperous. the race isn't always to the strong, nor the battle to the swift." mr. huxter did not often read the bible, and was not aware that he had made a trifling mistake in his quotation. his thoughts were turned into a different and more agreeable channel by the reappearance of his sister, and the announcement that supper was ready. he rose with alacrity, and followed mrs. oakley into a room in the rear of the parlor, where an abundant and appetizing meal was spread. mr. huxter rubbed his hands with satisfaction,--for in his own household the meals were neither abundant nor inviting,--and took his seat at his sister's table. ben took the head of the table opposite his mother, and john oakley sat opposite mr. huxter. "who is this young man?" asked mr. huxter, glancing at john. "i have not had the pleasure of an introduction." "that is john oakley," said his stepmother, briefly. "the son of your lamented husband," said mr. huxter. "yes. will you have milk and sugar in your tea?" "yes, thank you. i hope you are well, mr. oakley." "quite well, thank you, sir," said john, wondering who was addressing him. "i am your stepmother's brother," continued mr. huxter, "and that makes me a sort of relation, you know." "will you help yourself to the toast, ephraim?" said mrs. oakley, in a quick, sharp tone, for she didn't fancy the idea of her brother's paying so much attention to john. "thank you, jane. if it is as nice as your tea, i shall want to help myself more than once. but you were always a good house-keeper." mrs. oakley did not relish this allusion, for she would like to have had everybody forget that she had been a professional house-keeper. she thought her brother was succeeding admirably in making himself disagreeable, and determined that he should not long remain her guest, if she could conveniently get rid of him. but mr. huxter had not penetration enough to see that he was displeasing his sister, and continued, his mouth being full of toast:-"mr. oakley must be near your benjamin's age, jane." "i'm almost two years older," said ben, who had so few points of superiority that he might well claim this. "indeed, i shouldn't have thought it," said his uncle; "but then mr. oakley is very well grown for his age." "i don't know that ben is deficient in that way," said mrs. oakley, coldly. "oh, no, of course not; i didn't mean to hint such a thing. the boys must be a good deal of company for each other." "you're mistaken there," said ben, shortly. "they are not much together," said mrs. oakley. "john goes to school, but benjamin has finished his education." "indeed!" said mr. huxter; "pray what studies do you pursue, mr. oakley?" "i am studying latin, greek, and mathematics," answered john. "i want to know! why, you are quite a scholar! are you going to college?" asked mr. huxter. "that was what my father intended," said john. "mr. oakley's death has interrupted all our plans," said mrs. oakley, coldly, "and we have not had time to form new ones." "what are your plans for benjamin?" asked his uncle. "do you understand latin and greek, too, ben?" "no; and i don't want to," said ben. "it's all nonsense, and won't do any good." "well, i can't say as i care much about either myself," said mr. huxter; "only it is fashionable to study them." "i don't care whether it is fashionable or not," said ben; "i shan't waste my time over them." "will you have some more toast, ephraim?" asked mrs. oakley, heartily tired of the conversation. "thank you, i believe i will." john mentally decided that mr. huxter was a singular man, but did not dream that he was likely to have considerable to do with him, and that ere long. chapter x. how the matter was settled. after supper mrs. oakley and her brother were left together. ben had no particular fancy for the society of his uncle, and john had no desire to intrude upon mrs. oakley. "well, ephraim," said mrs. oakley, plunging into business at once, "i have been considering what i could do for you." "i knew you had a good heart, sister jane," said mr. huxter, who was disposed to be very complimentary to his sister, now that his interest lay in flattering her. mrs. oakley well remembered the time when he treated her in quite a different manner; but though she saw through his change of manner, and thoroughly understood what prompted it, she was well pleased to have it so. it made her feel the power which her wealth had brought her; and there was no woman who enjoyed that better than mrs. oakley. "you mustn't expect too much," she continued. "you must remember that there are others who have claims upon me." "but your means are large," said mr. huxter, who was resolved to extort as much as possible. "no doubt you think so; but i am the best judge of what i can afford," said mrs. oakley. "if i were rich i wouldn't see you and ben suffer," said mr. huxter. "as to that, your health is good, and your family ought not to suffer if i gave you no assistance at all. i don't think much of a man who can't support his family." "i've been a very unlucky man," said mr. huxter. "i'd ought to be independent now, but something or nuther was always happening. there was my best cow, that i could have got fifty dollars for easy, up and died one night." "how long ago was that?" "three years," said mr. huxter, rather reluctantly. "it seems to me you've had time to get over that loss," said his sister, not betraying much sympathy in her tone. "it wouldn't be much to you, i know; but to a poor man like me it was a great loss," said mr. huxter. "well, we won't say anything about that. i told you that i would help you, and i will. you observed john oakley at the table?" "yes; he looks like a smart fellow." "he's no smarter than ben that i know of," said mrs. oakley, jealously. "of course not; i didn't suppose he was," said mr. huxter, seeing that he had got on the wrong tack. "ben is a boy that you may be proud of, sister jane. he is very genteel in his manners." "i mean to bring him up as a gentleman," said mrs. oakley. "i think i shall make a lawyer of him." "i hope you will. there's never been a lawyer in our family. i should be proud to speak of my nephew, benjamin brayton, esq., the famous lawyer." "i hope that time will come, brother ephraim. but i was going to speak of john oakley. ben and he don't agree very well." "don't they?" asked mr. huxter, not so much surprised as he might have been if he had not made ben's acquaintance. "i suppose it is john's fault." "of course it is. he doesn't treat ben or myself with proper respect, and of course ben resents it." "of course." "he doesn't seem to realize that ben is older than himself, and therefore entitled to more privileges. he went so far one day as to strike ben with a whip." "what did ben do?" asked mr. huxter, curiously. "oh, of course he struck john," said mrs. oakley, not thinking it necessary to mention that ben's blow came first. "well," said mr. huxter, "it seems natural for boys to quarrel." "i shan't allow my son to be struck by john oakley," said mrs. oakley, quickly. "what are you going to do about it?" "that is what i am coming to. i think of sending john away somewhere, so that we may live in peace and quiet, and not be disturbed by his quarrelsome disposition." "where do you think of sending him?" "to your house." "to my house?" exclaimed mr. huxter, in surprise, for he had not foreseen what was coming. "yes." "i don't know as he would like the way we live," said mr. huxter, thinking of the "picked-up" dinners to which he was accustomed. "he's a rich man's son, and has been used to good living." "don't trouble yourself about that," said mrs. oakley; "if he has always lived well, he can stand a little poor living now, by way of variety. it is his own fault that i send him away from home." mr. huxter hardly knew what to think of this arrangement. he had hoped that his sister would settle an annual sum upon him, without any equivalent, or would give him, say a thousand dollars outright. now she only proposed that he should take a boarder. "i don't know what my wife will say," he remarked. "it will increase her work." "not much. there will only be one extra seat at the table." "but we shall have to put ourselves out a little for him." "i don't want you to put yourself out at all," said mrs. oakley, emphatically. "he's a rich man's son." "but he'll be a poor man himself. he will have to earn his living by hard work." "i don't see how that can be. didn't his father leave plenty of money?" "no," said mrs. oakley, determined not to be entrapped into any such acknowledgment; "and if he had, john is no better off for it. you seem to forget that all the money is left to me." "that's a fact," said mr. huxter. "i didn't think of that. shan't you leave any of it to john?" "that depends upon his behavior," said mrs. oakley. "i make no promises. the property is all mine, and i shall leave it to no one who treats me with disrespect. you see, therefore, that you need feel on no ceremony with him." mr. huxter did see it. he was a selfish man, who had a great respect for the possessors of wealth merely on the score of their wealth, and he began to look upon john oakley with quite different eyes now that he had been informed of his true position. "you're carrying things with rather a high hand, jane," he said. "i mean to be treated with respect." "so john is saucy, is he?" "he is proud-spirited, and thinks himself justified in looking down upon me, because i was once his father's house-keeper," said mrs. oakley, in a tone of bitterness; "but i have vowed to subdue his proud spirit, and you will see that i shall do it." "i have no doubt you will, jane. but there is one thing you haven't mentioned." "what is that?" "how much am i to receive for john oakley's board?" "i will give you six dollars a week, and you know that this is considerably more than any other boarder would pay you." "six dollars a week!" said mr. huxter, slowly. "yes, i suppose that would pay for what he would eat and drink, but i expected you would do something more for me than just to find me a boarder." "you will make a pretty good profit out of that, ephraim." "you might do a little more than that for me, jane." "i will tell you what i will do. besides paying you regularly for his board, i will allow you his labor, and that will be worth considerable." "what can he do?" "he can do what other boys do. you can take him into your shop, and set him to pegging shoes. it won't hurt him a bit, though it may trouble his pride a little." "but will he be willing to go into the shop? he was expecting to go to college." "i don't think much of you if you can't compel him to do it." mr. huxter reflected a moment. john's work would be worth at least five dollars a week, and this, added to the six he would receive from his sister, would certainly pay munificently for john's board. "well, that is a consideration. we'll call it a bargain," he admitted. "very well; i think you'll find your account in it," said mrs. oakley, in a tone of satisfaction. "couldn't you pay me a quarter's board in advance?" to this mrs. oakley assented with some hesitation. after matters had thus been satisfactorily arranged, mr. huxter said:-"i think, jane, i will just take a little walk outside, and smoke a pipe. i always do after supper. by the way, when would you like to have young oakley go?" "to-morrow." "to-morrow!" repeated mr. huxter, in some disappointment, for he had confidently hoped to avail himself of his sister's hospitality for a week at least. "seems to me, jane, you're in something of a hurry." "i am. there is a good reason for it, which i am not at liberty to mention," said mrs. oakley. "not even to me?" "not even to you." "well, i dare say it is all right, but i am tired after my journey, and it don't give me much time to rest," said mr. huxter, with disappointment. "let it be day after to-morrow, then. i don't want to be inhospitable," said mrs. oakley. mr. huxter thought this concession better than nothing, and, going out on the door-step, smoked his pipe in rather a cheerful frame of mind. "it'll be a pretty good speculation," he reflected; "but i mistrust i'll have some trouble with young oakley. but i guess i can manage him. he'll find me pretty ugly if he goes to oppose me." mr. huxter was partly right. he was capable of being "pretty ugly" when he thought it safe to be so,--that is, to those who were weaker than himself, and in his power. he fawned upon those who had money or power, and was in the habit of tyrannizing over those who had neither. on the whole, i hardly think john is to be congratulated upon his prospects. chapter xi. john consults a lawyer. mrs. oakley felt very well pleased with the arrangement she had made about john. her brother lived nearly one hundred miles distant. she would have liked john even further off; but this would remove him from the ability to interfere with her plans. she felt, too, that she would be more comfortable with him out of the house. until the will was found _and destroyed_ she would not feel safe, and she did not venture to search thoroughly till john was out of the way. but there was one important question: would john consent to go? on this point mrs. oakley felt doubtful. she knew that it would be a grievous disappointment to him to leave his class at the academy, and all his young friends in the village, not to speak of his natural regret at leaving the house where he had been born, and which had always been his home. under the circumstances, therefore, she felt that it would be best to use a little stratagem. meanwhile john had been thinking earnestly of his position and his duty. he felt that he needed advice, and he determined to call upon squire selwyn, who, as i have already said, was his father's legal adviser and intimate friend. his son sam, also, was john's best friend, and thus the families had a double bond of union. the day succeeding mr. huxter's arrival was wednesday. on that day the afternoon session at the academy was over an hour earlier than usual, the only exercise being declamation, or, on alternate weeks, the reading of compositions. john thought this would be the most favorable opportunity he would have for consulting mr. selwyn. squire selwyn's office was a small, neat one-story building situated on the main street, not far from the academy building. it was painted white, with green blinds, and had been built expressly for a law office. sam and john walked home from school together as usual. when they came to the office john said:-"i'm going in to see your father, sam; so i'll bid you good-afternoon." "got some law business for the governor?" "maybe." "then you better consult me," said sam. "i swept out the office for a week once when the office-boy was off on vacation, and you can't think what a lot of law i picked up in that time." "i dare say," said john, smiling. "i don't doubt your qualifications, but i think i'll consult your father this time." "all right," said sam, more seriously. "i'm glad you're going to. the fact is, mrs. oakley is doing her best to circumvent you, and you must do your best, or she'll succeed." "i'm afraid she will at any rate," said john. "i wish you could find that will." "so do i." "do you believe in dreams, john?" asked sam, lowering his voice. "what makes you ask that?" "because i dreamed last night that i found the will. it seemed to me that it was very dark, and i came upon mrs. oakley and ben, each with a lantern in their hand, searching about on the ground for it. i followed them softly, and all at once spied a white paper. mrs. oakley saw it at the same time, and reached out for it, but i was too quick, and carried it off in triumph." "is that all?" "not quite. when she and ben saw that i had got it they dropped their lanterns and ran after me, or rather ben threw his at my head. it was an awful whack. just then i woke up, and found that i had struck my head against the bedpost." "well," said john, laughing, "how do you interpret that dream?" "in this way. i think that the will is going to be found some day, and that i shall be the one to find it." "i certainly hope you will. it would make a great change in my circumstances." "what'll you give me if i find it, john?" "a gold watch," said john. "well, that's worth working for." "you seem to be in earnest about it." "there's many a true word spoken in jest. the time may come when i shall remind you of your promise." "i hope it will. you will find that i keep my promises." "all right. well, there's the squire looking out the window, so i'll leave you. good luck!" john entered the office. "good-afternoon, john," said squire selwyn. "how are things going on at home?" "we are all well," said john. "i'm glad to hear it. won't you sit down?" the lawyer was a man of middle height. he had a pleasant face and manner, but his eye was keen and penetrating, and seemed to be reading the person upon whom it rested. he was deservedly popular, for it was always his endeavor to conciliate rather than to foment quarrels, and he more than once succeeded in dissuading a client from a lawsuit which would have put a considerable sum of money into his own pocket. he was a safe legal adviser, and an honest lawyer. he was glad to see john, for he had always been attracted towards him, not only because of his friendship for the father, but because of john's truthfulness and straightforwardness. seeing that john hesitated, he said, by way of encouragement:-"if there is anything i can do for you, don't hesitate to ask it. your father was my friend, and i hope to be regarded by his son in the same light." "it is because of that that i have called upon you, squire selwyn," said john. "you know, of course," he added, after a little hesitation, "how my father left his property?" "i know how he _appears_ to have left it," said the lawyer, significantly. "i would like to ask you a question, squire selwyn," said john; "but of course you will not answer it unless you think proper." "very properly put. ask your question, and i will decide as to its fitness." "it is this: do you know whether my father made any later will than the one which was found?" "i have no hesitation in answering your question. he did." "how long since was it made?" "only three months before he died." "i suppose that it disposed of the property differently?" "it disposed of it as the law would have done if no will had been made. your stepmother was to have her thirds; the rest of the property would have gone to you. the matter might have been left to the law but for the existence of the former will, which was in mrs. oakley's charge, and which she said that she had mislaid." "who would have been my guardian under the last will, squire selwyn?" "your father asked me to assume that office, and i consented cheerfully, not only from my friendship for him, but because i have a very good opinion of you," said squire selwyn. "thank you, sir," said john, earnestly. "let me add, my young friend," said the lawyer, kindly, "that i hope you will come to me as freely for advice as if i really filled this office." "i will, sir," said john. "i am so situated that i need a friend to advise me who is older and wiser than myself." "apply to me freely at all times," said the lawyer, pleased with john's modest demeanor. "there is one thing i want to tell you," said john; "i think my father's last will is still in existence." "what grounds have you for such a belief?" asked squire selwyn, regarding him closely. "i will tell you, sir," said john. he then related the particulars of his last interview with his father, and the great effort which the sick man made to communicate something to him. squire selwyn listened attentively. "will you repeat the words which you could distinguish?" he said. "i distinctly heard father say, 'my will,' and i thought i heard him say also 'drawer.'" "i am glad you told me this," said the lawyer, thoughtfully. "did he attempt to say more?" "there was no chance. mrs. oakley entered the chamber, and ordered me out. she said i was disturbing father." "do you think she heard the words which your father uttered?" "i know she could not, for it was only by placing my ear close to his mouth that i could distinguish the little i did." "how did your father seem affected by the interruption?" "he seemed disappointed." "didn't you have any further chance to speak with your father?" "no; mrs. oakley would never admit me again." the lawyer sat for a moment plunged in thought. at length he said:-"have you ever chanced, since your father's death, to see your stepmother searching the papers he left behind?" "yes, sir." "tell me when." john related the circumstances. "did she give any explanation?" "she said she was looking for a receipt." "didn't she seem disturbed at your seeing her thus engaged?" "she seemed angry, and accused me of prying into her actions." "what opinion did you form of her object at that time?" asked the lawyer. "i thought she was looking for the will," said john, frankly. "are your relations with your stepmother pleasant?" asked squire selwyn. "i am sorry to say they are not," said john. "if they had been, i would not have troubled myself about the will. but i can see that mrs. oakley is determined to persecute me, and make my life unhappy, and that she is determined not to carry out any of my father's plans about my education. she has already taken away my horse, and sold it. she intended to give it to ben, but he had an unlucky adventure with it one afternoon." "i heard of that," said the lawyer, smiling. "he got thrown, didn't he?" "yes, sir. that cured him of wanting to ride, and so the horse was sold." "it was a present to you from your father, was it not?" "yes, sir. ben received at the same time a gold watch, which he still has." "that seems hardly fair. one question more: have you any knowledge of any secret drawer in your father's desk, or in any article which he used to own?" "no, sir." "i suppose not. if there had been one, he would hardly have disclosed its whereabouts to a boy. well, my young friend," said the lawyer, rising, as if to terminate the interview, "i am glad to have received this call from you. i regard your information as important. it strengthens the conviction which i before entertained, that _your father's last will is in existence somewhere_. out of regard to your interests, as well as to carry out his last wishes, i sincerely hope that it may be found. but i need not tell you that in the present position of affairs the greatest caution is absolutely necessary. i am not prepared to advise you at present, but shall take your case under my most serious consideration." john took his cap and books, and squire selwyn accompanied him to the door of the office. as they stood on the threshold, an open wagon drove by. both looked up simultaneously, and an expression of vexation swept over the lawyer's face as he recognized mrs. oakley and her brother. mrs. oakley's eye lighted up as it rested upon john. "he is getting dangerous," she thought. "it is well i am going to be rid of him." chapter xii. an unexpected journey. john could not help wondering what inference mrs. oakley would draw from seeing him in consultation with the lawyer. he anticipated that it would arouse her suspicions, and lead to his being treated with greater coldness and harshness than ever. it was with considerable surprise, therefore, that on presenting himself at the supper-table he received a very pleasant greeting from his stepmother. she made no allusion to having met him, but, in her conversation with her brother, asked two or three questions of john, in an easy way, as if the relations between them were perfectly cordial. ben glanced at his mother once or twice in surprise, for she had not seen fit to take him into her confidence, and he did not understand what this sudden cordiality meant. john, who had usually been excluded from any share in the conversation, was not only surprised, but pleased, and hoped that the change would be permanent. his resentment was not lasting, and he was prepared to respond to his stepmother's advances. mr. huxter's conduct puzzled him a little. that gentleman seemed disposed to be quite affable and social. "i hope, mr. oakley, you and benjamin will some time favor me with a visit at my humble home. i cannot promise you as good accommodations as you have at home, but i shall be very glad to see you--very." "thank you, sir," said john. ben, who was not remarkable for politeness, did not deign a word in reply to his uncle's invitation. in spite of mr. huxter's not very prepossessing exterior john began to think him quite a pleasant man, and felt obliged to him for his invitation, though he felt no particular desire to accept it. after supper was over, mr. huxter turned to john:-"i am going out on the door-step to smoke my pipe. i suppose you don't smoke?" "no, sir," said john. "i was going to ask you to join me; but of course you don't smoke. it isn't good for boys. do you smoke, ben?" "i don't smoke a _pipe_," said ben, glancing with some disgust at the clay pipe, the bowl of which his uncle was filling. "i suppose you, being a young gentleman, smoke cigars. they are more aristocratic. but i'm a poor man, and i can't afford them. well, if you'll get your cigar, we'll have a social smoke together." "i've got an engagement," said ben, not very graciously, and, putting on his hat, he stalked off. "he's an impudent puppy," said mr. huxter to himself. "i wish i had the training of him for a little while. but i must put up with his insults, or lose all hope of help from my sister." "come home early, benjamin," said his mother. "oh, you needn't sit up for me. you go to bed so precious early it doesn't give me any evening at all." mrs. oakley followed him with her eyes a little uneasily. while mr. oakley was alive ben kept pretty straight, for he stood somewhat in awe of his stepfather; but since his death he had shown a disposition to have his own way, and his mother's wishes weighed very little with him. she could not help feeling that the boy in whom her dearest hopes centred, and for whom she was willing even to wrong another, manifested very little gratitude for her devotion to him. john, whom she charged with lack of respect, treated her at all times much more respectfully than her own son. but mrs. oakley was prejudiced, and would not see this. she shut her eyes alike to john's merits and ben's faults, and the latter took his own way, spending the evening in the bar-room and billiard saloon, and learning much that he ought not to have learned. about half-past nine in the evening, when john was studying his lesson in "xenophon's anabasis," he heard a low knock at the door. supposing it to be one of the servants, he said, carelessly, "come in!" looking up, as the door opened, he was not a little surprised at the entrance of his stepmother. with the instincts of a young gentleman, he rose hastily, and, drawing a chair, said:-"won't you sit down, mrs. oakley?" "thank you, john," said his stepmother; "i will sit down a moment. you are studying, i suppose." "yes, i was preparing my greek lesson for to-morrow." john tried not to look surprised, but he wondered very much what should have led to a call from mrs. oakley, especially at so late an hour. "you are getting on well in your studies, i have no doubt." "thank you. so my teacher says." "i am glad to hear it. i am afraid it will be an interruption for you to be absent from school a few days." "yes, it would be an interruption; but if you wish it, i could try to make it up afterwards." "i came to ask a favor of that kind." "does she want me to work on the farm?" thought john, puzzled. but he was not long kept in doubt. "my brother, who is now stopping here, leaves for home to-morrow morning," proceeded mrs. oakley. "there's a little business i want attended to, which makes it desirable that some one should go back with him. i might send ben, but i don't think he would answer the purpose. so i have thought of you." "does mr. huxter go to-morrow morning?" asked john. "he has just decided to do so. that, i am aware, gives you but short notice," said mrs. oakley. "shall i need to be away long?" "a few days at least. have you a carpet-bag?" "a small one." "that will answer. you can put in a couple of shirts, some collars, stockings, and handkerchiefs." "how shall i know what to do?" "my brother will give you all the needful information. and now, good-night. we shall breakfast at six, in order to be in time for the stage." "very well, i will be ready." mrs. oakley left the room, and went downstairs, leaving john considerably puzzled by what had happened. he was sorry to be kept from school for a few days even, for he was at the head of his class both in greek and latin, and would lose his standing temporarily at least. but it was characteristic of him to be obliging, even at the cost of some self-sacrifice, and therefore he had made no opposition to the wishes of his stepmother, though it did occur to him that, as ben neither attended school nor did anything else except amuse himself, he might have executed his mother's commission. however, john knew enough of ben's disobliging disposition to suspect that he had been applied to and refused, especially as he could see that he had no great affection for his uncle. of course he could have no suspicion of the trap which mrs. oakley had artfully laid for him, and that the few days' absence were intended by her to extend to months and possibly years. "if i am going early to-morrow morning," thought john, "i may as well stop studying and pack my carpet-bag. i wish i had asked mrs. oakley