Chapter Four.

Chapter Four.Gone Again.On the evening following Jeffreys’ departure from Bolsover, a middle-aged, handsome gentleman was sitting in his comfortable study in the city of York, whistling pleasantly to himself.The house in which he lived was a small one, yet roomy enough for an old bachelor. And what it wanted in size it made up for in the elegance and luxury of its furniture and adornments.Mr Halgrove was evidently a connoisseur in the art of making himself comfortable. Everything about him was of the best, and bespoke not only a man of taste but a man of means. The books on the shelves—and where can you find any furniture to match a well-filled bookcase?—were well chosen and well bound. The pictures on the walls were all works of art and most tastefully hung. The knickknacks scattered about the room were ornamental as well as useful. Even the collie dog which lay luxuriously on the hearthrug with one eye half open was as beautiful as he was faithful.Mr Halgrove whistled pleasantly to himself as he stirred his coffee and glanced down the columns of the London paper.If you had looked over his shoulder, you would have come to the conclusion that Mr Halgrove’s idea of what was interesting in a newspaper and your own by no means coincided.He was, in fact, reading the money article, and running his eye skilfully among the mazes of the stocks and shares there reported.Suddenly there was a ring at the hall door and a man’s voice in the hall. Next moment the study door opened, and amid the frantic rejoicings of Julius, John Jeffreys walked into the presence of his guardian. He was haggard and travel-stained, and Mr Halgrove, in the midst of his astonishment, noticed that his boots were nearly in pieces. Bolsover was fifty-five miles from York, and the roads were rough and stony. The guardian, whatever astonishment he felt at this unexpected apparition, gave no sign of it in his face, as he sat back in his chair and took several quiet whiffs of his weed before he addressed his visitor.“Ah!” said he, “you’ve broken up early.”“No, sir,” said Jeffreys. “Please may I have something to eat?”“Help yourself to the bread and butter there,” said Mr Halgrove, pointing to the remains of his own tea, “and see if you can squeeze anything out of the coffee-pot. If not, ring for some more hot water. Lie down, Julius!”Jeffreys ate the bread and butter ravenously, and drank what was left in the coffee-pot and milk-jug.Mr Halgrove went on with his cigar, watching his ward curiously.“The roads are rough for walking this time of the year,” observed he.“Yes,” said Jeffreys; “I’ve walked all the way.”“Good exercise,” said Mr Halgrove. “How long did it take you?”“I left Bolsover at half-past four this morning.”Mr Halgrove looked at his watch.“Fifteen hours—a fairly good pace,” said he.A silence ensued, during which time guardian and ward remained eyeing one another, the one curiously, the other anxiously.“Why not sit down,” said Mr Halgrove, when it became evident his ward was not going to open the conversation, “after your long walk?”Jeffreys dropped heavily into the chair nearest to him and Julius came up and put his head between his knees.“Do you often take country walks of this sort?” said the guardian.“No, sir; I’ve run away from Bolsover.”Mr Halgrove raised his eyebrows.“Indeed! Was it for the fun of the thing, or for any special reason?”“It was because I have killed a boy,” said Jeffreys hoarsely.It spoke volumes for Mr Halgrove’s coolness that he took this alarming announcement without any sign of emotion.“Have you?” said he. “And was that for fun, or for any special reason?”“I didn’t mean it; it was an accident,” said Jeffreys.“Is the story worth repeating?” asked the guardian, knocking the ash off the end of the cigar, and settling himself in his chair.Jeffreys told the story in a blundering, mixed-up way, but quite clearly enough for Mr Halgrove.“So you meant to run at him, though you didn’t mean to kill him?” said he, when the narrative was ended.“I did not mean to kill him,” repeated the boy doggedly.“Of course it would not occur to you that you were twice his size and weight, and that running over him meant—well manslaughter.”“I never thought it for a moment—not for a moment.”“Was the accident fatal, at once, may I ask?”“No, sir; he was brought to the school insensible, and remained so for more than twelve hours. Then he became conscious, and seemed to be doing well.”“A temporary rally, I suppose?” observed the guardian.Jeffreys’ mouth worked uneasily, and his pale brow became overcast again.“No, I believe if it hadn’t been for me he might have recovered.”“Indeed,” said the other, once more raising his eyebrows; “what further attention did you bestow on him—not poison, I hope?”“No, but I went to his room in the middle of the night and startled him, and gave him a shock.”“Yes; playing bogey is liable to alarm invalids. I have always understood so,” said Mr Halgrove drily.“I didn’t mean to startle him. I fancied he was asleep, and just wanted to see how he seemed to be getting on. No one would tell me a word about him,” said Jeffreys miserably.