where her brother lives." john closed his "anabasis," and found his carpet-bag. into it he put whatever he thought would be needed in a week's absence. he did not suppose he should be away longer than that. "if it were not so late," he thought, "i would run over and tell sam that i am to be away for a few days. he will be surprised when he don't see me at school." but it was too late, for the village clock just then struck ten, and as he must be up early, john felt that the best thing he could do was to go to bed and get a good night's sleep, to prepare him for the fatigues of the succeeding day. after a sound and refreshing night's sleep, john went downstairs the next morning, with his carpet-bag in his hand. the table was spread for breakfast, and mr. huxter and mrs. oakley had already taken their seats. "good-morning, john," said mrs. oakley; "you are just in time. are you all ready to go?" "yes," said john. "then sit down to breakfast, for the stage will be here very soon." "so i am to have the pleasure of your company, mr. oakley?" said mr. huxter. "i did not anticipate that i should so soon receive a visit from you when i invited you yesterday to my humble home." "in what town do you live, mr. huxter?" asked john. "well, folks call it hardscrabble," said mr. huxter, with a laugh. "is it far away?" "we'll get there to-night if nothing happens," said mr. huxter. john did not know whether to conclude that hardscrabble was, or was not, the real name of the town, but did not like to press the inquiry. he never remembered to have heard of a town bearing that name. however, he would know by evening at any rate. he could not help feeling some curiosity as to mr. huxter's home; but neither that gentleman's appearance nor description of it led him to form a very high idea of its sumptuousness. the breakfast was a substantial one, and mr. huxter did justice to it. indeed, he was seldom wanting in a good appetite, especially when the repast was an inviting one. "i suppose i shan't see ben before i go?" said he, leaning back in his chair, and picking his teeth with a fork. "i am afraid not," said mrs. oakley. "ben got home rather late last night, and i suppose the poor boy is tired this morning. i think i had better not disturb him." "don't disturb him on my account," said his uncle, who did not seem much disappointed by ben's absence. "he'd better have his sleep out. but, sister jane, if i were you i wouldn't let him stay out so late in the evening." "you must remember, ephraim, he's a young gentleman now. it won't do to keep him in leading-strings, just as if he were a boy." "i'd keep him in check if he were my boy," thought mr. huxter; but he saw that it would not be best to say so. "well, jane, of course you know best," he said. "when are you coming to make us a visit?" "not very soon, i am afraid. i can't leave the farm very well. there are too many things which need attending to." "there's the stage," said john, suddenly. the rumbling of the wheels was faintly heard up the road. all rose from the table, and prepared to go. mrs. oakley brought out a covered basket and handed it to her brother. "i've put some sandwiches in this basket," she said. "you'll be hungry by and by, and it will save you the expense of stopping at a hotel for dinner." "very good!" said mr. huxter, with satisfaction. "that's what i meant to speak about, but i forgot it. i begrudge paying for dinner at a tavern. they always charge you about double what it's worth. come, mr. oakley, are you ready?" "all ready, sir." the rumbling of the stage was now distinctly heard. they opened the front door, and made signals for it to stop. the lumbering vehicle was brought to in front of the gate, and the driver jumped from his elevated perch, and opened the door for the passengers to enter. "i think i'll take a seat outside, if it makes no difference to you, mr. huxter," said john. "just as you like," was the reply. so, while mr. huxter got inside, john took a seat beside the driver. "where are you going, john?" asked the driver, who knew everybody in the village, and was on intimate terms with all. "i'm going away with the gentleman who has just got inside," said john. "where does he live?" "i don't know the name of the place," said our hero, suspecting that hardscrabble was only a local appellation. "be gone long?" "not more than a week." meanwhile, mrs. oakley watched the receding stage with satisfaction. when it was out of sight, she entered the house. "now," said she, "i'll look for the will without john oakley to spy upon me." chapter xiii. john oakley's new home. although john would prefer to have remained at home, in order that his studies might be uninterrupted, he nevertheless could not help deriving enjoyment from the ride on the stage-coach. it was a beautiful morning. the sun was gilding with its beams the fields and brooks, and a beautiful breeze rustled in and out among the leaves of the trees that for some distance lined the road. john, from his elevated perch, had an excellent view of the scenes through which they passed. as they rode by the house of squire selwyn, lie hoped to catch sight of his friend sam; but sam was nowhere to be seen. "sam is lazy this morning," thought john, disappointed. but there he did sam injustice. he had risen early, and with hook and line had gone to the pond to fish. from a distance he caught a glimpse of the stage rumbling along the village street, but it was too far off for him to distinguish the outside passengers. he would have been surprised had he known that among them was his friend john. ere long they were beyond the limits of the township. occasionally the stage stopped to take in a fresh passenger, or to discharge a portion of its living freight. at intervals of a few miles they came to some village tavern, with a broad swinging sign, where the driver would pause to water his horses, or, at longer intervals, to exchange them for a fresh supply. once or twice john descended to stretch his legs, stiff with long sitting. more than once he observed mr. huxter enter the tavern, and come out with his nose a little redder than usual. "i went in to get a glass of bitters," he explained to john, whom he encountered at the door on one of these occasions. "i'll get you some if you want it." "thank you," said john. "i don't care for any." "well, you're young and strong, and don't need them. when you get to my age, you'll need a little something to stimulate you." john, who rightly conjectured that the glass of "bitters" was only another name for new england rum, could not help thinking that mr. huxter would have been quite as well off without it; but this thought he of course kept to himself. "the old gentleman is rather fond of 'wetting his whistle,' isn't he?" said the driver, familiarly. "so it seems," said john, briefly. he did not care to discuss the conduct of his stepmother's brother with any one, and therefore confined himself to this remark. at twelve o'clock they had travelled forty miles. "the stage will stop half an hour for dinner," said the driver, as he drew up in front of an old-fashioned country tavern. "this is as far as i go," said the driver to john. "do you stop here?" "no, we go further on." "i suppose you'll be comin' back this way in a few days?" "i expect so. by the way, if you see sam selwyn to-night, just tell him that i was one of your passengers this morning." "all right." "john oakley!" said mr. huxter, from below. "here, sir," said john. "just get down, and bring that basket with you. we'll go under the trees and have a bite." john followed directions, and the two sat down together, with the basket between them. "travelling is hungry work," said mr. huxter. "let's see what my sister has put up for us." the basket, being uncovered, proved to be full of sandwiches, with a few doughnuts on top. they were all excellent of their kind; for mrs. oakley, whatever might be said of her in other respects, was a good house-keeper, and took care that whatever food was prepared in the house should be good. "now, oakley," said mr. huxter, "we needn't have any ceremony here. just make yourself at home and pitch in." it may be observed that mr. huxter was gradually beginning to treat john with greater familiarity. when first introduced, he had addressed him as "mr. oakley." next it was "john oakley." now it was "oakley," without any prefix. john, who had no inordinate sense of his own dignity, was not much disturbed by this, but continued to treat mr. huxter with the same outward respect as at first. mr. huxter followed his own recommendations strictly. he did "pitch in," and with such vigor that he consumed two-thirds of the contents of the basket, while john, whose appetite had also been stimulated by the long ride, was eating the remaining third. "well, there aint much left, that's a fact," he said, surveying the empty basket. "the ride's given you a pretty good appetite, oakley." "pretty good," said john, smiling at the unexpected inference drawn from the empty basket. "that's lucky, for we shan't get anything more till we get home," said mr. huxter. "when will that be?" inquired john. "somewhere about seven. it's a long pull; but i guess we can stand it," said mr. huxter. "i think i can," said john. "the old lady won't be expecting us," said mr. huxter. "i told her i might, maybe, be gone a fortnight." "she'll be glad to see you so soon," said john, who did not think of anything else to say. "umph!" said mr. huxter, in a tone which might be interpreted as conveying a little doubt on this point. "i feel a little dry," he said, rising and stretching himself. "i think i'll go into the house, and see if i can find a little water." when mr. huxter reappeared, john inferred from his appearance that, if he had been drinking water, it had been largely mingled with a different beverage. he satisfied his own thirst at the pump, where he drank a deep and refreshing draught of clear cold water, purer and better than any liquid which the art of man has devised. so the afternoon passed. twice more mr. huxter got out of the stage, and entered a wayside tavern, on the same mysterious errand. each time he reappeared with his nose redder, and his eyes more inflamed. the liquor which he had drunk made him quarrelsome, and so disagreeable to his fellow-passengers. finally one of them called to the driver in an authoritative voice to stop, and insisted that mr. huxter should travel outside for the remainder of the way. with some difficulty he was induced to make the change, and from that time john had the pleasure of his society. "who are you?" asked mr. huxter, fixing his eyes upon john with a vacant stare. "i am john oakley," said our hero. "oh, yes, i know. you're the son of old oakley that my sister jane married." it was painful to john to hear his father spoken of as old oakley, but he understood mr. huxter's situation, and felt that it would be idle to resent anything said under such circumstances. "old oakley left all his property to jane," continued mr. huxter, with a drunken laugh. "oh, she's a deep one, is jane! she knows how her bread is buttered." john turned away in disgust, and tried not to heed what was said. "but she's hard on her poor brother," whined mr. huxter. "she ought to have come down with something handsome." his mutterings became incoherent, and john ceased to notice them. at length, about seven o'clock, the stage drove into a small village, of not particularly attractive appearance. "well," said the driver, turning to john, "you're most home." "am i?" asked john. "of course you are. aint you travelling with _him_?" indicating mr. huxter by a gesture. "yes; i've come with him on a little business." "then you're not going to stay?" "oh, no!" "lucky for you!" john didn't inquire why the driver thought it lucky for him. he thought he understood without any explanation. "do you go any further?" he asked of the driver. "to the next town." "what is the name of this place?" "some folks call it hardscrabble; but the real name is jackson." "where does mr. huxter live?" "up the road apiece. i go right by the gate. i'll stop and leave you there." a little less than a mile further the driver reined up his horses. "here you are," he said. "now look sharp, for i'm behind time." with some difficulty mr. huxter, who had now become quite drowsy, was made to understand that he had reached home. with still greater difficulty, he was assisted in safety to the ground, and the stage drove on. john now for the first time looked about him to see what sort of a place he had reached. he distinguished a two-story house, old-fashioned in appearance, standing a few rods back from the road. it was sadly in need of a fresh coat of paint, as was also the fence which surrounded it. a little distance from the house, at one side, was a small building of one story, liberally supplied with windows, which john afterwards learned to be a shoe-shop. it was mr. huxter's place of business, when he saw fit to work, which was by no means regularly. an old cart, a wood-pile, and some barrels littered up the front yard. a field alongside was overgrown with weeds, and everything indicated shiftlessness and neglect. john had no difficulty in opening the front gate, for it hung upon one hinge, and was never shut. he supported mr. huxter to the door and knocked, for there was no bell. the summons was answered by a girl of ten, in a dirty calico dress and dishevelled hair. "mother," she screamed, shrilly, as she saw who it was, "here's father come home, and there's somebody with him!" at this intimation, a woman came from a back room to the door. she looked thin and careworn, as if the life which she led was not a very happy one. "mrs. huxter, i suppose?" asked john. "yes," said she. "your husband does not feel quite well," said john, expressing in as delicate a manner as possible the fact that something was out of order with mr. huxter. "who said i wasn't well?" exclaimed mr. huxter, in a rough voice. "never was better in my life. i say, polly, can't you get us something to eat? i'm most starved." mrs. huxter looked inquiringly at john, whose presence with her husband she did not understand. "i believe i am to stop here for a day or two," said john, responding to her look. "my name is john oakley. i am the stepson of mr. huxter's sister." "oh, yes, i know," said mrs. huxter. "i am afraid we can't accommodate you very well, mr. oakley, but we'll do our best." "what's good enough for us is good enough for him," said mr. huxter, fiercely. "he's as poor as we are. sister jane's got all the money. she's a deep one, is sister jane." "i hope you won't be offended at what he says, mr. oakley," said mrs. huxter, in an apologetic tone. "he don't mean what he says." "shut up, mrs. huxter!" said her husband, who was disposed to be quarrelsome. "don't make a fool of yourself, but get supper as soon as you can." "we haven't got any meat in the house," said mrs. huxter, timidly. "you know you only left me a little money." "here's some money," said mr. huxter, fumbling in his pocket, and producing a five-dollar bill. mrs. huxter took the bill, surprised at its large amount, for she seldom got more than one dollar at a time. forthwith the girl of ten was sent for some steak at the butcher's, and in a reasonable time supper was declared to be ready. meanwhile mr. huxter had been to the pump, and by the free use of cold water, applied externally, succeeded in getting the better of his intoxication, and was prepared to do full justice to the meal provided. by the time supper was over, it was half-past eight. john felt fatigued with his long journey, and asked permission to retire. he was shown to an attic chamber, furnished only with a cot bed and a broken chair. but, rude as were the accommodations, john slept soundly, little dreaming the unwelcome news that awaited him on the morrow. chapter xiv. mr. huxter at home. when john awoke the next morning he found it difficult at first to understand where he was; but recollection soon came to his aid, and he remembered that he was mr. huxter's guest. he rose from the cot-bed, and, going to the window, looked out. the prospect was not a very pleasant one. just across the street was a pasture, with here and there a gnarled and stunted tree. the immediate neighborhood of mr. huxter's house has already been described. "i don't wonder they call it hardscrabble," thought john. "i shouldn't like to live here." at this moment mr. huxter's head was thrust in through the open door. "come, oakley," said he, "it's time to get up. we don't want any lazy folks here." "i was tired with my ride yesterday, and overslept myself," said john. "well, dress as quick as you can," said mr. huxter, turning to descend the stairs. "i don't see any washbowl," said john, hesitating. "you can come downstairs and wash, like the rest of us," said mr. huxter. "you needn't expect us to lug up water for you." john did not reply to this rude speech; but he could not avoid being struck by the change in the manner of his host. mr. huxter had, when first introduced, treated him with elaborate politeness. now he treated him with downright rudeness, and as if he possessed some authority over him. john did not understand this, nor did he like it; but as it was only for a few days at the farthest, he resolved not to repay rudeness with rudeness, but to behave with as much respect as circumstances would allow. in the mean time he would ascertain as soon as possible the object of his visit, and so hasten matters as to allow of his return home with as little delay as possible. dressing hastily, he went downstairs, and found the breakfast-table spread in the kitchen. mr. huxter was seated at the table in his shirt-sleeves. "down at last, oakley," he said. "sit right up." "i should like to wash first," said john. "well, there's the sink, and there's a tin basin," said mr. huxter. "wait a minute, mr. oakley," said mrs. huxter, "i'll wash out the basin for you." "it's clean enough," said her husband. "no, there's been some greasy water in it," said mrs. huxter. "you're mighty anxious to wait on him," sneered mr. huxter. "you don't seem to think me of any consequence." his wife did not reply. poor woman! she had a hard time of it. she had always had to contend with poverty; but poverty is not the worst of evils. if her husband had been reasonably kind, she could have borne that without repining, though it subjected her to many privations which she well knew might have been avoided had not her husband been so shiftless and intemperate. but his temper was far from sweet. he was that detestable character, a domestic tyrant, and did all in his power to make his wife uncomfortable and unhappy. she had learned that her best course was to permit his taunts and harsh words to pass unheeded, for at such times reason had no weight with him. it did not take john long to understand the position of affairs. he saw that mrs. huxter was disposed to be polite and kind to him, and he felt grateful. he could not help pitying her for having such a husband. "thank you, mrs. huxter," he said, when she had prepared the basin for him. "i suppose you are accustomed to washing in your own room," she said. "yes," said john; "but it's of no consequence. i can wash down here just as well." "of course you can," said mr. huxter. "come, be spry there, oakley." john washed himself deliberately, not thinking that it was necessary to hurry himself on mr. huxter's account, and sat down to the table. "you're an enterprising young man," said mr. huxter. "i'm half through my breakfast, and you're just ready to begin." "he had a long and tiresome journey yesterday," said mrs. huxter. "no wonder he was tired." "so had i," said her husband. "you don't seem to think i can ever get tired, even when i've been working like a dog." "what time is it?" asked john. "most seven." "seven is our breakfast-hour at home," said john, quietly. "as you did not tell me you breakfasted earlier here, you could not expect me to get up sooner than i did." "that's true, mr. oakley," said mrs. huxter. "so you're siding with him,--are you?" said mr. huxter, angrily. john was far from being a coward. he was disposed to treat every one with courtesy and respect, but expected to be treated in the same way. mr. huxter's manner was so very offensive, and his words so dictatorial, that his anger was excited. he felt that he could not with proper self-respect remain silent longer. "mr. huxter," he said, fixing his eyes calmly on the face of his host, "you seem to forget that i am your guest, and entitled to be treated with common politeness." "mr. oakley is quite right," said mrs. huxter. "you have been very rude to him." "do you mean to say i'm not polite?" demanded huxter, raising his voice. it was not certain to whom this question was addressed,--to john or his wife. but john, who did not wish to get mrs. huxter into trouble on his account, hastened to reply:-"you can judge for yourself, mr. huxter, whether you have treated me as i had a right to expect. i came here with you to oblige your sister, mrs. oakley. when the business is over, i shall go back. i suppose it will only occupy a short time. i shall try to make you as little trouble as possible, and if you will let me know the rules of your house i will try to conform to them. to-morrow morning i shall be downstairs in time for breakfast." mr. huxter would have been angry at these words, but the secret thought that john was in his power moderated his resentment. he laughed in his sleeve at the thought of john's dismay, when he learned that he was not here on a visit, but to remain for an indefinite period. this fact he had not mentioned even to his wife, who, therefore, could not help wondering what could be john's business. "you've made quite a speech, oakley," said he, sarcastically. "you may think it all right to charge a man with impoliteness in his own house, but for my part i think it cursed impudent." "i do not intend to be impudent," said john. "i don't know what you intend, but you are so," said huxter. "i hope you won't mind what he says," said mrs. huxter, distressed. "shut up, mrs. huxter! i'd rather you wouldn't interfere. i'll have it out with this young man without any help from you." "i don't understand you, mr. huxter," said john, with dignity. "i have tried to treat you with proper respect." "yes, you've tried very hard." "and i don't know why you have taken offence. i should like to know how long i am likely to be detained here on the business which has brought me here." "why do you want to know?" "because i think it would be better for both of us that i should go to the hotel, if there is one in the village. i am afraid we are not likely to agree very well, and then i shall not interfere with any of your arrangements." "who do you expect is going to pay your hotel bills?" demanded mr. huxter, with a sneer. "i think there will be no difficulty about that," said john. "if you think my sister will pay any such bills you are mistaken." "as i came here on business of hers she will probably pay it. if she is unwilling, i will pay it myself." "indeed!" said mr. huxter, pricking up his ears. "where will you get the money?" "i hope you will not take offence, mr. huxter, if i decline to answer that question." "have you got any money with you?" "i decline answering." mr. huxter was about to make an angry reply; but a moment's thought led him to change his purpose. he was anxious to find out how much money john had. "have you got money enough to keep you at the hotel a week?" "shall i need to remain here a week?" asked john, a little disturbed at the thought of having his studies interrupted for so long a time, especially as there seemed so little prospect of deriving any enjoyment from his visit. "perhaps longer." "if i don't have money enough, i will write to mrs. oakley for more," he said. "i can tell you beforehand that you won't get any." "we won't dispute about that," said john. "i shall be glad to go about this business at once, as i do not wish to be kept away from my studies any longer than is absolutely necessary." "i'm thinking, young man," said mr. huxter, "that it will be a good while before you go back to your latin and greek." "why so?" said john. "read that, and you'll know," said mr. huxter; and he drew a note from his pocket, and handed it to john. chapter xv. mrs. oakley's note. john opened the note, little suspecting the nature of its contents. it was as follows:- "john oakley:--i have made an arrangement with my brother to have you board with him for the present. as you and benjamin find it so difficult to agree, it will be much better that you should live apart. if you had not treated him so brutally i should not be under the necessity of sending you away from home. i hope you will give my brother no trouble, but will follow his directions. he understands what course i wish him to pursue with you. if he reports favorably of you, i will send for you to return at a proper time." "jane oakley." "p. s. i will forward your trunk by express, early next week." john read this cold and unjust letter with mingled anger and dismay. it was hard to have all the blame of his quarrel with ben thrown upon him, when ben had been the aggressor, and he had only contended for his just rights. so he was to be exiled from home on ben's account. he could not help thinking how happily his father and he used to live together before the present mrs. oakley came to the farm as house-keeper. and now she and her son had taken possession, and he was turned adrift. what would his father have thought, could he have foreseen what would happen so soon after his death! these thoughts, and others not less disturbing, passed through john's mind as he read his stepmother's letter. mr. huxter's eyes were fixed upon his face in cruel exultation, for he imagined the nature of john's feelings, and enjoyed his sorrow. "well, oakley, what do you say to that?" he demanded. "i don't know what to say," said john. "no, i presume not. the fact is, you haven't got anything to say in the matter. my sister is your natural guardian, and she has sent you to me to manage. she says you're rather a tough subject; but i reckon i can manage you. you'll find me a little harder to deal with than a woman, i can tell you that." john did not reply. indeed, he hardly knew what mr. huxter had been saying. so many thoughts crowded in upon his mind with regard to the sudden change in his position that he paid little attention to what was said. "is this the only business on which mrs. oakley sent me?" he asked, at length. "it's enough, isn't it?" demanded mr. huxter, with a laugh. "so you hadn't the least idea what was the object of your expedition?" "no, i had not," said john, indignantly. "i had no suspicion that it was only a trap." "i knew you hadn't," said mr. huxter, laughing with evident enjoyment. "you were pretty well taken in, hey?" "i was taken in," said john, shortly. "sister jane was pretty cute. she knew you'd be making a fuss, if you knew. i told her that once i got you here there wouldn't be any more trouble. so now you know all about it, and you may as well settle down to staying here." mrs. huxter, to whom all this was news, listened with earnest attention. she was a good-hearted woman, and she couldn't help pitying john. she liked her sister-in-law, now mrs. oakley, no better than john did, and was very thankful when, after a two years' residence under her roof, she had obtained a position as house-keeper at a distance. she readily came to the conclusion that john had been harshly and unjustly treated, and she could not forbear expressing her sympathy. "i did not know you were going to remain with us, mr. oakley," she said. "i'll try to make you comfortable as long as you stay." "thank you, mrs. huxter," said john, gratefully; for he could understand the kindness which led her to speak. "you needn't mister him," said mr. huxter, roughly. "it's ridiculous to call such a boy 'mr.'; it'll make him put on airs worse than ever." "i do not know his first name," said mrs. huxter. "my name is john," said our hero. "then i will call you so, if you are willing." "if he is willing! don't make a fool of yourself, mrs. huxter. it makes no difference whether he is willing or not." "i shall be glad to have you call me john," said our hero, without regarding mr. huxter's brutal speech. john rose from the table. he had not eaten much, for mr. huxter's coarseness, and the note from his stepmother, had taken away his appetite. "won't you have something more, john?" asked mrs. huxter. "you've eaten very little." "no, thank you. i don't feel much appetite this morning." he took his hat, and was about to leave the house by the back door which led out of the kitchen. "where are you going, oakley?" demanded mr. huxter. "i am going out for a walk," said john, shortly. mr. huxter hesitated whether to obey the dictates of the petty tyranny which impelled him to forbid john to go out, but finally decided not to interfere at present. he contented himself, therefore, with saying:-"i expect you to return within an hour." john made no reply, but his manly spirit revolted against such contemptible despotism. he did not recognize mr. huxter's authority, and did not mean to. he resolved to take an independent stand at once, and return when he pleased, and no sooner. i wish it to be distinctly understood that john did not expect, at his present age, to enjoy all the privileges of a grown man. he was always respectful to rightful authority, but he considered that mr. huxter's authority was not rightful, and that his commands ought to have no weight with him. mr. huxter did not know the character with which he had to deal. he did not know that john could be as firm under some circumstances, as he was compliant in others. if he had known him better he might have felt less confident of triumphing over him. when he left the room huxter turned to his wife, and said, harshly:-"i've got something to say to you, mrs. huxter. you needn't trouble yourself to take that boy's part. he is a proud-spirited young rascal, and he needs taking down." "he seems to me a very good sort of boy," said his wife. "that shows what a good judge you are," said mr. huxter, with a sneer. "he's a young bully, and was all the time fighting with ben." "i always thought ben inclined to be a bully," said mrs. huxter. "well, he is a proud young upstart," admitted his uncle, who had not forgiven ben's disdain. "got some of the brayton blood in him. but the other's just as bad. it's six of one and half a dozen of the other. however, wife," pursued mr. huxter, with a change of tone, "it's likely to be a good thing for us. we're to have six dollars a week for boarding young oakley." "that's very good pay. i really think we ought to make him comfortable." "he won't get much favor from me. i promised jane i'd break his proud spirit, and i'm going to do it. i shall set him to work next week in the shop." "set him to work while we are getting six dollars a week for his board!" exclaimed mrs. huxter, in astonishment. "yes, that's what jane told me to do." "but his work alone will more than pay his board." "all the better for us." "but i don't think, mr. huxter, you have the right to do it." "that shows how little you know about it. isn't jane his guardian?" "does she agree to the arrangement?" "of course she does. she told me i might do it." "and she will be willing to pay his board besides?" "yes. you see i represented to her that now she was a rich woman she ought to do something for her only brother, and that's the way she's going to do it. it's a good thing for both of us. she gets rid of a troublesome young rascal, and i get handsomely paid for taking charge of him. it's a very simple arrangement." "i can't seem to think it's right," said mrs. huxter, slowly. "then you're a fool," said mr. huxter, not very politely. "i'm afraid there'll be trouble," thought mrs. huxter, nervously, but she did not reply. chapter xvi. mr. huxter makes a discovery, and so does john. john felt that he was in a difficult situation, and he went out, not so much for a walk, as to gain time to consider what he should do under the circumstances. he guessed without much difficulty the reason which had led to his banishment. mrs. oakley did not like him, he was aware, and it was natural that she should take measures to remove him from the house. but john felt that, though this was one reason, it was not the principal reason. he was satisfied that she wished to have him out of the way while she was looking for the will. but since the discovery of the will could only be of advantage to him, and strip her of two-thirds of the property, he was forced to the conclusion that, if she found it, it would be only to destroy it, or put it away where he would never be likely to find it. he was thoroughly convinced of this, but he asked himself in vain what he could do under the circumstances. there he was at a loss. he could not return and force mrs. oakley to keep him at home, or if so, he well knew that she would manage to make his position very uncomfortable. mrs. oakley certainly had every advantage over him. it would not be prudent, he knew, to reveal his suspicion, for he had no proof to bring forward. what should he do? mrs. oakley meant him to remain with her brother; but he had already seen enough of mr. huxter's petty tyranny and intemperate habits, to decide that he could never be happy or ordinarily comfortable with him. of the two, mrs. oakley seemed preferable. mrs. huxter, to be sure, seemed to be a good-hearted woman, but she was a victim of her husband's tyranny, and her well-meant interference, without doing him any good, would very likely bring her into trouble. finding his perplexity only increase, john adopted a sensible resolution. he determined to lay the matter before some one who was older and wiser than himself, and be guided by his advice. he decided to write to squire selwyn, his father's lawyer and friend, who was already well acquainted with all the circumstances of the case, and ask his advice. if he should write at once, he calculated that an answer might reach him by the fourth day, and until then he thought he could endure mr. huxter's disagreeable manners. as to the will, he thought it more than probable that it would never be found, or, if found, it would never do him any good. if mrs. oakley would carry out his father's plans, permit him to continue his studies and go through college, he would then be able to make his own way, and would not trouble himself about the property. while engaged in these reflections he had been slowly walking up the road towards the village. it was not much of a village, not more than twenty houses in all, including a church, a school-house, the tavern, and a store. knowing something of the custom in country villages, john rightly concluded that the post-office would be found in the store. he entered therefore, and looked about him. it was a common country store, with a stock of a very miscellaneous assortment of articles, from sugar and dried apples to calico and tape. one corner was appropriated to the use of the post-office. john walked up to the counter and asked:-"have you any writing paper and envelopes?" "yes," said the clerk, producing the articles. john bought two sheets of paper and two envelopes, thinking he might have occasion to write two letters, and then asked when the mail went out. "it has already gone." "when will the next mail go?" "to-morrow morning." "will you allow me the use of your ink to write a letter?" "certainly. just step behind the counter." john followed directions, and, sitting down at the desk, commenced writing. he thought it better to write here than to do so at mr. huxter's, knowing that the suspicions of the latter would be excited. it is not necessary for me to transcribe john's letter. he contented himself with stating plainly the situation in which he found himself, and the manner in which he had already been treated by mr. huxter, and wound up by asking squire selwyn's advice. having concluded the letter, he directed it neatly, and, prepaying the postage, handed it to the clerk. "all right," said the latter. "it'll go to-morrow morning." when this matter was disposed of john felt more comfortable. he had transferred the responsibility of deciding what he should do to another in whom he had great confidence, and so felt a burden removed from his own shoulders. he thought he could stand mr. huxter's harsh treatment for a few days. meanwhile, with the usual elasticity of youth, he began to feel an interest in the new scenes by which he was surrounded. he had never before been so far away from home, and though jackson was not a very attractive place, it was new, and so had a certain charm for him. about half a mile distant he saw a hill, which, though barren pasture land, would afford him a good view of the village. he determined to climb it, and look about him. we must now return to mr. huxter. half an hour or more after john left the house he began to feel thirsty,--not that natural, healthful thirst to which we are all subject, but the artificial, craving thirst of one who has accustomed himself to the drinking of alcoholic mixtures. thanks to the advanced payment for john's board which he had received from his sister, he was unusually well supplied with funds, and felt that he need work no more than he chose. after splitting up a little wood, therefore, he turned out of the yard, and walked towards the tavern. he went into the bar-room, and received a cordial greeting from the landlord, of whom he was a pretty steady customer. "good-morning, huxter, where have you kept yourself for two or three days? you haven't been round to see me." "i've been making a visit to my sister," said huxter. "oh, that's it. i began to think you had taken the temperance pledge, and given up your old friends." "i haven't come to that yet," said mr. huxter, in a tone which indicated that he considered taking the pledge a very discreditable proceeding. "no; i thought you'd have too much sense for that. what'll you have this morning?" "give me a glass of something stiff. let it be extra good, for i'm going to pay up the old score." no doubt it was extra good, for mr. huxter drank it with evident enjoyment, and immediately ordered another glass. this, too, was drank, and after a little desultory conversation mr. huxter left the tavern. it occurred to him that his stock of tobacco was out, and he went into the store hard by to lay in a fresh supply. while he was paying for it the clerk said:-"you brought a boy home with you, mr. huxter, didn't you?" "yes. how'd you know?" "i saw him on the stage, and somebody said he got off at your house. going to stay with you?" "yes, i've taken charge of him." "he seems a good sort of boy." "when did you see him?" asked mr. huxter. "this morning. he only went out from here a few minutes ago." "humph!" said mr. huxter. "did he buy anything?" "only two sheets of paper and two envelopes." a light began to dawn upon mr. huxter. john wanted to make trouble by writing home. "look here," said he; "if the boy brings in a letter you needn't send it. keep it, and hand it to me." the clerk looked surprised. mr. huxter, finding some explanation necessary, continued:-"he's a very troublesome boy. he's almost broken his poor mother's heart,--she's my sister,--and i've agreed to take charge of him for a time. it takes a man to manage him. but it won't do for him to be writing home and making a fuss. you understand?" "i shouldn't have thought him so troublesome. he looks very quiet." "you can't judge from appearances," said mr. huxter, shaking his head. "he don't show out before folks. so, if any letters are put in directed to hampton, just keep them, and i'll look them over. if they're proper to send, i will let them go." "he wrote a letter here this morning." "did he?" asked mr. huxter, his eyes sparkling. "the young rascal's prompt. it's lucky i came in. he was cunning enough to write here, that i might not know anything about it. let me see the letter." the clerk, not doubting mr. huxter's authority, handed him the letter. he broke it open hastily, and read it. it is needless to say that john's description of himself, though moderately expressed, was far from complimentary, and mr. huxter's heart was stirred with indignation. "the young rascal shall pay for this," he thought. "this letter is not fit to send," he said, aloud. "it would only make trouble. i will take charge of it. the boy needn't know but it is gone. you may take any letter he brings; but mind you don't send it till i have seen it." "very well," said the clerk; but he could not help pitying john, if he was to be under mr. huxter's guardianship. in a small village like jackson every man's failings were a matter of general knowledge, and the estimation in which mr. huxter was held was not very high. "well, i've defeated the young rascal," thought mr. huxter, triumphantly, as he left the store. "he'll find it isn't so easy to outwit me. if jane can't manage him i can, and i intend to. i reckon it'll be some time he'll have to wait for an answer to that letter." this thought amused mr. huxter, so that he partly forgot his vexation at the unflattering description of himself which the letter contained. having no further business to attend to, he went up the road towards home. the letter he put in one of the side-pockets of the loose coat which he wore. but there was a large hole in his pocket, and without mr. huxter's knowledge the letter slipped through. he kept on his way, not suspecting his loss. the letter remained unnoticed in the grass by the side of the road, having been wafted there by the wind, until john, on his way home an hour and a half later, happened to catch sight of it. he went to pick it up, not suspecting what it was, and was immeasurably surprised when he found it to be the same letter he had put into the post-office two hours before. how came it there? john was not long in guessing the truth. mr. huxter was determined that he should not communicate with any one in hampton, and had recalled the letter. no doubt he had given instructions to the postmaster, which would make it impossible for john to post any letters in future in the village. "i am very glad to know this," thought john; "i shall know better how to act." he put the letter in his pocket, and kept on his way, determined to keep his discovery to himself. he began to see what sort of man he had to deal with. chapter xvii. a new acquaintance. twelve o'clock was the dinner hour at mr. huxter's. john and he met once more, but the dispute between them was not renewed. john was deliberating as to what course he should pursue. mr. huxter was secretly exulting in having defeated john's attempt to communicate with his friends, little suspecting that john knew all about it. so on the whole he was pleasanter than usual, and allowed his young guest to eat in peace. mrs. huxter was glad to notice this change in his conduct, though she hardly dared to hope that it would continue. "so you took a walk this morning, oakley?" said mr. huxter. "yes, sir." "where did you go?" "i went to the top of the hill behind the tavern." "how do you like our village?" "i can't tell yet. i haven't got sufficiently acquainted." "you'll have chance enough before you get through," said mr. huxter, significantly. john understood this very well; but did not see fit to show that he did so. he did not wish to provoke a quarrel. "i am going to write to my sister this afternoon," said mr. huxter. "perhaps you'd like to send a message." "thank you," said john; "i don't think of any message just at present." "you wouldn't like to send your love to ben, would you?" asked mr. huxter, jocosely. "i don't think i should," said john, quietly. "there isn't much love lost between you two, i reckon." "we are not very good friends," said john, in the same quiet tone. "i'm sure it's no wonder," said mrs. huxter; "ben was always a troublesome, headstrong boy." "let me tell you, mrs. huxter," said her husband, sharply, "it doesn't look very well in you to run down your own relations." mrs. huxter thought it prudent not to reply. "let me see," said mr. huxter, as they rose from the table, "it's friday,--too late in the week to begin anything. you shall have till monday morning to look about you, and then we'll see if we can't find something for you to do." here was a disclosure for john. he had understood that he was to board with mr. huxter. now it appeared that the latter intended to set him to work. had he any authority for doing so, and what was john's duty under the circumstances. he wished earnestly that he were able to consult squire selwyn without delay, and this reminded him that his letter had not yet gone. it would be useless to leave it again at the village post-office. it must go from some other. john had all the afternoon before him, and if the next town were not too far off, he determined to walk over and post his letter there. not wishing mr. huxter to have any clue to his plans, he decided to obtain the necessary information, not from mrs. huxter, though he did not doubt her willingness to give it, but from some other person. he went out into the road, and began to walk slowly in a direction opposite to that which he had taken in the morning. it was the stage road he knew, and was probably the most direct route to the next town. our hero had walked about three-quarters of a mile, when he heard a loud clattering sound behind him. turning around, he saw a farm-wagon, driven by a boy of about his own age. it was but little past noon, and the walk which might be a long one was sure to be a hot one. as the boy-driver appeared to be alone, and there was plenty of room for another, john hailed him. "hallo!" he called out. "hold on a minute." "whoa!" shouted the boy, and brought his horse to a stop. "are you going to the next village?" inquired john. "to milbank, you mean?" "yes," said john, who was not quite sure whether he meant it or not, but was willing to take the risk. "yes, i'm going there. don't you want a ride?" "that's just what i was going to ask. i'm willing to pay for it." "i don't want any pay," said the boy; "i'd rather have company than go alone." "how far is milbank?" "it's a pretty good piece,--most five miles." john was glad he had not attempted to walk. "you don't live round here, do you?" asked john's new acquaintance. "no." "i thought i hadn't seen you. whereabouts are you stayin'?" [illustration] "at mr. huxter's." "is he a relation of yours?" asked the boy, looking at john with interest. "no, he isn't," said john, hastily, unwilling for a moment to have it supposed that there was any such tie between him and his temporary host. "are you going to stay long?" john was not surprised at these questions, for in the country, where he had always lived, it was the rule to be inquisitive about other people's affairs, and he felt that he ought to make some return for his ride. "i don't think i shall," he said. he would like to have replied decidedly in the negative; but he felt that he was by no means certain about the length of his stay. "how do you like huxter?" asked his new acquaintance, with rather a comical look. "i've seen men i liked better," said john, smiling. "shouldn't wonder," said the other. "he gets awful tight sometimes." "it is a pity," said john, "for mrs. huxter seems to be a good sort of a woman, and it must be hard on her." "it would be hard for any woman to have such a husband. i don't know mrs. huxter much, but i never heard anything against her. i've a great mind to tell you," said the boy, looking at john to judge whether he appeared as if he might be trusted with a secret, "a trick that one or two of the fellows played on mr. huxter once when he was drunk. but you'll be sure not to tell?" john, whose curiosity was somewhat excited, gave the required promise. "you see," continued his informant, "i was walking along with george sprague one afternoon, when we came across old huxter lying side of the road as drunk as he could be. george is rather a wild boy, and always up to some mischief or other. that afternoon he happened to have a little red paint, which he had got at the painter's shop for his father to use. as soon as we saw old huxter snoring away, george winked to me, and said, 'huxter's nose is red, but i've a great mind to make it a little redder. i should like to see how the old fellow will look.' with that he took out his brush, and touched huxter's nose with it lightly, making it as red as a brick. i was afraid he would wake up and chase us, for he's pretty violent when he's drunk; but he was too far gone, and never stirred. george took the paint home, and then we came out to see if huxter had gone home. we found he had, and we afterwards heard how the trick came out." [illustration] "when he got home and went into the kitchen, mrs. huxter screamed as soon as she saw him. "'what's the matter with you?' he growled. "'o mr. huxter!' she said, clasping her hands, 'i knew that drinking would be the ruin of you.' "'then you're a fool,' he said. 'drinking a little now and then don't do me any harm; but you're a woman, and have no more sense than a kitten.' "'you don't believe me, look at your nose,' said his wife. "'what's the matter with my nose?' asked old huxter, a little surprised. "'look at it, and you won't be surprised at my words.' "with that huxter did look, and when he saw his nose glaring red, he was pretty well frightened, i can tell you. he had no more suspicion than his wife that any one had been playing a trick upon him, and he was afraid that his nose would always be so. he got frightened and went to bed, and then asked his wife to go for the doctor." "did the doctor tell him how it was?" "no; he thought it would do him no harm to be frightened a little; so he lectured him about his habits, but told him that he thought he could cure him this time by using a warm lotion. it was nothing but warm water, with something put in to stain the water and make him think it was something else; but huxter did not know that, and was very grateful to the doctor for relieving him. "the fright had such an effect upon him that he didn't drink anything for a whole week. then he began again, and got bolder by degrees, till now he's as bad as ever." "how did you find out how the doctor treated the case?" "because george sprague is the doctor's son. the doctor told all about it at home as a good joke. george heard it all, but never breathed a word to his father about his being the one that painted huxter's nose. the doctor didn't say anything to george, but he looked at him rather queerly, as if he had some suspicion. it was a good joke,--wasn't it?" "it would have turned out pretty well if it had stopped mr. huxter's drinking." "nothing will do that. he's a pretty hard case but you mustn't say a word about what i've been telling you. it would get george and me into trouble." "no, i won't say anything about it." "where do you live?" "in hampton." "whereabouts is that? is it far from here?" "about eighty miles, i should think. it lies to the north." "is it a pleasant place?" "i think so; but then i was born there, you know, and perhaps that is the reason i think so." "well, i was born in jackson, but i don't think much of it. i guess we'll move away next spring. father talks of selling his farm. what is your name?" "my name is john oakley." "and mine is david wallace." the boys now felt thoroughly acquainted, and chatted together on a variety of subjects, such as interest boys. while they were in the midst of their conversation, they came to a grist-mill. "i must stop here about ten minutes, to leave my grain," said david. "the village is a mile further on. if you'll wait i'll carry you there afterwards." "i don't want you to go just on my account," said john. "i am going there any way," said david. "there are better stores at milbank than at home, and mother asked me to buy her two or three things. so you can come as well as not, and ride back too, if you don't want to stay long." "thank you, david," said john. "i shall be glad to accept your offer. it's rather hot walking, and i shan't want to stop but a few minutes. shall you go anywhere near the post-office?" "close by." "i'll just run in there a minute." "have you got anything else to do?" "no." "you didn't set out to walk just to go to the milbank post-office, did you?" asked david, in some surprise. "i had a letter to mail." "couldn't you mail it at our post-office?" "yes, i could; but it wouldn't go." "why not?" "i've a great mind to tell you. you told me one secret, and i'll tell you another, but on the same condition,--you won't tell anybody?" "i wish i may have my head chopped off if i do," said david, earnestly. john felt sure that he could trust his new acquaintance, though they had so recently been brought to the knowledge of each other, and he wanted somebody to confide in. so he gave david wallace a general idea of his story, not mentioning, however, the will, as he could see no advantage in so doing. "so huxter thinks you don't know anything of his having stopped your letter?" "i am sure he does not." "it's a good joke on him. he will never think of your coming so far to mail a letter." part of this conversation took place after they had left the mill, and were driving towards milbank. they were soon in the village. it was a much larger and pleasanter place than jackson, and much more important also, being the county seat, and therefore having a court-house and a jail. john looked around him with interest, and did not dream how lucky he was in taking this journey on this particular afternoon. chapter xviii. an unexpected meeting. "that is the court-house," said david wallace, pointing out a brick building, surmounted by a wooden cupola. john glanced at the building to which his attention was thus called. he had hardly done so than he started and uttered an exclamation of surprise. "what's the matter?" demanded david. "won't you stop the horse?" asked john, hastily. "i want to get out." "what for?" "there's a man i know. i want to speak to him." david stopped the horse, and john sprang to the ground. he hurried to the gateway of the court-house, by which a gentleman was just entering. "squire selwyn!" john called out. mr. selwyn, for it was indeed he, turned in surprise, and could hardly believe his eyes. "john oakley!" he exclaimed; "is it really you?" "yes, sir." "how came you here?" "it is a long story, sir. can you spare me fifteen minutes? i had written you a letter, and was just about to post it," said john. "yes, i will spare you that time. come into the court-house with me, and we will find a chance to sit down." "one minute, sir, and i will be with you." john returned to the wagon, and said to the surprised david:-"it is the gentleman to whom i was going to post a letter. i am going in to have a talk with him. i won't trouble you to stop for me, but i can walk home. i am very much obliged to you for bringing me so far." "how long will you be?" asked david. "half an hour perhaps." "i shall be here as long as that. i will go on and do my errands, and stop here on my way back. then, if you are through, i will take you along. you would find it warm walking." "you're very kind, david." "i'd rather have company than not. it makes the time go quicker. so go ahead. it's all right." david started the horse, and john rejoined the lawyer, who had been waiting for him. "you say you were just going to post me a letter?" said squire selwyn. "yes, sir." "of course you have it with you?" "here it is." "i will read it. that will be the shortest way of getting at what you wish to consult me about. after i have read it, i will ask any questions that seem needful. but first we will come in." they entered the court-house, and went into a room to the left, where they found seats. squire selwyn put on his spectacles, and read the letter slowly and deliberately. "you are in a difficult position, john," he said, when he had finished reading. "you are very unpleasantly situated, i should judge." "very, sir." "and this mr. huxter doesn't seem a very agreeable man to have dealings with?" "i should be very unhappy if i expected to be obliged to stay with him." "you say he is intemperate?" "he drank several times on his way back in the stage, and the boy with whom i rode over says he has been intemperate for years." "certainly he is not a fit person to have charge of you. does he know that you have come over here to-day?" "no, sir." "it is evidently mrs. oakley's intention that you you should not be allowed to communicate with me, or any of your other friends in hampton. so, no doubt, she has instructed her brother. there must be some motive for this." squire selwyn looked thoughtfully at john as he said this, perhaps with a view of drawing out john's opinion. "i think," said john, hesitatingly, "that she is going to look for the will." "i won't say whether i agree with you or not," said squire selwyn, cautiously. "it is not best to charge any one with wrong thoughts or intentions too hastily, but it is well to be prepared for what may be done to our disadvantage. of course it is for your interest that the will should be found, provided the discovery is made public." "yes, sir." "but would mrs. oakley make it public, if found, when it is for her interest to keep it concealed? that is an important question." "she can do what she pleases so far as i am concerned. she has sent me away from home, where i shall know nothing that is going on." "in one sense you are wholly in the power of your stepmother," said the lawyer; "but you will have some one to look after your interests. your father was my friend, and you are my son's friend. i shall do what i can in your behalf." "thank you, sir," said john, gratefully. "i felt sure you would, and that is why i wrote to you at once." "as soon as i return to hampton,--and that will be to-morrow,--i will call on mrs. oakley, and, without letting her know how i came by the information, will set before her your present position, and demand that she pursue a different course. the result i will communicate to you. how do you wish me to direct any letter i may have occasion to write?" "to milbank, if you please, squire selwyn. if directed to jackson, i feel sure that it would fall into mr. huxter's hands." "and never reach you. very likely you are right. then i will direct to milbank, and will write at once upon having my interview with mrs. oakley." "suppose mr. huxter ill-treats me in the mean time?" suggested john. "i think it is his intention to set me to work next week." "did he not say you were boarding with him?" "that is what mrs. oakley said in her letter." "then if he is paid a full price for your board, i do not see that he has any claim upon your services. it is better, however, to avoid cause of quarrel until you hear from me." "and if you cannot induce mrs. oakley to change her plans?" asked john. "you wouldn't advise me to stay with mr. huxter?" "didn't your father have a married sister?" inquired squire selwyn. "i think i have heard so." "yes, sir. her