“And that killed him outright?”“I’m afraid it must have,” said Jeffreys. “The doctor had said the least shock would be fatal, and this was a very great shock.”“It would be. You did not, however, wait to see?”“No; I waited an hour or two, and then I ran away.”“Did you say good-bye to the head-master before leaving?”“No; nobody knew of my going.”“Of course you left your address behind you, in case you should be invited to attend the inquest.”“They know where I live,” said Jeffreys.“Indeed! And mayIask where you live?”The ward’s face fell at the question.“Here, sir,” faltered he.“Pardon me, I think you are mistaken, John Jeffreys.”Jeffreys looked hard at his guardian, as if to ascertain whether or not he spoke seriously. His one longing at that moment was for food and rest. Since Saturday morning his eyes had never closed, and yet, strange as it may seem, he could take in no more of the future than what lay before him on this one night. The sudden prospect now of being turned out into the street was overwhelming.“I think you are mistaken,” repeated Mr Halgrove, tossing the end of his cigar into the fireplace and yawning.“But, sir,” began Jeffreys, raising himself slowly to his feet, for he was stiff and cramped after his long journey, “I’ve walked—”“So you said,” interrupted Mr Halgrove, incisively. “You will be used to it.”At that moment Jeffreys decided the question of his night’s lodging in a most unlooked-for manner by doing what he had never done before, and what he never did again.He fainted.When he next was aware of anything he was lying in his own bed upstairs in broad daylight, and Mr Halgrove’s housekeeper was depositing a tray with some food upon it at his side. He partook gratefully, and dropped off to sleep again without rousing himself enough to recall the events of the past evening. When, however, late in the afternoon, he awoke, and went over in his mind the events of the last few days, a dismal feeling of anxiety came over him and dispelled the comfort of his present situation. He got out of bed slowly and painfully, for he was very stiff and footsore. He knew not at what moment his guardian might return to the unpleasant topic of last night’s conversation, and he resolved to end his own suspense as speedily as possible. He took a bath and dressed, and then descended resolutely but with sad misgivings to the library. Mr Halgrove was sitting where his ward had left him yesterday evening.“Ah,” said he, as the boy entered, “early rising’s not your strong point, is it?”“I only woke half an hour ago.”“And you are anxious, of course, to know whether you have been inquired for by the police?” said the guardian, paring his nails.Jeffreys’ face fell.“Has some one been?” he asked. “Have you heard anything?”“No one has been as yet except the postman. He brought me a letter from Bolsover, which will probably interest you more than it does me. It’s there on the table.”Jeffreys took up a letter addressed in Mr Frampton’s hand.“Am I to read it?”“As you please.”Jeffreys opened the letter and read:—“Bolsover,October12.“S. Halgrove, Esq.“Dear Sir,—I regret to inform you that your ward, John Jeffreys, left Bolsover secretly last night, and has not up to the present moment returned. If he has returned to you, you will probably have learned by this time the circumstances which led him to take the step he has. (Here Mr Frampton briefly repeated the story of the football accident.) The patient still lingers, although the doctors do not at present hold out much hope of ultimate recovery. I am not inclined to credit the statement current in the school with regard to the sad event, that the injury done to the small boy was not wholly due to accident. Still, under the grave circumstances, which are made all the more serious by your ward’s flight, I suggest to you that you should use your authority to induce Jeffreys to return here—at any rate for as long as Forrester’s fate remains precarious; or, failing that, that you should undertake, in the event of a legal inquiry being necessary, that he shall be present if required.“Faithfully yours,—“T. Frampton.”“Pleasant letter, is it not?” said Mr Halgrove as Jeffreys replaced it in its envelope and laid it again on the table.“I can’t go back to Bolsover,” said he.“No? You think you are not appreciated there?”Jeffreys winced.“But I will undertake to go there if—”“If the coroner invites you, eh?”“Yes,” replied the boy.“The slight difficulty about that is that it is I, not you, that am asked to make the undertaking.”“But you will, won’t you?” asked Jeffreys eagerly.“I have the peculiarity of being rather particular about the people I give undertakings for,” said Mr Halgrove, flicking a speck of dust off his sleeve; “it may be ridiculous, but I draw the line at homicide.”“You’re a liar!” exclaimed the ward, in a burst of fury, which, however, he repented of almost before the words had escaped him.Mr Halgrove was not in the slightest degree disturbed by this undutiful outbreak, but replied coolly,—“In that case, you see, my undertaking would be worth nothing. No. What do you say to replying to Mr Frampton’s suggestion yourself?”