husband kept a country store in the town of wilton." "that is about fifty miles to the westward. well, though i don't in general approve of a boy's running away, it might be advisable, should your stepmother continue obstinate, and mr. huxter seem disposed to abuse you, to leave here, and seek out your aunt. should you make this change, you would of course immediately communicate with me." "yes, sir. thank you for the advice. i never thought of that before; but i think it is the best thing i could do." "have you any money, john?" asked squire selwyn, putting his hand into his pocket. "yes, sir; thank you. i have thirty dollars." "indeed!" said the lawyer, surprised. "did mrs. oakley supply you with so much?" "no, sir; but when my father was alive he gave me an allowance of a dollar a week pocket-money. i had saved up thirty dollars, thinking i might some time want to make a large purchase,--a row-boat, or something of that kind. when i came away with mr. huxter, i thought i had better bring it with me." "it is lucky you did so. you may have occasion to use it. does mr. huxter know you have this money?" "he knows i have some money," said john, "but probably does not suspect how much." "i advise you to take care of it then. such a man is not to be trusted. if he claims the power of controlling you, he may demand this money." "i don't think he will get it," said john, resolutely. "i hope not. you were always a quiet boy; but i have observed that you were not deficient in firmness." "i hope you don't think me obstinate, squire selwyn," said john, smiling. "no, i don't think you that." "if i find myself in the wrong i am always ready to confess it and give up." "that's right, my lad. it's a thing that some of us who are much older than you find it hard to do. by the way, i suppose you wonder how i happen to be here so opportunely for you." "i have been wondering all the time, but did not like to ask." "one of my clients placed some business in my hands relating to property which required me to consult the county records of this county." "you didn't come through by the stage?" "no, i thought it too long and tedious. so i came by a roundabout way which left me only twenty miles' staging. i travelled a greater number of miles than you, but in considerably less time. now, john, is there anything more i can do for you before i set about the particular business which called me here?" "no, sir, thank you. at least i think of nothing." "one thing at least let me say. we don't know how this affair is coming out. your stepmother may prove wholly unmanageable, especially as the power is in her hands, as things are at present situated. should there come a time when you have need of further money, let me know frankly, and i will see what i can do for you." "you are very kind indeed, sir," said john, earnestly. "i certainly ought to be. when i came to hampton, a young lawyer and without acquaintances, your father took me by the hand, and placed his business in my hands, and influenced others to do the same. so i consider that he laid the foundation of my present prosperity, and therefore i shall not desert his son while he is in trouble." "thank you, squire selwyn," said john. "i did not know what you just told me; but i did know that my father looked upon you as one of his most valued friends." "well, john, good-by," said the lawyer, kindly, extending his hand. "keep up a good heart, and something may turn up which may set matters right. be sure to keep me apprised of your movements, and rely upon me to do what i can for you in hampton." john left the court-house much encouraged by the friendly words of squire selwyn. he felt that he would prove a powerful friend, and his burden of care was diminished now that he had communicated his situation to such a friend. just then david wallace drove up to the gate in his wagon. "have you got through your talk?" he asked. "just finished." "jump aboard then, and we'll be getting home." "i've been pretty lucky to-day, david," said john. "how's that?" "in the first place, in finding my letter by the side of the road. but for that i should have thought it had gone straight. next in meeting you, and being saved a hot walk; and again in just meeting the very man i wanted most to see." "there's one thing you forgot," said david, roguishly. "what's that?" "the affectionate welcome you'll get from old huxter when you reach home." "i don't count much on that," said john, smiling in return. "i'm glad you've overreached the old fellow," said david. "he thinks he's overreached me." "i know it. that makes it all the better." john reached his temporary home about four o'clock. mr. huxter was not at home when he arrived, and remained ignorant of the important interview which had taken place between john and squire selwyn. chapter xix. on the track. when the stage which conveyed john and mr. huxter was fairly out of sight mrs. oakley entered the house with a great feeling of relief. she realized for the first time how she had been constrained by the presence of her stepson. though he had always been respectful, there was an unuttered reproach in his frank, fearless glance, which made her uncomfortable. it was the tribute which a mean and wicked nature pays to one of greater nobility, though mrs. oakley did not acknowledge that. she only felt glad that john was out of the way. she had been so fearful that something might happen to prevent the success of her plan, that she had been careful not to make ben acquainted with it. she was apprehensive that ben would, in his exultation, lead john to suspect what was going on, and so cause him to refuse going. now that he was fairly off she would tell her son the good news. ben came down to breakfast late. he generally had his way now, and was seldom present at the regular breakfast hour. it was different when squire oakley was alive; but then many other things were different also. "benjamin is delicate," she said, one morning in presence of the servant. "he needs more sleep than the rest of us." "maybe it's smoking cigars makes him delicate," suggested the servant, who did not particularly admire ben, or care to join his mother in making allowances for him. her mistress silenced her with some asperity; but nevertheless took an opportunity to speak to ben on the subject. but that young gentleman only laughed at her remonstrances. "it does me good, mother," he said. "i always feel better after smoking a good cigar." "it seems to me you are growing pale," said mrs. oakley, whose heart was full of tenderness where ben was concerned. "that's all nonsense," said ben. "i'm not as red as a beet, and i don't want to be. but as to being pale, i'm healthy enough. don't worry yourself." with this mrs. oakley had to be contented, for ben, though a coward with his equals, had sense enough to take advantage of his mother's weak partiality, and take his own way. when ben came down to breakfast on the morning of his uncle's departure, he said in an indifferent tone:-"has that man gone?" "do you refer to your uncle, benjamin?" asked mrs. oakley, not altogether pleased to hear mr. huxter spoken of in that style, though she felt no very warm attachment for him herself. "i mean mr. huxter," said ben, carelessly, breaking an egg as he spoke. "he is your uncle." "i don't mean to call him so. i'm ashamed of the relationship." "he is my brother." "that's your misfortune," said ben. "all i know is, that i hope he won't darken our doors again." "what have you against him?" "he's a coarse, low man. he isn't a gentleman. you're a rich woman now, mother. you'd better cut his acquaintance. he won't do us any credit. you haven't invited him to come again, i hope." "i don't think he will come again very soon." "he'd better not. how can you expect people to forget that you were the late mr. oakley's house-keeper if you show them such a man as that as your brother?" this argument had weight with mrs. oakley. she wanted to be looked upon as a lady, and she acknowledged to herself that mr. huxter's relationship would be no credit to her. he was coarse and low, as ben said,--not because he was poor. wealth would have made no difference in him, except that it might have enabled him to dress better. it would not have diminished the redness of his nose, for instance, or refined his manners. mrs. oakley, however, made no comment on what ben had said, but remarked:-"at any rate, ben, your uncle has done us a good turn." "what is that, mother?" asked ben. "john has gone with him." "gone home with him?" "yes." "how long is he going to stay?" "for good." "how's that? i don't understand." "john was in the way here. you and he could not agree,--not that i blame you for that,--and i did not like him. therefore i made an arrangement with my brother to have john board with him. i don't suppose you'll miss him much." "it'll be a lucky miss," said ben, emphatically. "but john's rather stubborn. how did you get him to go?" "he doesn't know he is to stay. i told him i wanted him to go back with your uncle, in order to attend to a little business for me. when he gets there he'll find out what it is." "won't he rave, though?" exclaimed ben, laughing heartily. "he'll find it a healthy old boarding-house." "i wish you wouldn't use such language, ben," said his mother. "it is my great ambition to see you act and talk like a gentleman." "so i do, mother. that's just the way they talk." mrs. oakley looked rather incredulous. "i say, mother, is uncle huxter going to prepare john for college?" mrs. oakley laughed--heartily for her. "your uncle's shoe-shop will be the only college john will enter," she said. "do you mean that he is to peg shoes?" "yes." "his pride will have a pretty hard fall." "i mean that it shall," said mrs. oakley, compressing her thin lips. "well, i don't envy john. every dog has his day, and he has had his. it's our turn now. another cup of coffee, and not so weak as the last." "i don't think such strong coffee is good for you, benjamin." "oh bother, don't be a granny," said ben, rudely. "anybody'd think i was a baby." this was the way in which ben addressed his mother, who deserved his gratitude at least, for she was to him a devoted and self-sacrificing mother, however faulty might be her conduct towards john. at length ben's late breakfast was over, and he left the house to resort to his accustomed haunt,--the hotel bar-room and billiard saloon. "i wish ben cared more about study, and was more ambitious," thought mrs. oakley, with a half sigh. "if i could only make him feel as i do!" it would have been fortunate for ben if he had inherited his mother's energy and ambition. the ambition was not a noble one; but at least it would have kept him from low haunts and bad associates, which were all he cared about at present. though all his mother's worldly plans should succeed, this was the point in which they were likely to fail. mrs. oakley's punishment would come in all probability through the son for whom she was willing to sacrifice justice and duty. when ben had left the house, mrs. oakley began to concentrate her thoughts upon that which had first led her to determine upon john's banishment. this was the hidden will. she could not feel assured of her position until that was found. until now she had not felt at full liberty to search. she had feared that john might come upon her unexpectedly, and divine her object. now there was no fear of interruption. she could ransack the house from top to bottom, and no one would understand the motive of her search. she had not communicated her intention to ben. she trusted in his discretion too little to confide to him any secret of importance, for she was a shrewd and prudent woman. on this particular morning she had a feeling that she had never had before. there was a confidence that she had never before experienced that success awaited her. "i must and will find it," she thought. "this is not a large house. then there are some parts of it that need not be searched. mr. oakley would never have hidden his will in the servants' rooms, nor in the kitchen. everywhere else i will search. let me go to work systematically and thoroughly. this time it shall not be my fault if it escapes me." there was a small room on the lower floor, where the late mr. oakley used to do the most of his writing. this has already been referred to. here he kept a desk, and this desk more than once had been searched by mrs. oakley. she determined to search it once more, but only for form's sake. "he did not mean that i should find it," she thought. "therefore he did not conceal it where i should be certain to look first." so, though she searched the desk, she was not disappointed when this search, like the preceding, resulted in bringing nothing to light. "it is as i thought," she said. "where shall i search next?" she selected her own bedchamber, though here, for obvious reasons, she had little hopes of finding the missing document. "he wouldn't place it under my very eyes," she said. "of course i know that. still i cannot afford to leave a single place unexplored." the result justified her anticipations. so room after room was searched, and no clue was obtained. "he wouldn't put it under the carpet," she thought. yet the thought seemed worth following up. she got down on her hands and knees, and felt of every square foot of carpeting in the several rooms to see if she could detect beneath the pressure of any paper. in one place there was a rustle, and she eagerly tore up the carpet. but nothing was revealed save a loose piece of newspaper, which by some chance had got underneath. disappointed, she nailed down the carpet again. where else should she look? all at once a luminous idea came to her. john's room,--his old room, of course! why had she never thought of that? john, of course, was the one who would be most benefited by the new will. if by any chance it should be discovered by him, no harm would result. his father would trust john, when he would not have trusted her or ben. mrs. oakley could not help acknowledging to herself that in that he was right. what strengthened her in this view was, that among the articles of furniture was an old desk which had belonged to squire oakley's father. it was battered and defaced by hard usage, and had been at one time banished to the attic. but john, who was accustomed to study in his room, felt that this old desk would be of use to him, and he had asked to have it transferred to his own chamber. there had been no objection to this, and the transfer took place about a year before squire oakley's death. it had stood in john's room ever since. when the new idea came to mrs. oakley, she thought at once of this old desk as the probable repository of the will. her eyes sparkled with anticipated triumph. "i was a fool not to think of this before," she said. "if the will is anywhere in the house, it is in john's room, and in that old desk. at last i am on the right track!" with a hurried step she entered john's room. her hands trembled with nervous agitation. she felt that she was on the brink of an important discovery. chapter xx. mrs. oakley finds the will. mrs. oakley commenced her examination of the old desk, thoroughly convinced that if the missing will were in existence at all, it was hidden there. it was one of those old desks and bureaus combined, which were so common in the days of our grandfathers. in the drawers beneath, john had been accustomed to keep his clothing; in the desk above, writing materials, and some small articles of no particular importance. these he had not had time to remove before his unexpected departure. mrs. oakley turned those over impatiently, and explored every drawer hurriedly. but she did not discover what she had expected to find. this first failure, however, did not surprise her. she did not expect to find the will lying loosely in any of the drawers. but she suspected that some one drawer might have a false bottom, beneath which the important document would prove to be concealed. she therefore carefully examined every drawer with a view to the discovery of such a place of concealment. but to her disappointment she obtained no clue. the drawers seemed honestly made. for the first time mrs. oakley began to doubt whether the will were really in existence. she had searched everywhere, and it could not be found. "i wish i could be sure," she said to herself. "i would give five hundred dollars this minute to be sure that there was no will. then i should feel secure in the possession of my money. but to feel that at any moment a paper may turn up depriving me of forty thousand dollars keeps me in constant anxiety." she gave up the search for the day, having domestic duties to attend to. she tried to persuade herself that her fears and anxieties were without foundation, but in this she was unsuccessful. she permitted a day to slip by, but on the second day she again visited john's room. the old desk seemed to have a fascination for her. this time she turned the desk around, and passed her hand slowly over the back. just when she was about to relinquish the attempt in despair, success came. suddenly beneath her finger a concealed spring was unconsciously touched, and a thin drawer sprang from the recesses of the desk. mrs. oakley's eyes sparkled with the sense of approaching triumph, as she perceived carefully laid away therein a paper compactly folded. with fingers trembling with nervous agitation she opened it. she had not been deceived. _the missing will lay outspread before her!_ mrs. oakley read it carefully. it was drawn up with the usual formalities, as might have been expected, being the work of a careful lawyer. it revoked all other wills of a previous date, and bequeathed in express terms two-thirds of the entire estate left by the testator to his only son, john. squire selwyn was appointed executor, and guardian of said john, should he be under age at the time of his father's death. the remaining third of the property was willed to mrs. jane oakley, should she survive her husband; otherwise to her son benjamin in the event of his mother's previous death. such was the substance of squire oakley's last will and testament, now for the first time revealed. mrs. oakley read it with mingled feelings,--partly of indignation with her late husband that he should have made such a will, partly of joy that no one save herself knew of its existence. she held in her hand a document which in john oakley's hands would be worth forty thousand dollars if she permitted him to obtain it. but she had no such intention. what should be done with it? should she lock it up carefully where it would not be likely to be found? there would be danger of discovery at any moment. "it must be destroyed," she said to herself, resolutely. "there is no other way. a single match will make me secure in the possession of the estate." mrs. oakley knew that it was a criminal act which she had in view; but the chance of detection seemed to be slight. in fact, since no one _knew_ that such a will was in existence, though some might suspect it, there seemed to be no danger at all. "yes, it shall be destroyed and at once. there can be no reason for delay," she said firmly. she crossed the entry into her own chamber, first closing the secret drawer, and moving the old desk back to its accustomed place. there was a candle on the mantel-piece, which she generally lighted at night. she struck a match, and lighted it now. this done, she approached the will to the flame, and the corner of the document so important to john oakley caught fire, and the insidious flame began to spread. mrs. oakley watched it with exulting eyes, when a sudden step was heard at the door of her chamber, and, turning, she saw hannah, the servant-girl, standing on the threshold, looking in. mrs. oakley half rose, withdrawing the will from the candle, and demanded harshly:-"what brought you here?" "shall i go out to the garden and get some vegetables for dinner?" asked hannah. "of course you may. you needn't have come up here to ask," said her mistress, with irritation. "i didn't know whether you would want any," said hannah, defending herself. "there was some cold vegetables left from yesterday's dinner. i thought maybe you'd have them warmed over." "well, if there are enough left you may warm them. i'll come down just as soon as i can. i have been looking over some old papers of my husband's," she explained, rather awkwardly, perceiving that hannah's eyes were bent curiously upon the will and the candle, "and burning such as were of no value. do you know what time it is?" "most eleven, by the kitchen clock," said hannah. "then you had better go down, and hurry about dinner." "i can take down the old papers, and put them in the kitchen stove," suggested hannah. "it's of no consequence," said mrs. oakley, hastily. "i will attend to that myself." "mrs. oakley seems queer this morning," thought hannah, as she turned and descended the stairs to her professional duties in the kitchen. "i wonder what made her jump so when i came in, and what that paper is that she was burning up in the candle." hannah had never heard of the will, and was unacquainted with legal technicalities, and therefore her suspicions were not excited. she only wondered what made mrs. oakley seem so queer. when she went out mrs. oakley sat in doubt. "hannah came in at a most unlucky moment," she said to herself, with vexation. "could she have suspected anything? if she should breathe a word of this, and it should get to that lawyer's ears, i might get into trouble." mrs. oakley held the will in her hand irresolutely. should she follow out her first intention, and burn it? a feeling of apprehension as to the possible consequences of her act prevented her. the flame had gone out, leaving the corner scorched, and slightly burned; but apart from this the will was uninjured. after a pause of deliberation, mrs. oakley blew out the candle, and, taking the will, opened the upper drawer of her bureau, and deposited it carefully inside. she locked it securely, and, putting the key in her pocket, went downstairs. before doing so, however, she went to the closet in which she kept her wardrobe, and, selecting a handsome silk cape, took it down with her. "hannah," she said, "here's a cape i shall not use again. it doesn't fit me exactly. if you would like it, it is yours." "thank you, ma'am," said the astonished hannah, for this was the first present she had ever received from her mistress; "you're very kind indeed. it is an elegant cape." "yes, it is a nice one. i am glad you like it." "the mistress must be crazy," thought the bewildered hannah. "i never knew her to do such a thing before, and i've lived here three years come october." chapter xxi. squire selwyn's call. mrs. oakley's door-bell rang, and hannah answered the summons. "is mrs. oakley at home?" inquired squire selwyn, for it was he. "yes, sir. will you walk in?" "i think i will. let her know that i wish to see her, if you please." hannah did as directed. "squire selwyn?" asked mrs. oakley. "where is he?" "in the parlor." "very well. i will go in at once." "has he found out anything about john, i wonder?" thought mrs. oakley. "good-morning, sir," she said, as she entered the lawyer's presence. "good-morning, mrs. oakley." "is your family well?" "quite well. my son tells me that john has been absent from school for two or three days past." "yes." "he is not sick, i suppose?" "no." "you will excuse my questions; but his father and myself were very intimate friends. is he at home?" "no, he is not." "i suppose you have no objection to telling me where he is?" "suppose i have?" said mrs. oakley, coolly. "then i should think it very strange." "you are at liberty to think it very strange," said mrs. oakley, composedly. "why should you object to telling me that he went away with your brother, mr. huxter, and is now at his house?" mrs. oakley started in surprise. the lawyer was better informed than she supposed. "if you knew," she answered, after a slight pause, "why need you inquire?" "i wished to know whether you had sent him away, intending to keep his destination a secret." "i suppose he has written to you." "he did write to me; but the letter was suppressed by your brother. may i inquire whether this was by your wish?" "what you tell me is news to me," said mrs. oakley; "but i have no hesitation in saying that my brother understands my wishes, and will carry them out." "i am answered," said the lawyer. "is it your intention to permit john to continue his studies preparatory for college?" "it is not." "it was his father's wish and intention. that wish ought to be sacred with you." "i understand my duty." "i trust you will do something more than understand it," said the lawyer, gravely. "i must remonstrate with you on your intentions with regard to john. he is an excellent scholar, and his abilities are superior. it would be a great pity that he should be debarred from the privilege of a college education." "you say he is an excellent scholar," said mrs. oakley. "then, if his education is already so excellent, there is no further need of his studying. he can begin to earn his living." "surely you do not mean what you say. if he were poor, and such a necessity existed, it would be well enough that he should go to work; but you well know that no such necessity exists." "i am not going to support him in idleness," said mrs. oakley, coolly. "as a student in college he would lead far from an idle life," said the lawyer. "study is hard work, and college distinction is never won by a lazy student." "it may be work, though to my mind it is not; but it brings in no money." "not at first, perhaps, but it prepares the student for remunerative employment in after life." "i don't think much of colleges." though mrs. oakley said this, she would have been very glad to have ben in college, not that she cared so much to have him a scholar, but it would give him a good social standing. "i don't know," said squire selwyn, rather sharply, for he was getting out of patience with mrs. oakley,--"i don't know that it matters much what your opinion of colleges is. it was, as you know, the desire and intention of your late husband that john should enter college. it is your moral duty to carry out that intention." "i don't care to be told what is my duty," said mrs. oakley, her eyes flashing. "do you propose to be independent of public opinion?" "perhaps you mean your opinion?" "not mine alone. let me tell you, mrs. oakley, that in defrauding john oakley of the privileges which his father meant him to enjoy, you are wronging the dead as well as the living,--not john alone, but the dead husband from whom all your money comes." "he chose to leave all his money to me," said mrs. oakley, "probably he thought that i would know how to dispose of it without outside advice." "i am not so sure that he did leave his money to you," said the lawyer, significantly. mrs. oakley flushed. could he know that the will was found? involuntarily she put her hand to her pocket, where the will was at that moment lying concealed. but a moment's reflection satisfied her that hannah, who had not left the house, could not have had a communication with squire selwyn. besides, there was no probability of hannah's suspecting the nature of the document which she had seen in the candle. "you have not forgotten that there was a will executed three months before mr. oakley died," added squire selwyn,--"a will by which john would have come into possession of two-thirds of the estate." "i have heard a great deal about that will," retorted mrs. oakley. "undoubtedly my husband destroyed it, as unjust to me." "i don't see how it was unjust to you. it left the property as the law would have left it." "very well, where is the will? if you will produce it, i shall of course surrender to john all except the third which comes to me." "i wish i could produce it." "but you can't," said mrs. oakley, triumphantly, looking the lawyer in the face. "in my opinion it has never been properly searched for," said the lawyer. "i have the strongest reason to believe that it exists." "may i inquire what is that reason?" asked mrs. oakley. "mr. oakley, in his last sickness, spoke to john about the will." "what did he say about it?" asked the lady. "this is the first i have heard of it." "unfortunately he was so low that he was unable to declare where it was." mrs. oakley looked relieved. "but john heard the words 'secret drawer.'" "then you conclude that the will is still in existence." "i do." "and where do you think it is?" "somewhere in this house," said squire selwyn, emphatically. "it is strange then that it has not been found," said mrs. oakley. "i do not think so. if hidden in a secret drawer, it would naturally be difficult to find." mrs. oakley rapidly made up her mind what to do. she saw that squire selwyn was suspicious of her. by a show of fair dealing she could allay those suspicions, and this would be worth while. "if this will exists," she said, "it ought to be found." "so i think," said the lawyer, surprised to hear her speak thus. "and though its discovery would be to my disadvantage, i certainly shall not object to a search. are you at leisure now to assist me in such a search?" "i am," said the lawyer. "i think there is no time like the present." "then let us begin in this very room." "it wouldn't be likely to be here. still it is best not to slight any possible place of concealment." assisted by mrs. oakley, squire selwyn commenced a strict search, beginning with the parlor, and proceeding from room to room. he little