“I will write and tell him I will go whenever he wants me.”“The only objection to that,” observed the guardian, “will be the difficulty in giving him any precise address, will it not?”Jeffreys winced again.“You mean to turn me adrift?” said he bluntly.“Your perception is excellent, my young friend.”“When?”Mr Halgrove looked at his watch.“I believe Mrs Jessop usually locks up about eleven. It would be a pity to keep her up after that hour.”Jeffreys gulped down something like a sigh and turned to the door.“Not going, are you?” said the guardian. “It’s early yet.”“I am going,” replied the ward quietly.“By the way,” said Mr Halgrove, as he reached the door, “by the way, John—”Jeffreys stopped with his hand on the latch.“I was going to say,” said the guardian, rising and looking for his cigar-case, “that the little sum of money which was left by your father, and invested for your benefit, has very unfortunately taken to itself wings, owing to the failure of the undertaking in which it happened to be invested. I have the papers here, and should like to show them to you, if you can spare me five minutes.”Jeffreys knew nothing about money. Hitherto his school fees had been paid, and a small regular allowance for pocket-money had been sent him quarterly by his guardian. Now his guardian’s announcement conveyed little meaning to him beyond the fact that he had no money to count upon. He never expected he would have; so he was not disappointed.“I don’t care to see the papers,” he said.“You are a philosopher, my friend,” said his guardian. “But I have sufficient interest in you, despite your financial difficulties, to believe you might find this five-pound note of service on your travels.”“No, thank you,” said Jeffreys, putting his hand behind his back.“Don’t mention it,” said his guardian, returning it to his pocket. “There is, when I come to think of it,” added he, “a sovereign which really belongs to you. It is the balance of your last quarter’s allowance, which I had been about to send to you this week. I would advise you to take it.”“Is it really mine?”“Pray come and look over the accounts. I should like to satisfy you.”“If it is really mine I will take it,” said the boy.“You are sensible,” said his guardian, putting it into his hand. “You are perfectly safe in taking it. It is yours. It will enable you to buy a few postage stamps. I shall be interested to hear of your success. Good-bye.”Jeffreys, ignoring the hand which was held out to him, walked silently from the room. Mr Halgrove stood a moment and listened to the retreating footsteps. Then he returned to his chair and rang the bell.“Mrs Jessop,” said he, “Mr Jeffreys is going on a journey. Will you kindly see he has a good meal before starting?”Mrs Jessop went upstairs and found Jeffreys writing a letter.“Master says you’re going a journey, sir.”“Yes. I shall be starting in half an hour.”“Can’t you put it off till to-morrow, sir?”“No, thanks. But I want to finish this letter.”“Well, sir, there’ll be some supper for you in the parlour. It’s master’s orders.”Jeffreys’ letter was to Mr Frampton.“Sir,” he wrote, “I left Bolsover because I could not bear to be there any longer. I did not mean to injure Forrester so awfully, though I was wicked enough to have a spite against him. I am not a murderer, though I am as bad as one. If I could do anything to help Forrester get better I would come, but I should only make everything worse. My guardian has turned me away, and I shall have to find employment. But the housekeeper here, Mrs Jessop, will always know where I am, and send on to me if I am wanted. I should not think of hiding away till I hear that Forrester is better. If he dies I should not care to live, so I should be only too glad to give myself up. I cannot come back to Bolsover now, even if I wanted, as I have only a pound, and my guardian tells me that is all the money I have in the world. Please write and say if Forrester is better. I am too miserable to write more.“Yours truly,—“John Jeffreys.”Having finished this dismal letter, he packed up one or two of his things in a small handbag and descended to the parlour. There he found an ample supper provided for him by the tender-hearted Mrs Jessop, who had a pretty shrewd guess as to the nature of the “journey” that her master’s ward was about to take. But Jeffreys was not hungry, and the announcement that the meal was there by the “master’s orders” turned him against it.“I can’t eat anything, thank you,” he said to Mrs Jessop, “you gave me such a good tea only a little while ago.”“But you’ve a long journey, Master John. Is it a long journey, sir?”“I don’t know yet,” he said. “But I want you to promise to send me on any letter or message that comes, will you?”“Where to?”“To the head post-office, here.”“Here? Then you’re not going out of York?”“Not at first. I’ll let you know when I go where to send on the letters.”“Mr John,” said the housekeeper, “the master’s turned you away. Isn’t that it?”“Perhaps he’s got a reason for it. Good-bye, Mrs Jessop.”“Oh, but Mr John—”But John interrupted her with a kiss on her motherly cheek, and next moment was gone.

On the evening following Jeffreys’ departure from Bolsover, a middle-aged, handsome gentleman was sitting in his comfortable study in the city of York, whistling pleasantly to himself.

The house in which he lived was a small one, yet roomy enough for an old bachelor. And what it wanted in size it made up for in the elegance and luxury of its furniture and adornments.

Mr Halgrove was evidently a connoisseur in the art of making himself comfortable. Everything about him was of the best, and bespoke not only a man of taste but a man of means. The books on the shelves—and where can you find any furniture to match a well-filled bookcase?—were well chosen and well bound. The pictures on the walls were all works of art and most tastefully hung. The knickknacks scattered about the room were ornamental as well as useful. Even the collie dog which lay luxuriously on the hearthrug with one eye half open was as beautiful as he was faithful.

Mr Halgrove whistled pleasantly to himself as he stirred his coffee and glanced down the columns of the London paper.

If you had looked over his shoulder, you would have come to the conclusion that Mr Halgrove’s idea of what was interesting in a newspaper and your own by no means coincided.

He was, in fact, reading the money article, and running his eye skilfully among the mazes of the stocks and shares there reported.

Suddenly there was a ring at the hall door and a man’s voice in the hall. Next moment the study door opened, and amid the frantic rejoicings of Julius, John Jeffreys walked into the presence of his guardian. He was haggard and travel-stained, and Mr Halgrove, in the midst of his astonishment, noticed that his boots were nearly in pieces. Bolsover was fifty-five miles from York, and the roads were rough and stony. The guardian, whatever astonishment he felt at this unexpected apparition, gave no sign of it in his face, as he sat back in his chair and took several quiet whiffs of his weed before he addressed his visitor.

“Ah!” said he, “you’ve broken up early.”

“No, sir,” said Jeffreys. “Please may I have something to eat?”

“Help yourself to the bread and butter there,” said Mr Halgrove, pointing to the remains of his own tea, “and see if you can squeeze anything out of the coffee-pot. If not, ring for some more hot water. Lie down, Julius!”

Jeffreys ate the bread and butter ravenously, and drank what was left in the coffee-pot and milk-jug.

Mr Halgrove went on with his cigar, watching his ward curiously.

“The roads are rough for walking this time of the year,” observed he.

“Yes,” said Jeffreys; “I’ve walked all the way.”

“Good exercise,” said Mr Halgrove. “How long did it take you?”

“I left Bolsover at half-past four this morning.”

Mr Halgrove looked at his watch.

“Fifteen hours—a fairly good pace,” said he.

A silence ensued, during which time guardian and ward remained eyeing one another, the one curiously, the other anxiously.

“Why not sit down,” said Mr Halgrove, when it became evident his ward was not going to open the conversation, “after your long walk?”

Jeffreys dropped heavily into the chair nearest to him and Julius came up and put his head between his knees.

“Do you often take country walks of this sort?” said the guardian.

“No, sir; I’ve run away from Bolsover.”

Mr Halgrove raised his eyebrows.

“Indeed! Was it for the fun of the thing, or for any special reason?”

“It was because I have killed a boy,” said Jeffreys hoarsely.

It spoke volumes for Mr Halgrove’s coolness that he took this alarming announcement without any sign of emotion.