suspected how near him the document was all the time. of course the search proved fruitless. "there is one room which has not yet been searched," said mrs. oakley,--"the only one except the kitchen, in which mr. oakley would be hardly likely to conceal it. i mean my own room." "there's no occasion to search there." "i would prefer that the search should be thorough. here are my keys. i would rather have you go up." thus requested, squire selwyn complied with the request. he returned from the quest disappointed. "it is very strange," he thought. "i am firmly convinced that my friend oakley left a will in existence. but where is it?" that question he was unable to answer. "i cannot find the will," he said. "i am glad you have searched," said mrs. oakley. "the fact that i have given you every facility for searching proves that i am perfectly willing that my husband's will should be carried out." "and his wishes as well?" "what do you refer to?" "i refer to john's education." "i have made up my mind as to that," said mrs. oakley, briefly. "do you consider your brother's house a suitable home for mr. oakley's son?" "why not?" she demanded, sharply. "do you think, in setting him to work in a shoe-shop, you are doing as his father wished?" "i do not know where you got your information, mr. selwyn," said mrs. oakley, angrily, "but i must tell you that you are meddling with business that does not concern you. as you were my husband's lawyer, and drew up the will which you thought in existence, i have asked you to search for it; i have even opened my own chamber to your search. you ought to be satisfied by this time that you are mistaken. in doing this, i have done all that i intend doing. i shall take my own course with john oakley, who is dependent upon me, and whatever you choose to think or say can have no effect upon me. good-afternoon, sir." mrs. oakley swept from the room, and squire selwyn left the house, feeling that his visit had not benefited john in the slightest degree. that night he wrote john a letter. chapter xxii. mr. huxter gets into hot water. it was mr. huxter's intention to set john to work as soon as possible; but it so happened that the shoe business, in which he was engaged, had been for some time unusually dull, and had not yet revived. to this circumstance our hero was indebted for the comparative freedom which for a few days he was permitted to enjoy. during that time he was waiting anxiously for the expected letter from squire selwyn. he wished to know whether his stepmother was resolutely determined upon her present course with regard to himself, before he decided to take the matter into his own hands, and help himself in his own way. upon one thing he was fully resolved,--not to remain much longer a member of mr. huxter's household. as the letter was to come to the milbank post-office, on the fourth afternoon he walked over to that village. this time he was not fortunate enough to meet david wallace, and therefore had a long and tiresome walk. "is there a letter here for john oakley?" he inquired of the postmaster. "john oakley," said the old official, looking under his glasses. "do you live round here?" "i am passing a short time in the neighborhood," said john. the postmaster took some time to adjust his spectacles, and a longer time in looking over the letters. john waited anxiously, fearing that he had taken the long walk for nothing. but he was destined to be more fortunate. "you said your name was john oakley?" repeated the official, balancing a letter in his hand. "yes," said john, quickly. "then here's a letter for you. it looks like squire selwyn's writing." "it is from him," said john. "then you know him?" "yes," said john, mechanically, impatiently tearing open the letter. "he's a good lawyer, the squire is," said the postmaster. "he was here only last week." "yes, i saw him." this was the letter which john received:- "my dear young friend:--i called upon your stepmother yesterday in the afternoon, hoping to induce her to adopt different measures with regard to yourself. i regret to say that i failed utterly in my mission. she will not permit you to go to college, declaring that you have already a sufficient education. nor will she remove you from the house of mr. huxter, though i represented that he was not a proper person to have the charge of you. "we had some conversation about the missing will. i was a little surprised by her suggesting that i should search the house for it. i was glad of the opportunity, and proceeded to do so. i made the search as thorough as possible, but discovered nothing. i still believe, however, that the will is in existence, _unless it has been destroyed since your father's death_. "i hardly know what to advise under the circumstances. if you should leave mr. huxter, i advise you to seek your aunt at wilton, and i shall be glad to hear from you when you have arrived there. if you should need money, do not hesitate to apply to me, remembering that i am your father's friend." "your true friend, james selwyn." "p. s. i enclose a few lines from sam." there was another sheet inside the envelope, on which john recognized easily sam's familiar handwriting. he was very glad to hear from sam, for whom he felt a warm attachment. here is sam's letter:- "dear john:--i have been missing you awfully. i couldn't think what had become of you till father told me he had seen you at milbank. so you are in the spider's clutches, you poor innocent fly? a nice time you must have of it with old huxter. i declare i've no patience with mrs. oakley, when i think of the way she has treated you. i can't do anything to her; but i'll take it out in tricks on ben. by the way, your amiable stepbrother has got a new friend,--a flashy young man from new york, who sports a lot of bogus jewelry, and smokes from ten to a dozen cigars a day, and spends his time in lounging about the billiard and bar room. he isn't doing ben any good. they play billiards a good deal, and he tells ben stories about the city, which i expect will make ben want to go there. do you think mrs. oakley will let him? "you've no idea how i miss you, old fellow. all the hard parts in virgil and xenophon come to me now. i don't enjoy studying half so much now that you are away. if i were you, i'd give old huxter the slip some fine morning. i only wish you could come and stay at our house. wouldn't it be jolly? i know father would like it; but i suppose people would talk, and mrs. oakley would make a fuss. "well, it's time for me to go to studying. keep up a stiff upper lip, and never say die. things will be sure to come round. one thing, you must be sure to write to me as soon as you can. tell me all about how you're getting along with the _monstrum horrendum informe_. of course i mean old huxter." "your affectionate friend, sam selwyn." john felt much better after reading these letters. he felt that, whatever might be the hardships of his present lot, he had two good friends who sympathized with him. he read over the lawyer's letter once more. though he didn't expressly advise him to leave mr. huxter, it was evident that he expected him to do so. john himself had no doubts on that point. he felt that he would be willing anywhere else to work for his living; but to remain in his present position was insupportable. he could feel neither regard nor respect for mr. huxter. he witnessed daily with indignation the manner in which he treated his poor wife, whom he sincerely pitied. but it was not his business to interfere between man and wife. no, he could not stay any longer in such a house. to-morrow morning he would rise early, and, before mr. huxter woke, bid a silent farewell to jackson, and start on his journey to wilton. when he reached his boarding-place, it was already four o'clock in the afternoon. mr. huxter had come home just drunk enough to be ugly. he had inquired of his wife where john was. she couldn't tell him. "what business has he to leave the house without permission?" he growled. "he is old enough for that, surely," said mrs. huxter. "shut up, mrs. huxter! what do you know about it?" said her husband. "the boy needs a good flogging." "i'm sure he's a very good boy," said mrs. huxter. "he is quite a young gentleman." "he is altogether too much of a young gentleman," said mr. huxter. "he puts on too many airs for me." "you are not just to him, mr. huxter." "how many times, mrs. huxter, must i request you to mind your own business?" said her husband, coarsely. "do you know what i am going to do?" "what?" asked his wife, with apprehension. "i'm going to cut a stout stick out in the orchard, and give the young gentleman a lesson when he returns. that's what i'm going to do." "oh don't, mr. huxter!" implored his wife, clasping his arm. but mr. huxter was in one of his ugly fits, and shaking off his wife's grasp, went out into the orchard, taking out his jack-knife. he returned in a few minutes with a thick stick in his hand, which boded no good to poor john. mrs. huxter turned pale with apprehension, and earnestly hoped john would not return until her husband had forgotten his resolution. but this was not to be. she heard a step upon the threshold, and john entered by the back way. mr. huxter tightened the grasp upon his stick, and smiled grimly. "where've you been, oakley?" he demanded, abruptly. "i have been over to milbank," said john, quietly, not knowing the intention of the questioner. "what did you go over to milbank for?" asked huxter. "i didn't know there was any objection to my going," said john. "what business had you to go without asking my leave?" "i didn't suppose there was any need of my asking you whether i could go or not." "you're an impudent young rascal!" exclaimed mr. huxter. "what reason have you for calling me that?" asked john, calmly. he saw that mr. huxter had been drinking, and did not wish to get into a dispute with him. "you needn't think you can put on any of your airs here. i won't stand it!" vociferated huxter, gradually working himself up into a rage. "i don't want to put on any airs, mr. huxter," said john. "do you mean to contradict me?" demanded huxter, glaring at john. "you had better go out," said mrs. huxter, in a low voice. "he shan't go out! he shall stay," roared huxter. "i'll thank you not to interfere, mrs. huxter. i'm going to flog the young jackanape." he seized his stick and made a rush at john. our hero, knowing he could not cope with him, and besides not wishing to get into a fight in the presence of mrs. huxter, dodged the angry man. this made mr. huxter, whose blood was now up, all the more eager to get hold of him. john, however, succeeded in eluding him once more. this time, however, mr. huxter was unlucky. mrs. huxter had been washing, and the tub full of quite warm water had been temporarily placed upon the floor of the kitchen. mr. huxter, whose motions were not over-steady, slipped, and, falling backward, sat down in the tub. he gave a yell of pain, and john, taking advantage of the accident, ran out of the door. but mr. huxter was in no condition to follow him. the water was not hot enough to scald him; but it certainly made him feel very uncomfortable. "the young rascal has killed me," he groaned. "i'm scalded to death, and i suppose you're glad of it, mrs. huxter. you put the tub there on purpose." mr. huxter took off his clothes and went to bed, swearing at his poor wife, who he declared was in league with john. "there's no help for it now," said john to himself. "i must leave this house to-morrow." chapter xxiii. in which john takes french leave. "to-morrow i will leave jackson," thought john, as he undressed himself, and jumped into bed. his spirits rose as he made this resolution. it had been very irksome to him to feel that he was under the control of such a man as mr. huxter,--a man for whom it was impossible for him to feel either respect or regard. under any circumstances it would have been disagreeable for him to remain, but off from the studies in which he had taken delight, the time passed heavily; he felt that he had no longer an object in life. but the petty persecutions to which he was subjected made it intolerable, and he was satisfied that the accident which had befallen mr. huxter would only make matters worse. meanwhile mr. huxter, on his bed below, cherished thoughts the reverse of agreeable concerning our hero. "i'll come up with the young rascal," he muttered. "he'll find it's a bad day's work he's done for himself." "it wasn't his fault, mr. huxter," said his wife, who wanted justice done. "why isn't it his fault?" said her husband, looking at her with a frown. "he didn't know you would slip into the tub." "and i shouldn't wonder if you put it there, mrs. huxter. it was a regular trap." "i put it there just for a few minutes. i was going to move it." "yes, after you had accomplished your object, and got me scalded." "you ought not to say such things, mr. huxter. you know i was innocent of any such intention." "oh, of course nobody was to blame! that's always the way. but it isn't much comfort to me." "i don't see how anybody was to blame." "well, i do," said mr. huxter, savagely. "as soon as i get up, i'll give oakley such a flogging as he never got before." it was a great disappointment to mr. huxter that he could not carry out his benevolent design at once; but he felt too uncomfortable for that. "i wish you had never brought him here," said mrs. huxter. "i am sure he cannot enjoy himself much here." "i don't care whether he enjoys himself or not," said her husband. "we get six dollars a week for his board,--that's the main point. and next week, when i set him to work in the shop, we'll make a pretty good thing out of him." "i don't believe he will be willing to work in the shop. he knows that you get paid for his board." "i think i can persuade him with the horsewhip," said mr. huxter, significantly. at that moment john's steps were heard as he ascended the attic stairs on his way to bed. a new thought came to mr. huxter about an hour later. he reflected that it was in john's power to elude his vengeance by escaping, and this he had no intention of permitting. "mrs. huxter," he said. "do you want anything?" "yes, i want you to go upstairs, and fasten the door of john oakley's chamber." "what for?" "no matter what for. go and do it, and i will tell you afterwards." "he won't be able to come downstairs in the morning." "i don't mean that he shall. i'll keep him in his room for twenty-four hours on bread and water. it'll be a good lesson for him. come, are you going? if you don't i'll get out of bed myself, and go up." mrs. huxter thought it best to comply with the command accompanied by such a threat. much against her will, therefore, she went up and secured the door of john's chamber by a bolt placed upon the outside. she hoped that her husband would forget all about it during the night, so that she might release john before he had learned that he had been a prisoner. it was about half-past three that john awoke. he did not know what time it was, but conjectured that it might be near four. though he still felt sleepy, he deemed it advisable to lose no more time, but escape while mr. huxter was asleep. he accordingly dressed himself as carefully as he could, in the imperfect light, and went on tiptoe to the door. he tried to open it, but without success. thinking that the door might stick, he made another attempt. this time he understood the state of things. "i have been bolted in," he said to himself. "can mr. huxter have suspected my plan?" whether this was or was not the case john was unable to determine. he sat down on the bed, and reflected what he had better do. should he give up the attempt, and go to bed again? no; he was resolved not to relinquish his plan while there was any chance of carrying it out. he went to the window and looked out. if it had been on the second floor the difficulty would have been less, but it was an attic window, and over twenty feet from the ground. there was no ell part beneath; but the distance to the ground was unbroken. a sudden thought struck john. he turned up the bed, and found that it rested upon an interlacing cord. why could he not detach this cord, and, fastening it to some fixed object in the chamber, descend with safety to the ground? the plan no sooner occurred to john than he determined to carry it into execution. the rope proved to be quite long enough for his purpose. he fastened one end securely, and dropped the other over the sill. looking down, he saw that it nearly reached the ground. he had no fear of trusting himself to it. he had always been good at climbing ropes, and was very strong in the arms. "after all," he thought, "this is better than to have gone downstairs. i might have stumbled over something in the dark, and mr. huxter would have been roused by the noise." he got out of the window, and swung out. he let himself down as noiselessly as possible. in less than a minute he stood upon the ground, under the gray morning sky. he looked up to mr. huxter's window, but everything was still. evidently no one had heard him. "so far, so good," thought john. "now i must travel as many miles as possible between now and six o'clock. that will give me a good start if i am pursued." john hoped he would meet no one who would recognize him. but in this he was disappointed. he had walked six miles, when he heard his name called from behind. startled, he looked back hastily, and to his relief discovered that the call came from david wallace, who had taken him up on his first journey to milbank. "where are you going, john?" asked david. "don't you want to ride?" "thank you," said john. he jumped on board the wagon, and took a seat beside david. "you are travelling early, david," he said. "just what i was going to say to you," said david, laughing. "are you walking for your health?" "not exactly," said john. "i've a great mind to tell you. you won't tell?" "honor bright!" "then, i've left mr. huxter without bidding him good-by." "good!" said david. "i don't blame you a bit. tell me how it happened." david was highly amused at mr. huxter's adventure with the tub. "i must tell that to george sprague," he exclaimed. "it's a good joke." "i'm afraid mr. huxter wouldn't agree with you there." "he never does agree with anybody. now tell me how you managed to walk off." john narrated how he found himself locked in, and how he resorted to the expedient of the bed-cord. "you're a trump, john!" said david, slapping him on the shoulder. "i didn't think you had so much spunk." "what did you think of me?" asked john, smiling. "you see you're such a quiet fellow, you don't look as if you were up to such things. but what will you do if mr. huxter pursues you?" "i can tell better when the time comes," said john. "you wouldn't go back with him?" "not if i could help myself. i don't feel that he has any right to control me. he isn't my guardian, and he is the last man, i know, that my father would be willing to trust me with." "i wish i could see how he looks when he finds you are gone. if you'd like to send him your love i could go round by the house on my way back." "i don't think i shall need to trouble you, david," said john. "whereabouts are you going?" "i have an aunt living about fifty miles away. i shall go there for the present." "well, i'm sorry you're going to leave jackson. i mean i'm sorry i shan't see you any more. can't you write to me now and then?" "i would but for one thing," said john. "what's that?" "i am afraid the letters would be noticed by the postmaster, and put mr. huxter on the track. i don't want to have any more to do with him." "there's something in that. i didn't think of it. at any rate i hope we'll meet again some time." "so do i, david. you have been very kind to me, and i shall not forget it. i don't know what lies before me, but i shall keep up good courage, hoping that things will come out right in the end." "that's the best way. but i am afraid i must bid you good-by here. i turn up that side road. i suppose you are going straight ahead." "yes." "i wish i could carry you further." "it's been quite a help what i have already ridden." "whoa, dan!" said david, and the horse stopped. "good-by, david," said john, as he jumped out of the wagon. "good-by, john. then you haven't any message to send back to mr. huxter?" "not to him," said john; "but," he added, after a moment's thought, "if you happen to see mrs. huxter, just let her know that you saw me, and that i am grateful for all she tried to do for me." "you're sure she won't tell her husband?" "no; she acted like a good friend. i would like to have said good-by; but it wouldn't do." "all right, i'll remember what you say. good-by, old fellow." "good-by, david." john estimated that he was now nearly ten miles from his starting-place. the sun was already shining brightly, and it promised to be a fine day. our hero began to feel hungry. the fresh morning air had given him an appetite. chapter xxiv. john is pursued. mr. huxter felt better after a night's rest. in fact, his injuries had not been as serious as he wished mrs. huxter to suppose. the truth is, he was a coward, and even a small sickness terrified him. but with the morning, finding himself very little inconvenienced by his mishap of the day previous, his courage returned, and with it his determination to wreak condign vengeance on john. "how do you feel, mr. huxter?" asked his wife. "i feel like whipping that young scamp, oakley," said her husband. "he has done nothing that deserves punishment, i am sure." "of course, scalding me is a very slight affair, in _your_ opinion; but i happen to think differently," he said, with a sneer. he drew on his pantaloons as he spoke, and seizing a leather strap, left the room. "oh, dear," sighed mrs. huxter, "i do wish mr. huxter wouldn't be so violent. i don't see what can have turned him so against that poor boy. i am sure he's very polite and gentlemanly." she wanted to say more, in the hope of dissuading her husband from his harsh resolution, but she dared not. she went to the foot of the attic stairs to listen, fearing that she would hear the sounds of an altercation. she saw mr. huxter draw the bolt and enter the chamber, but she was quite unprepared to see him burst forth furiously a minute later, exclaiming in a rage:-"he's gone,--the young rascal has escaped." "escaped?" repeated mrs. huxter, bewildered, for she could not conceive how john could escape from a third-story room when the door was bolted. "ha, are you there?" demanded her husband. "what do you know of this?" he asked, suspiciously. "nothing at all," said mrs. huxter. "i don't see how he could have got away." "you'll see plain enough if you come upstairs," said her husband. "he got out of the window." "jumped out?" gasped mrs. huxter. "slid down by the bed-cord, you fool!" said her husband, who was too angry to be polite. "i declare!" exclaimed mrs. huxter, in a tone indicating her surprise. "did you advise him to run away?" asked mr. huxter. "of course not." "and did you know nothing of his going? didn't he tell you?" he asked, suspiciously. "not a word. but i'm glad he's gone,--i really am." "you're glad we've lost six dollars a week, are you?" growled her husband. "you'd like to see us starvin', i suppose. but you needn't be in such a hurry to be glad. i'll have him back yet, and then if he doesn't get the tallest kind of a flogging, that'll sicken him of running away forever, my name is not huxter." "you'd better let him go, husband. don't go after him." "you'll oblige me by minding your business, mrs. huxter. i shall go after him, as soon as i have eaten breakfast." meanwhile john, feeling very hungry, as was stated at the close of the last chapter, determined to get a breakfast at the first inn on the road. he had only to walk a mile further, when he came to a country inn, with its long piazza, and stable-yard alongside. it had a comfortable look, suggestive of good old-fashioned hospitality. john walked through the front entrance, chancing to meet the landlord. "can i have some breakfast?" he asked. "are you travelling alone?" asked the landlord, who was a yankee. "yes, sir." "well, i guess we can give you some. what would you like?" "i should like some beefsteak and a couple of eggs." "coffee or tea?" "coffee." "very well." "how soon will it be ready, sir? i've taken a long walk, and am very hungry." "you won't have to wait long. here, betty, just get up some breakfast for this young man. beefsteak, boiled eggs, and coffee. as quick as you can." in twenty minutes john was told that breakfast was ready. he was shown into rather a cheerless dining-room, but the meat emitted a savory odor, and he enjoyed the meal better, it seemed to him, than ever before in his life. he rose from the table at length with a sigh of enjoyment. going into the office he called for his bill. "fifty cents," said the landlord. john produced a two-dollar bill, and the change was returned to him. "not going to stay with us?" said the landlord, interrogatively. "no," said john; "i've got to travel further." "where may you have come from?" "from jackson this morning," said john. "did you walk? it's a pretty long stretch,--hard upon ten miles." "i rode part of the way." "and where are you bound?" john was beginning to tire of this persistent questioning, and would have declined answering, but that he feared this would excite suspicion. "i am going to redport," he answered. redport, as he had ascertained, was the next town on the route. he did not think it necessary to mention that he was going considerably further. "redport!" repeated the landlord. "yes. how far is it?" "it's a matter of six miles. are you going to walk?" "yes, unless i find somebody that's going that way." "i'm going over myself this afternoon. if you'll wait till that time you may go with me." "thank you," said john; "but i don't think i will wait. i've got pretty good legs, and i shan't mind the walk." "you can get over in two hours easy. ever been that way before?" "no." "well, it's a straight road. you can't miss it." john left the landlord's presence with a feeling of relief. he had declined his offer for two reasons: partly because he did not want to wait till afternoon, but principally because the landlord would be sure to ask where he intended to stop in redport, which would of course embarrass him. john waited about half an hour, as he did not wish to walk immediately after a hearty meal. then, having cut a stick from a tree by the roadside, he went on his way. twenty minutes after his departure, mr. huxter rode up to the inn which he had just left. that gentleman had procured a fast horse from the stable, for the pursuit of the runaway. it was rather extravagant, to be sure; but then mr. huxter felt that he must have john back at all hazards. he could not afford to let a boy escape who paid him three hundred dollars a year, besides the work he intended to get out of him. then again, he thought, by proper representations, he could induce his sister to pay all the expenses attending john's capture. "it's only fair," he thought, "that jane should pay for the team, if i give my time." so mr. huxter sped along the road at a rapid rate. he had taken the right road by chance, and having met a boy who had met john and described his appearance accurately, he had the satisfaction of knowing that he was on the track of the fugitive. arriving at the tavern, it occurred to him that john might have stopped to rest, if nothing more. he accordingly descended hastily from the carriage, and accosted the landlord, whom he knew slightly. "good-morning, mr. jones." "good-morning, mr. huxter. going to stop with us?" "i can't stop now. have you seen anything of a boy of about fifteen, rather stout built, who must have passed this way lately?" "blue suit?" interrogated the landlord. "yes; have you seen him?" "you don't mean to say you're after him?" "yes, i do. but have you seen him?" "yes, he took breakfast here only an hour ago. son of yours?" "no, he was my nephew." "run away, hey?" "yes; he's been acting badly, and i suppose he thought i was going to punish him; so the young rascal took to his heels." "sho! you don't say so! he paid for his breakfast all right." "you can judge how he came by his money," said mr. huxter. "you don't say so! well, he is a bad case," said the landlord, who concluded, as it was intended he should, that john had stolen the money. "well, he don't look like it." "oh, he's a deep young rascal!" said mr. huxter. "you'd think butter wouldn't melt in his mouth; but he's a regular scamp. which road did he take?" "he said he was going to redport." "what time did he start?" "less than half an hour ago. he can't have got much over a mile. if you keep on, you'll be sure to overhaul him." "i'll do that with a vengeance," said mr. huxter. "thank you for your information, mr. jones. i'll do as much for you some time." "all right. stop on the way back, won't you?" "well, i don't know but i will. i only took a mouthful of breakfast, i was in such a hurry to pursue this young scamp." "well, it's an ill wind that blows nobody good," thought the landlord. "the boy's running away has brought me two customers. i had no idea he was such a young rascal." "i might as well get a good breakfast," soliloquized mr. huxter. "i can charge it to jane. she can't expect me to chase john oakley over hill and dale on an empty stomach!" mr. huxter began to indulge in pleasing anticipations of what he would do to john when he had captured him, forgetting the good old rule, that before cooking a hare