“Have you?” said he. “And was that for fun, or for any special reason?”

“I didn’t mean it; it was an accident,” said Jeffreys.

“Is the story worth repeating?” asked the guardian, knocking the ash off the end of the cigar, and settling himself in his chair.

Jeffreys told the story in a blundering, mixed-up way, but quite clearly enough for Mr Halgrove.

“So you meant to run at him, though you didn’t mean to kill him?” said he, when the narrative was ended.

“I did not mean to kill him,” repeated the boy doggedly.

“Of course it would not occur to you that you were twice his size and weight, and that running over him meant—well manslaughter.”

“I never thought it for a moment—not for a moment.”

“Was the accident fatal, at once, may I ask?”

“No, sir; he was brought to the school insensible, and remained so for more than twelve hours. Then he became conscious, and seemed to be doing well.”

“A temporary rally, I suppose?” observed the guardian.

Jeffreys’ mouth worked uneasily, and his pale brow became overcast again.

“No, I believe if it hadn’t been for me he might have recovered.”

“Indeed,” said the other, once more raising his eyebrows; “what further attention did you bestow on him—not poison, I hope?”

“No, but I went to his room in the middle of the night and startled him, and gave him a shock.”

“Yes; playing bogey is liable to alarm invalids. I have always understood so,” said Mr Halgrove drily.

“I didn’t mean to startle him. I fancied he was asleep, and just wanted to see how he seemed to be getting on. No one would tell me a word about him,” said Jeffreys miserably.

“And that killed him outright?”

“I’m afraid it must have,” said Jeffreys. “The doctor had said the least shock would be fatal, and this was a very great shock.”

“It would be. You did not, however, wait to see?”

“No; I waited an hour or two, and then I ran away.”

“Did you say good-bye to the head-master before leaving?”

“No; nobody knew of my going.”

“Of course you left your address behind you, in case you should be invited to attend the inquest.”

“They know where I live,” said Jeffreys.

“Indeed! And mayIask where you live?”

The ward’s face fell at the question.

“Here, sir,” faltered he.

“Pardon me, I think you are mistaken, John Jeffreys.”

Jeffreys looked hard at his guardian, as if to ascertain whether or not he spoke seriously. His one longing at that moment was for food and rest. Since Saturday morning his eyes had never closed, and yet, strange as it may seem, he could take in no more of the future than what lay before him on this one night. The sudden prospect now of being turned out into the street was overwhelming.

“I think you are mistaken,” repeated Mr Halgrove, tossing the end of his cigar into the fireplace and yawning.

“But, sir,” began Jeffreys, raising himself slowly to his feet, for he was stiff and cramped after his long journey, “I’ve walked—”

“So you said,” interrupted Mr Halgrove, incisively. “You will be used to it.”

At that moment Jeffreys decided the question of his night’s lodging in a most unlooked-for manner by doing what he had never done before, and what he never did again.

He fainted.

When he next was aware of anything he was lying in his own bed upstairs in broad daylight, and Mr Halgrove’s housekeeper was depositing a tray with some food upon it at his side. He partook gratefully, and dropped off to sleep again without rousing himself enough to recall the events of the past evening. When, however, late in the afternoon, he awoke, and went over in his mind the events of the last few days, a dismal feeling of anxiety came over him and dispelled the comfort of his present situation. He got out of bed slowly and painfully, for he was very stiff and footsore. He knew not at what moment his guardian might return to the unpleasant topic of last night’s conversation, and he resolved to end his own suspense as speedily as possible. He took a bath and dressed, and then descended resolutely but with sad misgivings to the library. Mr Halgrove was sitting where his ward had left him yesterday evening.

“Ah,” said he, as the boy entered, “early rising’s not your strong point, is it?”

“I only woke half an hour ago.”

“And you are anxious, of course, to know whether you have been inquired for by the police?” said the guardian, paring his nails.

Jeffreys’ face fell.

“Has some one been?” he asked. “Have you heard anything?”

“No one has been as yet except the postman. He brought me a letter from Bolsover, which will probably interest you more than it does me. It’s there on the table.”

Jeffreys took up a letter addressed in Mr Frampton’s hand.

“Am I to read it?”

“As you please.”

Jeffreys opened the letter and read:—

“Bolsover,October12.

“S. Halgrove, Esq.

“Dear Sir,—I regret to inform you that your ward, John Jeffreys, left Bolsover secretly last night, and has not up to the present moment returned. If he has returned to you, you will probably have learned by this time the circumstances which led him to take the step he has. (Here Mr Frampton briefly repeated the story of the football accident.) The patient still lingers, although the doctors do not at present hold out much hope of ultimate recovery. I am not inclined to credit the statement current in the school with regard to the sad event, that the injury done to the small boy was not wholly due to accident. Still, under the grave circumstances, which are made all the more serious by your ward’s flight, I suggest to you that you should use your authority to induce Jeffreys to return here—at any rate for as long as Forrester’s fate remains precarious; or, failing that, that you should undertake, in the event of a legal inquiry being necessary, that he shall be present if required.

“Faithfully yours,—

“T. Frampton.”

“Pleasant letter, is it not?” said Mr Halgrove as Jeffreys replaced it in its envelope and laid it again on the table.

“I can’t go back to Bolsover,” said he.

“No? You think you are not appreciated there?”

Jeffreys winced.

“But I will undertake to go there if—”

“If the coroner invites you, eh?”

“Yes,” replied the boy.

“The slight difficulty about that is that it is I, not you, that am asked to make the undertaking.”

“But you will, won’t you?” asked Jeffreys eagerly.

“I have the peculiarity of being rather particular about the people I give undertakings for,” said Mr Halgrove, flicking a speck of dust off his sleeve; “it may be ridiculous, but I draw the line at homicide.”

“You’re a liar!” exclaimed the ward, in a burst of fury, which, however, he repented of almost before the words had escaped him.

Mr Halgrove was not in the slightest degree disturbed by this undutiful outbreak, but replied coolly,—

“In that case, you see, my undertaking would be worth nothing. No. What do you say to replying to Mr Frampton’s suggestion yourself?”

“I will write and tell him I will go whenever he wants me.”

“The only objection to that,” observed the guardian, “will be the difficulty in giving him any precise address, will it not?”

Jeffreys winced again.

“You mean to turn me adrift?” said he bluntly.

“Your perception is excellent, my young friend.”

“When?”

Mr Halgrove looked at his watch.

“I believe Mrs Jessop usually locks up about eleven. It would be a pity to keep her up after that hour.”

Jeffreys gulped down something like a sigh and turned to the door.

“Not going, are you?” said the guardian. “It’s early yet.”

“I am going,” replied the ward quietly.

“By the way,” said Mr Halgrove, as he reached the door, “by the way, John—”

Jeffreys stopped with his hand on the latch.

“I was going to say,” said the guardian, rising and looking for his cigar-case, “that the little sum of money which was left by your father, and invested for your benefit, has very unfortunately taken to itself wings, owing to the failure of the undertaking in which it happened to be invested. I have the papers here, and should like to show them to you, if you can spare me five minutes.”

Jeffreys knew nothing about money. Hitherto his school fees had been paid, and a small regular allowance for pocket-money had been sent him quarterly by his guardian. Now his guardian’s announcement conveyed little meaning to him beyond the fact that he had no money to count upon. He never expected he would have; so he was not disappointed.

“I don’t care to see the papers,” he said.

“You are a philosopher, my friend,” said his guardian. “But I have sufficient interest in you, despite your financial difficulties, to believe you might find this five-pound note of service on your travels.”

“No, thank you,” said Jeffreys, putting his hand behind his back.

“Don’t mention it,” said his guardian, returning it to his pocket. “There is, when I come to think of it,” added he, “a sovereign which really belongs to you. It is the balance of your last quarter’s allowance, which I had been about to send to you this week. I would advise you to take it.”

“Is it really mine?”

“Pray come and look over the accounts. I should like to satisfy you.”

“If it is really mine I will take it,” said the boy.

“You are sensible,” said his guardian, putting it into his hand. “You are perfectly safe in taking it. It is yours. It will enable you to buy a few postage stamps. I shall be interested to hear of your success. Good-bye.”

Jeffreys, ignoring the hand which was held out to him, walked silently from the room. Mr Halgrove stood a moment and listened to the retreating footsteps. Then he returned to his chair and rang the bell.

“Mrs Jessop,” said he, “Mr Jeffreys is going on a journey. Will you kindly see he has a good meal before starting?”