you must catch him. chapter xxv. the value of a boat. meanwhile john was plodding along at a moderate pace. he had no idea of the danger that menaced him. he was now ten or eleven miles away from jackson, and this gave him a feeling of security; not that the distance was so great, but that, of the many directions in which he might have gone, he saw no reason to think that mr. huxter would be likely to guess the right one. on the whole, john felt in very good spirits. it was a bright, pleasant morning in september, with a clear, bracing air, that lent vigor to his steps. he decided to stop in redport until after dinner, and then inquire his way more particularly. he determined to take the stage or cars, if he found any that ran across to wilton. the expense would not be any greater, probably, than the cost of the meal and lodging for which, if he walked, he would be obliged to pay at the country inns. he had got to the bottom of a hill when he heard the clattering of wheels behind him, and was startled by the sound of a voice only too familiar. "stop, you rascal!" john looked round, and his heart made a sudden bound when he recognized the well-known face of mr. huxter projecting out of a chaise, which was tearing down the hill at furious speed. "so i've caught you, have i?" exclaimed his pursuer, in exultation. "i've got an account to settle with you, you young scamp!" john was no coward, but he knew that in a physical contest, he, a boy of fifteen, would be no match for a man close upon six feet in height. discretion was evidently the better part of valor. if he could not overcome his antagonist, could he elude him? he darted a quick glance around, in order to understand the situation and form his plans. he couldn't keep on, that was evident. to the right, at the distance of a quarter of a mile, he saw a small pond gleaming in the sunlight. it might have been a mile in circumference. behind it was a belt of woods. it occurred to john that he might find a boat somewhere along the shore. if so, he could paddle across, and mr. huxter would be left in the lurch. if he found no boat, his chances would be small. but at any rate this seemed his only feasible plan. mr. huxter was already within a few rods, so there was no time to lose. john clambered up on the stone wall. "stop, you rascal!" shouted mr. huxter, as soon as he saw this movement. "i'd rather not," said john, coolly. "i'll give you the worst flogging you ever had!" said his pursuer, provoked. "that's no inducement," said john, as he jumped on the other side, and began to run across the field. "i'll make him pay for all the trouble he gives me," said mr. huxter, between his teeth. he stopped the horse, and jumped into the road. he would like to have pursued john at once, but he did not dare to leave the horse loose, fearing that he would not stand. although chafing at the delay, he felt that prudence required him to secure the horse, which was a valuable one, before setting out after the fugitive. "the more haste the worse speed," says an old proverb. so it proved in the present instance. five minutes were consumed in attaching the horse to the branch of a tree. this done, mr. huxter jumped over the stone wall, and looked to see how far john had got. our hero had already reached the shore of the pond, and was running along beside it. mr. huxter's eyes lighted up with exultation. "i'll have him yet," he muttered. "the pond is in my favor." he began to run diagonally to the point john was likely to reach. but suddenly john stopped and bent over. "what's he doing?" thought the pursuer puzzled. a moment revealed the mystery. reaching the top of a little knoll, he saw john jump into a boat, rowing vigorously from shore. he was only just in time. one minute later, and mr. huxter stood at the edge of the pond. he was excessively provoked at the boy's escape. "come back here!" he shouted, authoritatively. "i would rather not," said john. he rested on his oars a moment, and looked calmly at his pursuer. there he was, only three rods distant, and yet quite out of reach. certainly it was very tantalizing. if there had only been another boat! but there was not. the one which john was in was the only one upon the pond. john felt very comfortable. he fully appreciated the advantage he had over his antagonist. "come back here, i say!" screamed mr. huxter, stamping his foot. [illustration] "why should i?" asked john, calmly. "why should you? because i'm your guardian." "i don't think you are, mr. huxter." "at any rate, you're under my charge." "suppose i come to the shore, what then?" asked john. "i'll give you such a flogging that you won't dare to run away again." "in that case," said john, smiling, "i think i'd better not come." "you'd better come, if you know what is best for yourself." "but i don't think a flogging would be best for me," said john, smiling again. mr. huxter was excessively angry; but he saw that he was on the wrong tack. it was not easy for him to change it, for he felt too provoked; but he saw that he must do it, or give up the chance of capturing john. "well," he said, after a little pause, "then i'll pass over the flogging this time. but you must come to shore. i want to go home as soon as i can." "i am not going home with you," said john, composedly. "why not, i should like to know?" "i should never be happy at your house." "you're homesick. that will pass off." john shook his head. "i can't go back." "come, oakley," said mr. huxter, changing his tone; "you think i bear malice for the little accident that happened yesterday. i don't mind confessing that it made me feel ugly when i fell into that tub of hot water. you wouldn't have liked it yourself, would you?" "no, i don't think i should," said john, smiling in spite of himself, as the image of mr. huxter's downfall rose before him. "you can't blame me for feeling mad. but i know it was an accident, and i forgive you. you know it's your duty to come back." "i don't know about that," said john. "your stepmother made the arrangement for your good, and it's your duty to obey her." "mrs. oakley has not treated me as i had a right to expect," said john. "there was no reason for her sending me away from home." "she thought it best for you," said mr. huxter, condescending to reason with the boy, who was beyond his reach. "she took me from school, though she knew that my father wished me to remain there, and get ready for college." "she thinks you know enough already. you know more than ben." "ben doesn't care for study. he could have prepared for college if he had wished." "well, perhaps you're right," said mr. huxter, with wily diplomacy. "i didn't see it in that light before. if your father wanted you to go to college, it's all right that you should go. i'll write to my sister as soon as we get home, and tell her how you feel about it. so just come ashore, and we'll talk it over as we go home." mr. huxter's words were smooth enough, but they did not correspond very well with his tone, when the conference began. john detected his insincerity, and understood very well the cause of his apparent mildness. "i shall be glad to have you write to mrs. oakley," he said; "but there won't be any need of my going home with you." "how can you find out what she writes me?" asked mr. huxter, subduing his wrath. "if mrs. oakley is willing to have me go home and attend the academy, as i have been accustomed to do, she can let squire selwyn know it, and he will get word to me." "does he know you are running away?" demanded mr. huxter, frowning. "no, he does not; but i shall tell him." "come, oakley," said mr. huxter, persuasively, "you know this is all wrong,--your running away, i mean. i don't want you to stay at my house if you don't like it, of course, but i don't like to have it said that you ran away. just come ashore and go home with me, and to-morrow i'll take the responsibility of sending you home to my sister. i can write her that i think she hasn't done the right thing by you. that's fair, isn't it?" john felt that it would be fair; but unfortunately he had no faith in mr. huxter's sincerity. he had seen too much of him for that. he could not help thinking of the spider's gracious invitation to the fly, and he did not mean to incur the fly's fate by imitating his folly. "i don't think it will be wise for me to go back," said john. "i wish i could get at you," said mr. huxter to himself. "my sister will be very angry when she hears of your running away," he said, aloud. "yes," said john, "i suppose she will." "you must take care not to provoke her. you are dependent upon her." "that i am not!" said john, proudly. "didn't your father leave her all the property?" "so it seems," said john, wincing. "then how can you live without her help?" "i am old enough to earn my own living," answered john. "come, oakley, don't be foolish. what's the use of working for your living, when, by behaving right, you can have a home without?" mr. huxter seemed to forget that he had intended to set john at work in his shoe-shop as soon as he could obtain a supply of work. "i am not afraid to work," said john. "what i dislike is to be dependent. i am not dependent upon mrs. oakley, for the property which my father left was partly intended for my benefit, even if it was not willed to me. if mrs. oakley intends me to feel dependent, and breaks up all my plans, i will go to work for myself, and make my own way in the world." "very fine talk; but you'll repent it within a week." "no," said john; "i have made up my mind, and i shall do as i have determined." "then you won't come ashore?" demanded mr. huxter, his tone changing. "no, i will not," said john. "if i ever get hold of you, i'll make you smart for this," said mr. huxter, now wholly throwing off the mask which for prudential motives he had worn. "i don't mean that you shall get hold of me," said john, coolly. and with a sweep of the oars, he sent the boat further from the shore. mr. huxter was beside himself with rage, but perfectly powerless to do any harm. nothing is more ludicrous than such a spectacle. he screamed himself hoarse, uttering threats of various kinds to john, who, instead of being frightened, took it all very coolly, dipping his oars tranquilly in the water. "there's one way of getting at you," said huxter, suddenly picking up a good-sized stone and flinging it at the boat. if he had been a good marksman the stone might have hit john, for the boat was within range; but it veered aside and struck the water. admonished of a new danger, john took several rapid strokes, and was quickly free from this peril. mr. huxter shook his fist wrathfully at the young boatman, and was considering if there was any way of getting at him, when an unexpected mischance called his attention in another direction. looking towards the road, he found that his horse had managed to break loose, and was now heading for home. "whoa!" he shouted, as he ran towards the retreating vehicle, forgetting that his voice would hardly reach a third of a mile. certainly this was not one of mr. huxter's lucky days. john was left master of the situation. chapter xxvi. one disappointment follows another. at the close of the last chapter we left john floating at his ease in a row-boat, while his pursuer was compelled, by the sudden departure of his horse, to give up his immediate purpose, and chase the flying animal. it was very much against his will that he left john; but the horse, as he knew, was the best in the stable, and valued at not less than three hundred dollars,--a sum which he would be unable to make up. besides this, the chaise might be injured. "curse my luck!" exclaimed mr. huxter, as he glanced back at john, with a baffled look. "every thing turns against me. but i'll come back after the young rascal as soon as i catch the horse." but, unfortunately for mr. huxter, it proved that two legs were no match for four. when he got to the road, the horse was half a mile ahead. in spite of his haste, he was obliged to pause a moment and recover his breath, which the unusual exercise of running had exhausted. mr. huxter was nearly two miles distant from the tavern where he had stopped. his only hope was that the horse would stop or be stopped there. as soon as he recovered his breath, he started for the tavern, therefore. partly running, partly walking, he at length arrived, tired, heated, and in ill-humor. entering the yard, he saw a group of men and boys surrounding the horse and chaise, which had already arrived. among them was mr. jones, the landlord. "why, here's the man himself!" exclaimed the landlord, advancing to meet him. "how came your horse to run away? were you spilled out?" "no; i tied him to a tree, and he broke loose and ran away. has he done any harm?" asked mr. huxter, nervously. "he's smashed one of the wheels in running against a post," said a bystander. "let me see," said mr. huxter, dolefully. he found that it was as bad as had been told him. the horse made a short turn into the inn-yard, and managed to bring the chaise into collision with a post. the wheel was pretty well shattered. "looks bad," said the bystander. "it'll cost something to mend it." "it can't be mended," said mr. jones. "you'll have to get a new wheel." "what'll it cost?" said mr. huxter, with something very like a groan. "i can't say exactly. maybe twenty-five dollars will do it." "it might have been worse," said the bystander, in what was meant to be an encouraging tone. "it's bad enough," said mr. huxter, fiercely. "it's just my cursed luck." "was the carriage yours?" asked the landlord. "no, i got it from a stable. they'll charge me about double price." "oh, by the way, did you catch the boy?" asked the landlord, in a tone of interest. "no," said mr. huxter, with an oath which i will omit. "i had just overtaken him when the cursed horse ran away." "well, you are unlucky," said jones. "what are you going to do about it?" "i suppose i must get the carriage home somehow." "you might get a new wheel put on here. there's an excellent wheelwright in the village. it will cost you less." mr. huxter finally made an arrangement to this effect, the wheelwright agreeing for twenty-five dollars to put the chaise in repair. this, with the stable charge, made thirty dollars as the expense of mr. huxter's little excursion, which, as we have seen, ended in disappointment. he decided not to continue the pursuit of john, having good reason to doubt whether he would catch him. there was one question which troubled mr. huxter: would his sister be willing to pay this thirty dollars? if not, it would indeed be a bad morning's work for him. he lost no time, on getting home, in writing to mrs. oakley. his letter is subjoined. "dear sister:--i hope these few lines will find you in good health. this comes to inform you that the young rascal that i took to board to accommodate you has run away, after treating me most shameful. i hired a team to go after him this morning; but the horse ran away and broke the carriage, which will cost me forty dollars to mend. (mr. huxter thought if mrs. oakley was to pay the bill he might as well add something to it.) as i was on your business, you will expect to pay this, of course. you can send the money in a letter. i will get back john oakley if i can. he is a young scamp, and i don't wonder you had trouble with him. when i get him back, i will make him toe the mark, you may be sure of that. please write to me by return mail, and don't forget the money. your brother," "ephraim huxter." mr. huxter did not have to wait long for an answer; but it proved to be less satisfactory than prompt. it ran as follows:- "my dear brother:--your letter has just reached me. i am surprised that you could not manage to control a boy of fifteen. it seems that he has got the best of you. you need not trouble yourself to get him back. if he chooses to run away and earn his own living, he may, for all i care. he is a young rascal, as you say. "as to the carriage which you say was damaged to the extent of forty dollars, i do not see how it could have happened, with ordinary care. how did it happen? you ought to have told me in your letter. nor do i see how you can expect me to pay for the result of your carelessness. but even if i were to do it, you seem to forget that i advanced you seventy-five dollars on john's board. as he has remained only one week, that being deducted will leave a balance of sixty-nine dollars, or perhaps sixty, after taking out travelling expenses. i could rightfully require this back; but i will not be hard on you. you may pay for the damage done to the carriage (i am surprised that it should amount to forty dollars), and keep the balance as a gift from me. but it will be useless for you to make any further claim on me for a year, at least, as i have large expenses, and charity begins at home. remember me to your wife." "jane oakley." "well, if that isn't a cold-blooded letter!" said mr. huxter, bitterly. "jane is rich now, and don't care for the privations of her poor brother. she blames me because the chaise got broken,--just as if i could help it." still mr. huxter had no real reason to complain. his sister had agreed to pay for the damage done, and there would be something left out of the money she had paid in advance. but mr. huxter, as soon as he had received it, had at once looked upon it as his own, though not yet earned, and to use it seemed as if he were paying the bill out of his own pocket. then, again, the very decided intimation that he need not look for any more assistance at present was discouraging. deducting expenses, it would leave him but a small amount to pay him for his journey to hampton. he resolved not to pay the wheelwright, if he could possibly avoid it, not being very conscientious about paying his debts. but, as mr. huxter's reputation in that way was well known, the wheelwright refused to surrender the chaise till his bill was paid; and the stable-keeper made such a fuss that mr. huxter was compelled to pay the bill, though very much against his inclination. the result of his disappointment was, that he began to drink worse than ever, and poor mrs. huxter, for some weeks, had a hard time of it. she was certainly very much to be pitied, as is every poor woman who finds herself yoked for life to a husband wedded to a habit so fatal to all domestic comfort and happiness. chapter xxvii. john oakley's aunt. when john found that his enemy had abandoned the siege, he rowed ashore, and watched mr. huxter until he became satisfied that it would require a considerable time to catch the horse. he thought that he might venture to pursue his journey, without further fear of molestation. of the incidents that followed, none are worth recording. it is sufficient to say that on the evening of the second day john entered the town of wilton. it was years since he had seen his aunt. she had been confined at home by the cares of a young family, and the distance between wilton and hampton seemed formidable. he knew, however, that his uncle, thomas berry, kept a small country store, and had done so ever since his marriage. in a country village it is always easy to find the "store," and john kept up the main road, feeling that it would not be necessary to inquire. he came at length to a meeting-house, and judged that the store would not be far off. in fact, a few rods further he came to a long, two-story building, painted white, with a piazza in front. on a large sign-board over it he read:- "thomas berry. provision and dry-goods store." "this must be the place," thought john. "i think i'll go into the store first and see uncle." he entered, and found himself in a broad room, low-studded, furnished with counters on two sides, and crowded with a motley collection of goods, embracing calicoes and dry goods generally, as well as barrels of molasses and firkins of butter. there chanced to be no customer in at the time. behind the counter he saw, not his uncle, but a young man, with long, light hair combed behind his ears, not very prepossessing in his appearance,--at least so john thought. "is mr. berry in?" he asked, walking up to the counter. "mr. berry is dead," was the unexpected reply. "dead!" exclaimed john, in surprise. "how long since he died?" "a week ago." "we never heard of it," said john, half to himself. "are you a relation?" asked the young man. "he was my uncle." "is your name oakley?" "yes, john oakley." "of hampton?" "yes." "a letter was sent there, announcing the death." this was true; but mrs. oakley, who received the letter, had not thought it necessary to send intelligence of its contents to john. "didn't you get it?" continued the other. "i haven't been at home for a week or more," said john. "i suppose that accounts for it. how is my aunt?" "she is not very well." "i think i will go into the house and see her." john went around to the door of the house and knocked. a young girl of twelve answered. though john had not seen her for six years, he concluded that it must be his cousin martha. "how do you do, cousin martha?" he said, extending his hand. "are you my cousin john oakley?" she said, doubtfully. "yes. i did not hear till just now of your loss," said john. "how is your mother?" "she is not very well. come in, cousin john. she will be glad to see you." john was ushered into a small sitting-room, where he found his aunt seated in a chair by the window, sewing on a black dress for one of the children. "here's cousin john, mother," said martha. an expression of pleasure came to mrs. berry's pale face. "i am very glad to see you, john," she said. "you were very kind to come. is your stepmother well?" "quite well," said john. "but i do not come directly from home." "indeed! how does that happen?" asked his aunt. "it is rather a long story, aunt. i will tell you by and by. but now tell me about yourself. of what did my uncle die?" "he exposed himself imprudently in a storm one evening three months since," said mrs. berry. "in consequence of this, he took a severe cold, which finally terminated in a fever. we did not at first suppose him to be in any danger, but he gradually became worse, and a week since he died. it is a terrible loss to me and my poor children." here his aunt put her handkerchief to her face to wipe away the tears that started at the thought of her bereavement. "dear aunt, i sympathize with you," said john, earnestly, taking her hand. "i know you do, john," said his aunt. "i don't know how i can get along alone, with four poor fatherless children to look after." "god will help you, aunt. you must look to him," said john, reverently. "it is that thought alone that sustains me," said mrs. berry. "but sometimes, when the thought of my bereavement comes upon me, i don't realize it as i should." "i went into the store first," said john. "i suppose it was my uncle's assistant that i saw there?" "yes," said mrs. berry; "it was mr. hall." "i suppose he manages the store now for you?" "yes," said mrs. berry, slowly. "but i hardly know that it is right to say that he manages it for me." "why not?" asked john, perplexed by his aunt's manner, which seemed to him strange. "i will tell you, john," said his aunt. "when mr. berry died, i thought he owned the stock clear, and had no debts; but day before yesterday mr. hall called in, and showed me a note for two thousand dollars, signed by mr. berry. i don't suppose the stock is worth more than three thousand. of course that makes a very great difference in my circumstances. in fact, it will leave me only a thousand dollars, at the utmost, to support my poor children. i don't know what i shall do." and the poor woman, whose nerves had been shaken by her grief, burst into tears. "didn't my uncle own this building, then?" asked john. "no, he never owned it. he hired it at a low rent from mr. mansfield, one of the selectmen, and a rich man." "can't you keep up the store, aunt? will not that give income enough to support the family?" "but for this note, i could. but if i have to pay that, it will leave only a third of the store belonging to me. then out of the profits i must pay the rent, the wages of a salesman and a boy, before i can get anything for myself. you see, john, there isn't much prospect." "yes," said john, thoughtfully. "it doesn't look very bright. you say, aunt, that uncle never mentioned this note to you?" "he never mentioned a syllable about it." "did he generally mention his affairs to you?" "yes; he wasn't one of those husbands that keep everything secret from their wives. he always told me how he was getting along." "when was the note dated?" "a year and a half ago." "do you know whether my uncle had any particular use for so large a sum of money at that time?" "no. that is what puzzles me," said mrs. berry. "if he got the money, i am sure i don't know what he did with it." "did he extend his business with it, do you think?" "no, i am sure he did not. his stock is no larger now than it was six years ago. he always calculated to keep it at about the same amount." "that seems strange," said john,--"that we can't find where the money went to, i mean; especially as it was so large a sum." "yes, john, that is what i think. there's some mystery about it. i've thought and thought, and i can't tell how it happened." "what sort of a man is mr. hall?" asked john, after a pause. "i don't know anything against him," said mrs. berry. "i don't know why it is," said john, "but i don't like his looks. i took rather a prejudice against him when i saw him just now." "i never liked him," said his aunt, "though i can't give any good reason for my dislike. he never treated me in any way of which i could complain." "how long has he been in the store?" "how long is it, martha?" asked mrs. berry, turning to her oldest daughter, who, by the way, was a very pretty girl, with blooming cheeks and dark, sparkling eyes. "it will be four years in october, mother." "yes, i remember now." "he seems quite a young man." "i think he is twenty-three." "does he get a large salary?" "no, only forty dollars a month." "did you know of his having any property when he came here?" "no; he seemed quite poor." "then i don't understand where he could have got the two thousand dollars which he says he loaned uncle." "i declare, john, you are right," said mrs. berry, looking as if new light was thrown over the matter. "it certainly does look very strange. i wonder i didn't think of it before; but i have had so much to think of, that i couldn't think properly of anything. how do you account for it, john?" "i will tell you, aunt," said john, quietly. "i think the note is a forgery, and that mr. hall means to cheat you out of two-thirds of your property." chapter xxviii. john makes a discovery. "do you really believe this, john?" asked mrs. berry, in excitement. "i really do, aunt. i see no other way to account for the existence of the note." "but the signature looked like mr. berry's," said his aunt, doubtfully. "did you examine it carefully, aunt?" "no, i didn't," admitted mrs. berry. "i should like to compare it with uncle's handwriting." "i suppose mr. hall would think it strange if i should ask him to let me take it." "yes; but he must do it, if he wants the note acknowledged." "i have no head for business," said mrs. berry. "a child could cheat me. i wish you could stay with me and look after things." "perhaps i can." "but will your mother be willing?" "i have no mother," said john. "your stepmother, then?" "i might as well tell you, aunt, that there has been a serious difficulty between mrs. oakley and myself, and i have left home." "is it possible, john? didn't your stepmother treat you right?" "i will tell you all about it, aunt, and you shall judge." it was a long story, but, as we already know all about it, it is unnecessary to give john's account. his aunt listened attentively, and sympathized fully with john in the matter. "you have been badly treated, john," she said. "i am sure my poor brother would feel badly enough if he could know how mrs. oakley has driven you from home. you do not mean to go back?" "no, aunt," said john, resolutely. "until mrs. oakley restores me to my former privileges, i shall not go home." "then you must stay here, john," said his aunt. "if i can be of any service to you, aunt, i will." "you can be of great service to me, john. i do not feel confidence in mr. hall, and you know why i cannot be sure that he is not cheating me in the store. i want you to keep an eye upon him." "i will go into the store as an assistant," said john. "that will give me the best opportunity." "but you have never been used to work," said his aunt. "i must work now. remember, aunt, mrs. oakley holds the property, and i am dependent on my own exertions." "it is disgraceful that it should be so, john." "but it is so. perhaps matters may come right by and by; but for the present i must work. i will go into the store, and you shall give me my board." "you will earn more than that, john." "if we get clear of mr. hall's note, you can do better by me. until then, let that be the arrangement." "you don't know what a load you have lifted from my mind, john. i am very sorry that you have been driven from home; but i am very glad to have you here. martha, get ready the back bedroom for john." "i begin to feel myself at home already," said john, brightly. "our home is a humble one compared with the one you have left, john," said his aunt. "but you are here, aunt, and you seem like my own mother. that will make more than the difference to me." "i hope we can make you comfortable, john. martha, you may set the table for supper, and get john's room ready afterwards. i think he must be hungry." "i am as hungry as a bear, aunt," said john, smiling. in the evening martha went into the store by her mother's request, and asked mr. hall to step in after closing the store. he did so. "i believe you wished to see me, mrs. berry," he said. "yes, mr. hall. will you sit down?" "thank you." and the young man seated himself, looking furtively at mrs. berry, as if to inquire the object of his being summoned. "mr. hall, this is my nephew, john oakley. i believe you have already met." "yes, he came into the store," said mr. hall, glancing at john. "he has agreed to remain here for the present, and will assist you in the store." mr. hall looked as if he was not pleased with this intelligence. "i do not think that i shall need any assistance," he said. "i am surprised to hear that," said mrs. berry. "certainly you cannot expect to do alone the business which formerly required mr. berry and yourself to do." "the business is not so large as it was," said hall. "then you must try to bring it up to where it used to be. you must remember that i have a young family to support, and it will require an effort to do it." "that is why i thought it would be better to save the wages of an extra clerk," said hall. "you are considerate, especially as it would require you to work harder yourself. but my nephew knows my circumstances, and does not wish large compensation." "has he any experience in tending store?" asked hall. "no," said john. "then i should have to teach you. it would be more trouble than the help i would get." "i don't think you would find me so hard to learn," said john, quietly. "i have always lived in the country, and know something about the business of a country store. i don't think i shall be long in learning." "i agree with john," said mrs. berry. "of course it must be as you say," said mr. hall, appearing dissatisfied; "but i hoped to save you the expense. and i cannot say i think any help necessary; or, if it were, it would be better, with all respect to mr. oakley, to take james sanford, who has had some experience at trafton." "very well, mr. hall," said john, taking no notice of the opposition, "then i will come in to-morrow morning. what time do you open the store?" "at six o'clock." "won't that be rather early for you, john?" asked his aunt. "you are making me out to be lazy, aunt," said john. "there isn't much business early in the morning," said hall. "you need not come till seven." "i would rather go early," said john. "i want to learn the business as soon as i can." "did you wish to speak about anything else, mrs. berry?" said mr. hall. "no, mr. hall; but you need not be in haste." "thank you; i am feeling rather tired." "good-night, then." "good-night." "it seems to me," said john, when they were alone, "that mr. hall did not much want me to enter the store." "no; i was surprised at that. it must be very hard for one." "i have my thoughts about it," said john. "what are they?" asked his aunt. "i will not say anything now. they may amount to nothing. but i think mr. hall is afraid i will find out something, and therefore he objects to my going into the store. i shall keep good watch, and if i find out anything i will let you know." "i think you must be tired, john. you can go to bed when you please." "then i think i will go now, particularly as i am to be up by six in the morning." "never mind about to-morrow morning." "i had better begin as i am going to hold out, aunt. good-night." john took the lamp and entered his bedchamber with a happier and more home-like feeling than he had had for months. he felt so interested in his aunt's troubles that he almost forgot that he had any of his own. in the morning, as the village clock struck six, john stood in front of the store. a minute later, mr. hall, who boarded at a little distance, came up. he greeted john coldly, and they entered. "now i hope you will make me useful," said john. "you may sweep out," said hall. "where shall i find the broom?" hall told him and john commenced. it was new work to him, but he did it well, and then went to work to arrange things a little more neatly. occasionally he asked information of mr. hall, which was ungraciously given. still john learned rapidly, and in a fortnight had learned as much as many boys in three months. one day, when hall was gone to dinner, john chanced to open the stove, in which there had been no fire for the summer months. it was full of papers and letters of various kinds, which had been crowded into it, as a convenient receptacle. it was so full that, on the door being opened, a considerable portion fell on the floor. john began to pick them up, and, in doing so, naturally looked at some of the papers. all at once he started with excitement as a particular paper caught his attention. he read it eagerly, and his eyes lighted up with pleasure. "i must show this to my aunt," he said. "i suspected that note of mr. hall's was a forgery, and now i feel sure of it." he carefully deposited the paper in his pocket-book, and, putting back the rest of the papers, shut the stove door, and resumed his place behind the counter, just as mr. hall returned from dinner. he little guessed that john had made a discovery of the utmost consequence to him. chapter xxix. mr. hall's discomfiture. the paper which john had discovered among the rubbish in the stove was a half sheet of foolscap, which was covered with imitations of mr. berry's handwriting, the words occurring being those of the note of hand which hall had presented for payment. the first attempts were inexact, but those further down, with which pains had evidently been taken, were close copies of mr. berry's usual handwriting. this of course john could not know, not being familiar with his uncle's hand, but his aunt confirmed it. "it is clear," said john, "that mr. hall has forged the note which he presented against my uncle's estate." "what a wicked man," said mrs. berry, "to seek to defraud me and my poor fatherless children! i never could have suspected him." "it was the love of money, aunt. he thought you would not detect the fraud." "i should not but for you, john. how lucky it was you came! now tell me what i ought to do." "is there a lawyer in the place?" asked john. "yes; there is mr. bradley." "then, aunt, you had better send for him, and ask his advice." "i will do so; i think that will be the best way." mr. bradley, though a country lawyer, was a man of sound judgment, and quite reliable. when the circumstances were communicated to him, he gave his opinion that john's suspicions were well founded. "i should like to see mr. hall here," he said. "can you not ask him to be present, and bring the note with him?" "the store closes at nine. i will invite him then, if you can meet him at that hour." "that will suit me, mrs. berry," said the lawyer. mr. hall was not surprised at the message he received. he expected that the widow would be troubled about the claim he had presented, and he was prepared to listen to entreaties that payment might be postponed. that his fraud was suspected he did not dream. when mr. hall entered the little sitting-room he was somewhat surprised to see mr. bradley, the lawyer; but it occurred to him that mrs. berry in her trouble had applied to him to mediate between them. "good-evening, mr. bradley," he said. "good-evening, mr. hall," said the lawyer, rather coldly. "it is rather cool this evening," said hall, trying to appear at ease. "i understand," said mr. bradley, not appearing to notice this remark, "that you have a claim against the estate of my late friend, mr. berry." "yes, sir." "and the amount is--" "two thousand dollars," said hall, promptly. "so i understood. did you bring the note with you?" hall opened his pocket-book, and produced the note. the lawyer took it, and scanned it closely. "do you know what led mr. berry to borrow this amount?" asked the lawyer. "he wanted to put it into his business." "did he extend his business then? he might have done it to a considerable extent with that sum." "no, i believe not," said hall, hesitating. "but i thought he borrowed the money with that object." "the truth is," said hall, after a pause, "he was owing parties in boston for a considerable portion of his stock, and it was to pay off this sum that he borrowed the money." "i suppose you are aware, mr. hall, that this claim will sweep away two-thirds of mr. berry's estate?" "i am sorry," said hall, hesitating. "i didn't know but he left more." "scarcely a thousand dollars will be left to the family. mrs. berry will have a very hard time." "i won't be hard upon her," said hall. "i don't need all the money now. i will let half of it, say, stand for a year." "but it will have to be paid finally." "yes, i suppose i must have my money." "it is rather strange that mrs. berry never knew anything of this. her husband usually told her of his business affairs." "she thought so," said mr. hall, significantly, "do you mean to imply that he did not?" "it seems that he did not tell her of this." "so it appears, and yet it is a very important matter. by the way, mr. hall, it was very creditable to a young man, like yourself, to have saved up so considerable an amount of money. two thousand dollars is quite a little sum." "i did not save it up,--that is, not all of it," said hall, perceiving that this would lead to suspicion. in fact, he was beginning to feel rather uneasy under the lawyer's questioning. "you did not save it up?" "not all of it. i received a legacy a little more than two years since from a relative." "you were fortunate. what was the amount of the legacy?" "fifteen hundred dollars." "and you loaned all this to mr. berry?" "yes, sir." "and five hundred dollars more." "yes." "you never mentioned this legacy at the time." "only to mr. berry." "where did your relative live, mr. hall?" "in worcester," said hall, hesitating. "what relative was it?" "my aunt," answered hall, beginning to feel uncomfortable. "what was her name?" "i don't see why you ask so many questions, mr. bradley," said hall, beginning to find this catechising embarrassing, especially as he had to make up the answers on the spot. "surely you have no objection to answer my question, mr. hall?" said the lawyer, looking fixedly at the young man, who changed color. "it isn't that," said hall; "but it seems unnecessary." "you must consider, mr. hall, that this claim is a very unexpected one. mr. berry never mentioned to any one, so far as i know, that he had borrowed this money of you. remember, also, that it will reduce mrs. berry to poverty, and you will not be surprised that we want to know all the particulars respecting the transaction." "i should think the note ought to be sufficient," said hall. "true, the note. let me examine it once more." the lawyer scrutinized the note, and, raising his eyes, said:-"this note is in mr. berry's handwriting, is it?" "yes." "by the way, mr. hall, the interest has been paid on this note at regular intervals." "ye--es," said hall. "how often?" "every six months," he answered, more boldly. "ah, then i suppose we shall find corresponding entries on mr. berry's books." "i suppose so," said hall; but he began to feel very uncomfortable. "so that no interest is due now." "about a month's interest; but never mind about that, i won't say anything about that," said hall, magnanimously. "you are very considerate, mr. hall," said the lawyer; "but i am sure mrs. berry will not accept this favor. she intends to pay you every penny she owes you." mr. hall brightened up at this intimation. he thought it looked encouraging. "i don't want to be hard," he said. "i don't care for the trifle of interest due." "i repeat that mrs. berry means to pay every penny that is justly due, _but not one cent that is not so due_," said the lawyer, emphasizing the last words. "of course," said the clerk, nervously; "but why do you say that?" "do you wish me to tell you, mr. hall?" asked mr. bradley, fixing his keen glance upon the young man. "yes." "then i will tell you. because i believe this note which i hold in my hand _to be a base forgery_." hall jumped to his feet in dismay. "do you mean to insult me?" he asked, with quivering lips. "sit down, mr. hall. it is best that this matter should be settled at once. i have made a charge, and it is only fair that i should substantiate it, or try to do so. did you ever see this sheet of paper?" so saying, he produced the crumpled half sheet which john found in the stove. mr. hall turned pale. "i don't know what you mean," he faltered; but there was a look upon his face which belied his words. "i think you _do_ know, mr. hall," said the lawyer. "you must be aware that forgery is a serious matter." "give me back the note," said hall. "do you admit it to be a forgery?" "i admit nothing." "mr. hall, i will hand you the note," said the lawyer, after a slight pause, "merely reminding you that, if it is what i suppose, the sooner you destroy it the better." hall took the note with nervous haste, and thrust it into the flame of the lamp. in an instant it was consumed. "you have done wisely, mr. hall," said mr. bradley. "i have no further business with you." "i shall leave wilton to-morrow, mrs. berry," said hall. "i must ask you to get somebody else in my place." "i will pay you to-night whatever wages are due you" said the lawyer, "in behalf of mrs. berry." "but how shall i manage about the store?" asked mrs. berry. "i will take charge of it, aunt," said john, promptly, "if you will get some one to assist me." "very well, john; but i am afraid it will be too much for you." "never fear, aunt; i haven't been in the store long, but i've learned a good deal about the business." hall was paid, and that was the last that was seen of him. he went away in the stage the next morning, and it is to be hoped that he has found out that honesty is the best policy. after he had left the room, mr. bradley advanced to mrs. berry, and, grasping her hand, said, cordially:-"i congratulate you on the new and improved look of your affairs." "it has lifted a great weight from my mind," said the widow. "now i feel sure that i shall be able to get along, especially with john's help. he was the first to suspect mr. hall of attempting to cheat me." "you ought to be a lawyer, john," said mr. bradley. "you have shown that you have a good head on your shoulders." "perhaps i may be one some time," said john, smiling. "if you ever do, my office is open to you. good-night, mrs. berry; we've done a good evening's work." the next day john undertook the chief management of his aunt's store. he engaged james sanford, who had had some experience in another town, to help him, and things went on smoothly for a few weeks. at the end of that time john received an important letter from hampton. chapter xxx. a dangerous acquaintance. while john was attending to his aunt's interests at wilton, important events were occurring at hampton. it has already been stated that ben brayton was accustomed to spend most of his time in lounging at the tavern, or in a billiard saloon close by. it was at the latter place that he had the privilege of forming an acquaintance with arthur winchester, a young man from the city of new york (or so he represented). he was dressed in the extreme of the fashion, sported a heavy gold chain, wore a diamond ring, and carried a jaunty cane. i cannot guarantee the genuineness of the gold or the diamond; but there was no one in hampton who could distinguish them from the real articles. the appearance of mr. arthur winchester created something of a sensation among the young men of hampton, or at least that portion who aspired to wear fashionable clothes. mr. winchester's attire was generally regarded as "nobby" in the extreme. they exhibited an elegance which the highest efforts of the village tailor had never succeeded in reaching. forthwith the smart young men in hampton became possessed with the desire to have their clothes made in the same faultless style, and mr. winchester was accommodating enough to permit the village tailor to take a pattern from his garments. among those who gazed with admiration at the new-comer was ben brayton. he was the first, indeed, to order a suit like mr. winchester's, in which, when obtained, he strutted about proudly, arm in arm with the young man himself. various circumstances served to strengthen the intimacy between the two. in the first place neither had any weighty occupations to prevent their drinking or playing billiards together, and it chanced after a time that this became a regular business with them. ben brayton was an average player, and appeared nearly equal to his new friend. at all events, in the friendly trials of skill that took place between them, ben came off victorious perhaps a third of the time. "come, ben," said winchester, one morning, "this is slow. suppose we make the games a little more exciting by staking a little on the game." [illustration] "you're a better player than i am, winchester," said ben. "not much. you beat me pretty often. however, i'll give you twenty points, and stake a dollar on the game." "i don't mind," said ben. "a dollar isn't much." "agreed." the game was played, and, counting the twenty points conceded, ben came off victorious by five points. he pocketed the dollar with a sense of elation. "will you have another?" he asked. "of course i will. i'm bound to have my revenge." the second game was played, and likewise terminated in ben's favor. he pocketed the second dollar with satisfaction. he had never found billiards so interesting. "come, brayton, this won't do. i didn't think you were so good a player. you'll clean me out at this rate." "oh, i only happened to be lucky," said ben, in high good humor. "shall we try it again?" of course they tried it again, and spent nearly the entire day in the same way. fortune veered about a little, and ben came out minus three dollars. "never mind, brayton, you'll get it back to-morrow," said winchester, as they parted. so ben thought, and the furor of gaming had already taken such possession of him that he got up unusually early, anxious to get at the fascinating game. so matters went on for a week. they never exceeded one dollar as stakes, and played so even that ben was only ten dollars behindhand. this he paid from his allowance, and so far from being satiated with the game could hardly restrain his impatience till monday morning should give him a chance of playing again. it is perhaps needless to say that ben had fallen into dangerous company. mr. arthur winchester was really a far superior player, and eventually meant to fleece ben out of his last dollar. but he did not wish to arouse suspicion of his intentions, and "played off," as the saying is, and thus had no difficulty in luring ben on to the point at which he aimed. at the end of the second week ben was only five dollars behind. "you're gaining upon me," said winchester. "you're improving in your play." "am i?" said ben, flattered. "not a doubt of it. i don't like to boast, but i am considered a first-class player in the city, and, by jove, you're almost even with me." ben listened with gratification to this praise. he didn't doubt that winchester was the first-class player he represented, and in fact he was a superior player, but he had never yet put forth his utmost skill. he had only played with ben, suiting himself to his inferior style of playing. gradually winchester suggested higher play. "a dollar is nothing," he said. "let us make it five." ben hesitated. "that's a good deal to lose," he said. "that's true, but isn't it as much to win? come, it will make our games more interesting, and you're as likely to come out ahead as i am." "that is true," thought ben. "i'll tell you what," he said; "give me twenty-five points, and i'll do it." "anything for excitement," said winchester; "but we're so nearly matched that you'll beat me twice out of three times on those odds." ben did beat the first game, and the exultation with which he pocketed the stakes revealed to his experienced opponent that he had the game in his hands. towards the middle of the afternoon ben stood one game ahead. he was flushed and excited by his success. "i'll tell you what," said winchester; "let's give up child's play and have the real thing." "what do you mean?" asked ben. "let us stake fifty dollars, and done with it. that'll be something worth playing for." ben started in surprise. the magnitude of the stake took his breath away. "i haven't got the money," he said. "oh, well, you can give me your note. i'll wait, that is, of course if i win; but i am not so sure of that as i was. you're a pretty smart player." ben did not hesitate long. he was dazzled by the idea of winning fifty dollars, and his success thus far encouraged him to think that he would. "give me thirty points, then," he said. "i ought not to; but anything for excitement." the game was commenced. ben led till towards the close of the game, when his opponent improved his play, and came out three points ahead. "it was a close shave," he said. ben looked uneasy. it was all very agreeable to win a large sum; but to lose was not so comfortable. "i haven't got the money," he said. "oh, give me your note, and pay when it's convenient! in fact, perhaps you need not pay at all. you may win the next game." "i don't know if i had better play," said ben, doubtfully. "oh, you mustn't leave off a loser. you must have your revenge. in fact, i'll make you a good offer. we'll play for a hundred dollars, and i'll give you thirty-five points. that'll square us up, and make me your debtor." "say forty, and i'll agree." "forty let it be then; but you'll win." again winchester permitted ben to gain in the commencement of the game, but towards the last he took care to make up for lost time by a brilliant play that brought him out victor. "i was lucky," he said. "i began to think, the first part of the game, that all was over with me." ben, silly dupe that he was, did not fathom the rascality of his companion. "i don't think i played as well as usual," he said, ruefully. "no, you didn't. perhaps your hand has got a little out, you have played so many hours on a stretch." ben gave winchester another due-bill for one hundred dollars, wondering how he should be able to meet it. he was rather frightened, and resolved not to play the next day. but when the next day came his resolution evaporated. i need not describe the wiles used by arthur winchester. it is enough that at the close of the coming day he held notes signed by ben for three hundred dollars. he assured the disturbed ben that he needn't trouble himself about the matter; that he didn't need the money just yet. he would give him time to pay it in, and other things to the same effect. but having come to the conclusion that ben had been bled as much as he could stand, he called him aside the next morning, and said:-"i'm sorry to trouble you, my dear brayton, but i've just had a letter recalling me to the city. could you let me have that money as well as not, say this afternoon?" "this afternoon!" exclaimed ben, in dismay. "i don't see how i can get it at all." "do you mean to repudiate your debts of honor?" said winchester, sternly. "no," said ben, faltering; "but i've got no money." "you ought to have made sure of that," said winchester, shortly, "before playing with a gentleman. go to your mother. she is rich." "she won't give me the money." "look here, brayton," said winchester, "i must have that money. i don't care how you get it. but some way or other it must be got. i hope you understand." a bright idea came to ben. "you can't collect my notes," he said; "i'm under age." "then," said winchester, his face darkening with a frown that made ben shiver, "i demand satisfaction. to-morrow morning, at five o'clock, i will meet you with swords or pistols, as you prefer." "what do you mean?" asked ben, his teeth chattering, for he was an arrant coward. "what i say! if the law will not give me satisfaction, i will demand the satisfaction of a gentleman. fight or pay, take your choice; but one or the other you must do." the sentence closed with an oath. "i'll do my best," said ben, terrified. "of course i mean to pay you." "then you'll let me have the money to-morrow?" "i'll try." the two parted, and ben, thoroughly miserable, went home, trying to devise some means to appease his inexorable creditor, whom he began to wish he had never met. chapter xxxi. ben makes a discovery. ben went home slowly, in a state of great perplexity. he knew his mother too well to think she would pay him three hundred dollars without weighty cause. should he tell her the scrape he had got into? he felt a natural reluctance to do that, nor was he by any means satisfied that she would pay the money if he did. then again he was ashamed to admit that he was afraid to fight. he felt convinced that, should he reveal the matter, his mother would bid him take advantage of the legal worthlessness of his notes to winchester. he would gladly do it, but was afraid, and did not dare to admit it. on the whole, ben felt decidedly uncomfortable. "is mother at home?" he inquired, when he reached home. "no; she's gone over to mrs. talbot's to spend the afternoon," was the reply. ben felt relieved by this assurance, though he hardly knew why. "i wonder whether mother has got as much as three hundred dollars by her," he thought. with this thought in his mind he went upstairs, and entered his mother's chamber. the first thing he caught sight of when he entered was a little bunch of keys lying on the table. he knew at once that they were his mother's keys. it was certainly extraordinary that she should on that particular day have left them exposed. she was generally very careful. but it chanced that she had hurried away, and in her haste had forgotten the keys, nor did she think of them while absent. under ordinary circumstances ben would have made no improper use of the keys thus thrown in his way; but, harassed as he was by the importunities of winchester, it seemed to him a stroke of luck that placed them in his power. he determined to open the drawers of his mother's bureau, and see what he could find. if only he could find the sum he wanted he could get out of his present difficulties, and perhaps explain it to his mother afterwards. ben, after several trials, succeeded in finding the key that fitted the upper drawer. he examined the contents eagerly. it was of course filled with a variety of articles of apparel, but in one corner ben found a portemonnaie. he opened it, and discovered a roll of bills, six in number, each of the denomination of twenty dollars. "one hundred and twenty dollars!" he said. "that's more than a third of the bill. perhaps, if i pay that, winchester'll wait for the rest." it occurred to him, however, that a further search might reveal some more money. if he could get thirty dollars more, for example, that with the other would make one half the sum he owed winchester, and with that surely the other might be content, for the present at least. the rest of the debt he could arrange to pay out of his weekly allowance, say at the rate of five dollars a week. accordingly ben began to poke about until he found a folded paper. he opened it with curiosity and began to read. his interest deepened, and his excitement increased. "by jove," he said, "if this isn't the lost will i've heard so much talk about. the old lady's kept it mighty quiet. wouldn't john oakley give something to get hold of it?" ben sat down to reflect upon the discovery he had made. "mother's right to keep it quiet," he said to himself. "she ought to have destroyed it, and i verily believe she has tried," he continued, as he noticed the scorched appearance of the will. "i wonder she didn't." the next question to consider was, what to do with it. it did not take long to decide. his mother would be very much frightened, and this would give him a hold upon her, by which he might induce her to give him the money he required. "yes, i'll keep it," he said. he put the roll of bills into his pocket-book, carefully deposited the will in his side-pocket, and, shutting and locking the bureau-drawer, placed the keys in the same position upon the table in which he had found them, and then left the room. "a pretty good day's work!" thought ben to himself. "i think i'll go and pay winchester what money i have, and get him to wait a few days for the rest." ben left the house, and wended his way to the tavern. he found winchester in the bar-room, smoking a cigar. he looked up inquiringly as ben entered. "how are you, winchester?" said ben. "all right," said the latter, noticing ben's changed demeanor, and auguring favorably from it. "have a cigar?" "i don't care if i do," said ben. winchester handed him one, and the two sat down together. "oh, about that money," said ben, after a little pause. "i can let you have a part of it now, but i shall have to make you wait a few days for the rest." "how much can you pay me now?" "one hundred and twenty dollars," said ben. "that's good," said winchester, with satisfaction. "the fact is, i'm deuced hard up, and need it." "i don't want to pay you here," said ben. "come out a little way, and i'll hand it to you." "all right. i'd like a walk." the two sauntered forth together, and ben paid over the money. "you'll oblige me by not mentioning to anybody that i have paid you any money," said ben. "i have a reason for it." "of course." "i can't tell you the reason." "that's your affair." "now about the rest." "yes, about the rest." "i think i can get it for you in a few days." "i can wait a few days to oblige you, but i must go to the city as soon as i can get away. so please hurry up." "i'll do the best i can. this morning," he added, "i didn't see how i was going to get the money. my mother wouldn't look upon it as we do, as a debt of honor; but since then i've been lucky enough to get possession of one of her secrets, and i think it will help me." "glad of it," said winchester, "for your sake. i don't care, of course, how you get the money, as long as you do get it. that's the main thing, you know." "yes, i see." "now what do you say to another little game of billiards?" "i can't stake any more money. i've lost enough," said ben, sensibly. "then let it be a friendly game--just a little trial of skill, that's all." to this ben was not averse, and the two made their way as so often before to the billiard saloon. in the mean time mrs. oakley returned home from her afternoon visit. she had not yet missed her keys, but on going up to her chamber, discovered them lying upon the table. "how terribly careless i have been!" she said. "i hope they have not been seen." tolerably sure of this, she opened the upper bureau-drawer, and looked for the portemonnaie. it was in the same place. she opened it, and found it empty. her eyes flashed with indignation. "some one has been to the drawer," she said. she next thought of the will, and felt for it. _it was not there!_ she turned pale, and with nervous fingers took everything out of the drawer, hoping to find it misplaced. but her search was vain. the will was not to be found. she sank back into a chair, and exclaimed with passionate regret:-"fool that i was! why did i not make all sure by burning it?" chapter xxxii. mrs. oakley's suspicions. the sudden disappearance of the will struck mrs. oakley with dismay. it threatened her with the loss of two-thirds of her estate. but she was not a woman to bear it in silence. she possessed a fund of energy, and lost no time in seeking to determine the important question, "who had taken it?" she descended at once to the kitchen, where she found hannah setting the table for supper. "hannah," she said, abruptly, "have you been upstairs to my chamber this afternoon?" "no, ma'am," said hannah. "think a moment," said her mistress, sternly; "have you not been up?" "no, ma'am, i haven't. i told you so once," said hannah, not altogether pleased with the doubt implied by the second question. "has any one called here since i went away?" asked mrs. oakley. "no, ma'am." "then there has been no one in the house excepting yourself?" "no one except master ben." "ben!" repeated mrs. oakley, in a changed voice. "when did ben come home?" "about an hour ago,--maybe an hour and a half," said hannah. "he is not here now." "isn't he, ma'am? i suppose he went out, but i didn't hear him." "you are quite sure no one else has been in the house?" inquired her mistress. "certain sure, ma'am." mrs. oakley went upstairs slowly. a new idea had forced its way into her mind. it must be that ben had taken both the money and the will. that he should have taken the first didn't surprise her, for with all her love for her son, she had small confidence in his honesty. no doubt he had got into debt, and so was tempted to appropriate the bills. but why should he have taken the will? that was something she could not understand. for the money she cared little comparatively. but the loss of the will was ruin, if john or his friends found it, or, if not, she would live in perpetual fear of their discovering it. "if i once get hold of it again," she said to herself, "i will take care that all danger from that source shall end and forever. ben will never divulge its existence, of course. he will understand that it affects his interests too nearly." she waited in nervous excitement for ben's reappearance. at length his step was heard--never more welcome than now. ben entered, feeling rather nervous also. "has mother found out?" he thought. "good-afternoon, mother," he said, with apparent unconcern. "is supper most ready? i'm awful hungry." "i want to speak to you a moment, benjamin," said his mother. "will you come upstairs?" "now for it," thought ben. "can't you speak here just as well?" he said. "i'm tired." "i would rather have you come upstairs," said mrs. oakley. "just as you say," said ben; "but i don't see why you can't talk just as well down here." mrs. oakley led the way to her own chamber. ben followed, feeling, it must be confessed, not altogether comfortable. this feeling was not diminished when his mother closed the door carefully. she turned and confronted him. "you have been to my bureau-drawer, ben," she said, eying him fixedly. "i don't know what you mean," said ben. "you came home about two hours ago, didn't you?" "yes, i came home then," said ben, knowing that it would be of no use to deny what could be proved by hannah's testimony. "you came up to this chamber, found my keys on the table, and opened the upper drawer of my bureau." "did you see me do it?" asked ben, feeling confident that he was accused on suspicion merely. "no, but--" "doesn't hannah pretend that she saw me?" "no." "lucky for her she doesn't. if she did she'd lie," said ben, glad to find out so much. "do you mean to deny that you came up here?" asked mrs. oakley. "yes, i do. it seems to me you're mighty quick in suspecting me," continued ben, with an air of injured innocence. "but what's all the fuss about? have you missed anything?" "yes," said his mother, "i have met with a serious loss. but, benjamin, it is very important that i should clearly understand who did or did not take it. will you assure me upon your honor that you did not take anything from my bureau?" "of course i will," said ben, who felt that he was in for it, and must stick stoutly to the lie at all hazards. "but you haven't told me what you lost." mrs. oakley turned pale with consternation. she had depended upon ben's proving the real culprit, in which case she could require restitution, at any rate, of the will. "i lost a sum of money," she said,--"a hundred and twenty dollars." "whew!" said ben. "that _was_ a loss." "but that was not all. there was besides a--a document of importance, for which i cared more than the money." "i've no doubt of it," thought ben. "what was it?" he said aloud. "what it was is quite immaterial," said mrs. oakley. "it is sufficient to say that it was a document of very great importance. i care little for the money compared with that. if you took it, ben," she said, with a sudden final appeal, "i will forgive you, and let you keep the money, if you will restore the--the document." there was a look of entreaty in the proud woman's eyes, as she made this appeal to her son. she waited anxiously for the answer. but the inducement was not sufficient. the one hundred and twenty dollars were already paid away, and ben owed one hundred and eighty dollars besides. he knew that winchester would not remit the debt. there was no chance whatever of that. so ben determined to keep the _rã´le_ of injured innocence which he had assumed in the beginning. his mother would not be able to find him out. it may be thought that this was inconsistent with his plan of raising money out of his mother's fears by withholding the will. but he had arranged that already. _he might find the will_,--perhaps in hannah's chamber, perhaps elsewhere, he could decide that hereafter; but he resolved not to own up to the theft. in fact, after denying it stoutly, it would have been difficult to do that. "look here, mother," he said, "i am not a thief, and i wish you would not try to make me out one. you're ready enough to suspect me. why don't you suspect hannah? she was here all the time." "i have already spoken to hannah," said mrs. oakley. "what did she say?" "she said she had not been upstairs during my absence." "and you believed her," said ben, reproachfully. "do you believe her before me?" "yes, i believed her," said mrs. oakley; "and i will tell you why. she might take the money, but she wouldn't be likely to take the paper." "i don't know about that. she might think it was of importance. she might think you would pay her money to get it back." just then it flashed across mrs. oakley's mind that hannah had seen the will in her hand on the day that she undertook to burn it. why had she not thought of that before? it might be that hannah was more artful than she gave her credit for, and, suspecting the value of the document, had taken it as well as the money. "i will question hannah again," she said. "come with me, benjamin." they went downstairs together, and hannah was summoned from the kitchen. "hannah," said mrs. oakley, "listen attentively to me." "certainly, ma'am," said hannah, wondering what was coming. "something was taken from my drawer this afternoon, hannah,--some money and something else. do you know anything about it?" "sure i don't, ma'am. i told you once before." "if you took it, and will tell me, and restore everything, i will forgive you, and let you keep ten dollars of the money besides." "but i didn't take it, ma'am," said poor hannah, earnestly. "if you don't," said mrs. oakley, sternly, "i will send for the constable, and have you arrested at once and carried to prison." hannah burst into a piteous howl, and declared that she never stole so much as a pin, and called the virgin and all the saints to witness that she was innocent. "give up the paper you took," said mrs. oakley, "and you may keep twenty dollars of the money." but hannah again declared that she took nothing. "stop a minute," said ben; "maybe we're all wrong. when i went out of the house i saw a very suspicious-looking man coming this way." "what was his appearance?" "he had black hair and whiskers," said ben, glibly, "and was meanly dressed." "was he coming towards the house?" "yes." "did such a person come to the house, hannah?" "i didn't see him; but he might have come to the wing door without me knowing it." "i'll bet ten dollars he was the thief," said ben. mrs. oakley did not know what to say or think. both ben and hannah stoutly denied the theft, and resisted the most liberal overtures to a confession. it might be the ill-looking man spoken of. "what'll you give me if i find the paper, mother?" asked ben. "i'll get on the track of the scamp, and get it if i can." "i'll give fifty dollars," said his mother. "but you offered a hundred a little while ago." "i'll give you a hundred and twenty then." "promise me two hundred cash down, and i'll do my best." "i'll give you two hundred dollars when you place the paper in my hands." "all right," said ben. "if i can find the man, i'll offer him a little something to begin with. it won't be of any use to him, you know." they sat down to supper. ben partook heartily, feeling that he had as good as got the two hundred dollars, while mrs. oakley was pale and nervous, and had no appetite. how differently she would have felt if she had only known that the lost will was all the while laid snugly away in ben's coat-pocket! chapter xxxiii. a strange metamorphosis. ben decided not to produce the will too soon. it would look suspicious. besides, the longer it remained missing, the more rejoiced his mother would be to recover it, and so naturally the more ready to pay the reward she had promised. the afternoon of the next day he thought would be quite soon enough to "find" it. meanwhile the next morning ben strolled over to the tavern, thinking he might find winchester. but that young man had gone out on a fishing excursion, and had left word to that effect with the landlord. so ben strolled down to the river. it was a delightful day, and the desire seized him to "go in swimming." though he cared little for other athletic exercises, he was fond of swimming, and was quite a fair swimmer. now, as ben's ill luck would have it, sam selwyn chanced to be in the woods quite near by, and saw ben undress and go into the water. he was not fond of ben, and he was fond of a practical joke. besides, he had been for some time wanting to pay off ben for the share he had in making john's life uncomfortable. a plan suggested itself to him. "i'll do it!" he exclaimed, his eyes twinkling with merriment. he ran home,--it was but a few steps across lots,--dashed upstairs, and from an upper room took a faded calico dress and hoop-skirt, and, rolling them up, made his way swiftly back to the river. the river's edge was heavily wooded, and running vines and thick underbrush almost completely concealed the water from the sight. he went to the place where ben had deposited his clothes, took away his coat, vest, and pantaloons, put the gown and hoop-skirt in their place, and quickly departed. ben's clothes he hid away in the hollow trunk of an old tree not more than two rods distant. but in doing so a folded paper slipped out of the coat-pocket. sam's attention was drawn towards it, for it looked like the legal papers of which his father had so many in his office. opening it under an impulse of curiosity, his face instantly glowed with an expression of the most earnest and enthusiastic joy. "by all my lucky stars!" he exclaimed; "if this isn't the lost will! this will set john all right. i wonder how that scamp got hold of it!" sam put the will in his own inside coat-pocket, and buttoned up his coat to make sure that it was safe. he wanted to go at once and communicate the joyful discovery to his father, but he also wanted to enjoy ben's dismay when he found his clothes gone. this he could not forego on any account, and that he might be an unseen witness of all that occurred, he climbed up a large tree whose thick-leaved branches hid him completely. hardly had he concealed himself before ben emerged from the water. he at once proceeded to the spot where he had left his clothing. in ludicrous perplexity he gazed at the remarkable change which had taken place. he lifted the gown and skirt, and found that his shirt, collar, hat, stockings, and shoes were untouched. he put on his shirt and stockings, and called out, angrily, thinking the author of the trick might be within hearing:-"i say, bring back my clothes!" but no reply was made. "bring back my clothes, i say!" he called, in louder and more angry accents. but again this reasonable request fell unheeded. he waited anxiously for a response, but none came. "where are you, you scoundrel?" he screamed, in very ill temper. "don't you wish you knew?" thought sam, as he looked calmly down from a distance upon ben. "perhaps the scamp has hid my clothes somewhere about here," thought ben. he proceeded to search in every direction he could think of. but the hollow tree, rather strangely, did not occur to him and escaped his notice. his anger and dismay increased as he found his search vain. "i wish i had the mean, contemptible rascal here!" he exclaimed. "i'd break every bone in his body!" "i don't know about that, ben brayton," silently commented sam, from his secure post of observation. "what shall i do?" thought ben, gloomily. he sat down to consider. his situation was certainly an embarrassing one. of course he could not go home in his shirt, and the only alternative was to wear the odious gown. it was hard to make up his mind to that. he preferred to wait awhile to see if help would not come from some quarter. sam began to get tired in his perch. "why don't the fellow dress and go home?" he muttered. at length ben made up his mind that it must be done, and, with a hearty anathema on the author of his perplexity, robed himself in the dress. sam nearly exploded with laughter as he saw ben arrayed in the gown, which fell lank around him. ben gazed ruefully at his extraordinary figure, and then at the hoop-skirt. he concluded that he would not look quite so badly with that addition. he therefore fitted it on as well as he could, and adjusted his dress by the help of some pins which he found sticking in the dress. "i wish i had a hood or something to hide my face," muttered ben, dismally. "i might pass for a girl then. now folks will stare at me as if i was mad, and if any one sees me i shall never hear the last of it." certainly ben's black felt hat did not look much in keeping with the faded calico dress, now properly filled out by the hoop-skirt, which swayed from side to side as he walked. "oh, it's too rich!" thought sam, almost choking with suppressed laughter. "what a sensation he will make in the village!" just then ben's foot got caught somehow, and he fell sprawling. he gathered himself up with furious energy, and did not observe that there was a conspicuous stain of mud on his dress. he took a roundabout way, so as to remain under cover of the woods as long as he could. [illustration] "i must meet ben, and enjoy his discomfort," thought sam. he scrambled down from the tree, and cautiously made a short cut for the road, unseen by ben. he posted himself at a place where ben must emerge. he walked along, apparently absorbed in thought, till he came face to face with ben, who, very much ashamed of his appearance, was walking as fast as his embarrassing clothing would allow. "good gracious, ben brayton!" he exclaimed, in affected amazement. "why, what possesses you to go round in this style?" "no choice of mine. i couldn't help it," said ben, ruefully. "i went in swimming. some scamp stole my clothes, and left these traps in their place." "well, upon my word, ben, really you do cut the queerest figure i ever saw!" said sam, giving vent to his pent-up mirth. "i don't see anything to laugh at," said ben, in a most aggrieved tone. "you would if you could only see yourself," said sam,--and he burst out with laughter again. "do you mean to insult me?" said ben, wrathfully. "excuse me, ben; but really i can't help it. see, there's miss clark coming. if she don't laugh i'll forfeit a dollar." miss clark was one of the prettiest young ladies in the village, and to be seen by her was most humiliating. but there was no dodging it. she met ben face to face, and, as might be expected, was moved to merriment. "good-morning, miss clark," said ben, sheepishly. the young lady tried to say good-morning, but only burst into a fresh fit of mirth as she passed along, sam joining her a few moments afterwards. ben walked on very much discomposed. he was still half a mile from home, and it was very probable that he would meet others. "i'd give fifty dollars to be safe at home," he groaned. he had reason to say so. just then the scholars in the village school were sent out to their morning recess. they espied the strange figure, and instantly, boy-like, started in pursuit. "keep your distance!" said ben, furiously, to his young tormentors. "oh my! what a fine young lady i am!" said one. "how _do you do_ this morning, _miss_ brayton?" said another. "what a _becoming_ dress!" commented another, with much admiration. ben tried to give chase to his tormentors, but, as might have been expected, not being accustomed to his attire, tripped, and fell headlong. then a shout, long and loud, went up from the boys. ben could not stand it. he gathered up his skirts, and ran towards home with all the expedition he was capable of. the old doctor met him, and gazed in wonder at the flying figure, not recognizing ben in his new costume. he began to speculate whether it might not be an insane person, who had broken from his or her confinement. panting for breath, ben at length brought up at his own door. it was locked, mrs. oakley having followed the old adage of "shutting the stable-door after the horse is stolen." ben rang a tremendous peal at the door-bell, which was quickly answered by hannah. when she saw the strange figure before her, she uttered a loud shriek, and fled with precipitation. mrs. oakley heard the bell and hannah's shriek, and came hastily to the head of the stairs. "what does this ridiculous masquerading mean?" she demanded, sternly. "it means that i went in swimming, and some rascal stole my clothes and left these," growled ben, provoked that he should be blamed for his misfortune. then, for the first time, flashed upon ben the crowning misfortune,--that the lost will was in his coat-pocket. upon the recovery of that depended his chance of getting the two hundred dollars. he sank into a chair, pale with dismay. "are you sick, ben?" asked his mother, hastily. "no," he said; "but i must dress as quick as possible, and go back and find my clothes if i can." he dressed in nervous haste, and set out for the woods. this time he espied the hollow tree. there he found his clothes. he felt in the pockets, and found that everything was safe, including his watch and pocket-book. but the will was gone! ben instituted a strict and careful search in every conceivable direction, but he found no trace of the lost document. chapter xxxiv. conclusion. a letter was at once despatched to john, from squire selwyn, requesting his immediate return to hampton. though no reason was assigned for the summons, john of course lost no time in obeying it. on the third day he was set down at the lawyer's house. "o john, how glad i am to see you!" said sam, in his delight flinging both arms around john's neck, and giving him a warm embrace. john's greeting was no less hearty. "such news, john!" said sam. "it isn't the will?" inquired john, eagerly. "but it is, though." "found?" "yes, and i found it. didn't i tell you so! don't you remember my dream?" "but perhaps it's all a dream now." "well, if it is, it's a substantial dream, and father's got the document locked up in his safe. you're no longer dependent on mrs. oakley, and you can go to college with me, and--you don't know how glad i am." "yes, i do, sam," said john. "you're just as glad as if it had happened to yourself, and that's what i expected of you. but you haven't told me how it was found yet." "oh, it was such fun!" said sam. "sit down here, and i'll tell you all about it." it need hardly be said that john was amused by the story of ben's ludicrous embarrassment; but he was surprised as well. "how could ben have got hold of it? i don't understand that." "nor i," said sam. "but as long as we've got it, we won't trouble ourselves about that." it was decided that the next morning squire selwyn, accompanied by john, should call on mrs. oakley, and make arrangements founded on the new phase of affairs. mrs. oakley had not received intelligence of john's return, and her surprise was accompanied by a nervous sensation, when hannah came up to her chamber, and announced that squire selwyn was below, and master john was with him. "john oakley?" she demanded, hastily. "yes, ma'am." mrs. oakley entered the parlor with her old haughty step, and coldly bade the lawyer "good-morning." of john she took no notice. "good-morning, mrs. oakley," said john. "so you have got back, have you?" she said. "yes, he has got home to stay," said squire selwyn, significantly. "with or without my permission, i suppose," said mrs. oakley. "i don't know that he needs anybody's permission to live in his own house," said the lawyer. "his own house!" repeated mrs. oakley, in a voice which, despite her efforts, betrayed some nervousness. "yes, mrs. oakley. my object in calling upon you this morning is to apprise you that the will is found." "what will?" she demanded. "your late husband's last will and testament, in which he bequeaths this estate to his son john, here present." "where's the will?" "here," said the lawyer, producing it. "will you let me see it?" "excuse me, but it must remain in my possession till it is publicly read." "what reason have i for believing this to be a genuine document?" said mrs. oakley, harshly. it was foolish thus to contend, and she knew it; but it angered her that by the document she should be stripped of two-thirds of what she had come to look upon as her own. "i am prepared to swear that it is the will which i drew up for your husband three months before his death." "i suppose i am not to ask how it came into your possession?" said mrs. oakley. "if it was concealed in this house, some one must have entered illegally, and made a secret search." mrs. oakley fixed her eyes upon john, feeling satisfied that he had entered the house on the day she left her keys out, and opened the drawer. "if you think i had anything to do with it, mrs. oakley," said john, "you are mistaken. i only reached hampton last evening, summoned by squire selwyn." "i accused you of nothing," said mrs. oakley, but she was greatly surprised. "as to who found the will, mrs. oakley," said squire selwyn, composedly, "i will only suggest that your son benjamin can probably throw more light on this matter than any one else." "benjamin!" exclaimed mrs. oakley, quickly. "yes, i have reason to think he can give you all the information you desire." mrs. oakley compressed her lips closely. was it possible that ben had found the will and deliberately carried it to squire selwyn? could he have sold her and his own interests to the enemy? no doubt she argued, squire selwyn had bribed him at a heavy price to deliver it up. "i don't understand this," she said. "if benjamin found the will, he should have brought it to me." "as, of course, you would have placed it in my hands, there is no harm done," said the lawyer, watching keenly the face that showed some discomposure as he spoke. "but you can settle that with ben. i will merely read you the provisions of the will informally, previous to presenting it for probate." to this mrs. oakley could make no objection, though she was fully acquainted with the document to be read. it provided that the home estate, consisting of the family mansion, and lands situated in the town of hampton, valued together at twenty thousand dollars, should go to john. of the remaining estate, invested in stocks and bonds, valued at forty thousand dollars, one half was to go to john, and the remaining half to mrs. oakley. squire selwyn was appointed executor, and guardian of john, until the latter should attain his majority. "if the will is genuine,"--commenced mrs. oakley,-"you certainly do not question my word to that effect?" said the lawyer, gravely. "i have no right to stay in this house," continued mrs. oakley. "i am quite sure john would wish you to exercise your own choice in that matter." "i shall not remain a tenant on sufferance," said mrs. oakley, coldly. "next week benjamin and i go to the city." "you will act your own pleasure, of course," said squire selwyn, rather glad to hear it, if the truth must be told. some other matters were discussed and they rose to go. john received no invitation to remain. "i am afraid i must burden your hospitality, squire selwyn," he said, as they left the house. "you are a welcome guest, and will always be, john," said the lawyer. "sam will be delighted at the arrangement." "i don't know how my aunt will manage without me," said john. "i was her business manager." "it seems to me, john, that your aunt had better sell out her store, and come and keep house for you. you will have a large house, and you are not quite old enough to marry and go to house-keeping." "not quite," said john, laughing. "your aunt will thus be relieved from business anxieties, and you are quite rich enough to provide for her and your cousins." "it is an excellent arrangement," said john. "i'll write to her at once." john did write, and, as might have been expected his aunt was very glad to accept his offer. it was, of course, impossible to doubt the validity of the will, and its provisions were, as soon as practicable, carried into effect. mrs. oakley removed to new york with ben, and established herself at a boarding-house. on some accounts it was an unwise step. ben, having nothing useful to do, grew dissipated, and contracted debts on all hands. in five years his mother's twenty thousand dollars had dwindled to a few hundreds, and once more she found herself obliged to exert herself for a support. she opened a boarding-house, by means of which she managed to make a living. as for ben, who she fondly hoped would grow up a gentleman, he appears to be sinking deeper and deeper every day into worthlessness and dissipation. he has cost his mother many sorrowful hours. mr. huxter is dead. probably his excesses in drinking hastened his death. his poor wife was left quite destitute. when john heard of her distress, grateful for her sympathy at a time when he stood in need of it, he asked permission to help her. a certain sum is paid her annually by him, by which, with her earnings as a dress-maker,--a trade which she followed before her marriage,--she is able to make a comfortable living for herself and her children. john returned to his studies, and was admitted to college with sam, where both took a high rank. they graduated at the last commencement, and are now both studying law. squire bradley, of wilton, who was much impressed by the skill with which john ferreted out mr. hall's rascality, is anxious to have john enter his office; but sam, who is unwilling to part with one who from boyhood has been his most intimate friend, insists that john shall enter his father's office with him, after completing a course at a celebrated law school where they now are. probably this arrangement will best suit john. i have no hesitation in predicting for him a noble manhood and an honorable career. in spite of the gifts of fortune that he possesses, i consider his warm and generous heart, his personal integrity, and his manly character, to be john oakley's most valuable inheritance. transcriber's note: obvious printer errors have been corrected. otherwise, the author's original spelling, punctuation and hyphenation have been left intact. 