Mrs Jessop went upstairs and found Jeffreys writing a letter.

“Master says you’re going a journey, sir.”

“Yes. I shall be starting in half an hour.”

“Can’t you put it off till to-morrow, sir?”

“No, thanks. But I want to finish this letter.”

“Well, sir, there’ll be some supper for you in the parlour. It’s master’s orders.”

Jeffreys’ letter was to Mr Frampton.

“Sir,” he wrote, “I left Bolsover because I could not bear to be there any longer. I did not mean to injure Forrester so awfully, though I was wicked enough to have a spite against him. I am not a murderer, though I am as bad as one. If I could do anything to help Forrester get better I would come, but I should only make everything worse. My guardian has turned me away, and I shall have to find employment. But the housekeeper here, Mrs Jessop, will always know where I am, and send on to me if I am wanted. I should not think of hiding away till I hear that Forrester is better. If he dies I should not care to live, so I should be only too glad to give myself up. I cannot come back to Bolsover now, even if I wanted, as I have only a pound, and my guardian tells me that is all the money I have in the world. Please write and say if Forrester is better. I am too miserable to write more.

“Yours truly,—

“John Jeffreys.”

Having finished this dismal letter, he packed up one or two of his things in a small handbag and descended to the parlour. There he found an ample supper provided for him by the tender-hearted Mrs Jessop, who had a pretty shrewd guess as to the nature of the “journey” that her master’s ward was about to take. But Jeffreys was not hungry, and the announcement that the meal was there by the “master’s orders” turned him against it.

“I can’t eat anything, thank you,” he said to Mrs Jessop, “you gave me such a good tea only a little while ago.”

“But you’ve a long journey, Master John. Is it a long journey, sir?”

“I don’t know yet,” he said. “But I want you to promise to send me on any letter or message that comes, will you?”

“Where to?”

“To the head post-office, here.”

“Here? Then you’re not going out of York?”

“Not at first. I’ll let you know when I go where to send on the letters.”

“Mr John,” said the housekeeper, “the master’s turned you away. Isn’t that it?”

“Perhaps he’s got a reason for it. Good-bye, Mrs Jessop.”

“Oh, but Mr John—”

But John interrupted her with a kiss on her motherly cheek, and next moment was gone.

Chapter Five.Freddy and Teddy.John Jeffreys, as he stood in the street that October evening, had no more idea what his next step was to be than had Mr Halgrove or the motherly Mrs Jessop. He was a matter-of-fact youth, and not much given to introspection; but the reader may do well on this particular occasion to take a hasty stock of him as he walked aimlessly down the darkening street.He was nineteen years old. In appearance he was particularly ugly in face and clumsy in build. Against that, he was tall and unusually powerful whenever he chose to exert his strength. In mind he was reputed slow and almost stupid, although he was a good classical scholar and possessed a good memory. He was cursed with a bad and sometimes ungovernable temper. He was honest and courageous. He rarely knew how to do the right thing at the right time or in the right place. And finally he had a bad name, and believed himself to be a homicide. Such was the commonplace creature who, with a sovereign in his pocket and the whole world before him, paced the streets of York that Tuesday night.On one point his mind was made up. He must remain in York for the present, prepared at a moment’s notice to repair to Bolsover, should the dreaded summons come. With that exception, as I have said, his mind was open, and utterly devoid of ideas as to the future.He directed his steps to the poor part of the town, not so much because it was poor, as because it was farthest away from his guardian’s. He resolved that to-night at any rate he would indulge in the luxury of a bed, and accordingly, selecting the least repulsive-looking of a number of tenements offering “Cheap beds for Single Men,” he turned in and demanded lodging. To the end of his days he looked back on the “cheap bed” he that night occupied with a shudder. And he was by no means a Sybarite, either. Happily, he had still some sleep to make up; and despite his foul bed, his unattractive fellow-lodgers, and his own dismal thoughts, he fell asleep, in his clothes and with his bag under his pillow, and slept till morning.He partook of a cheap breakfast at a coffee-stall on one of the bridges, and occupied the remainder of the time before the opening of business houses in wandering about on the city walls, endeavouring to make up his mind what calling in life he should seek to adopt. He had not decided this knotty point when the minster chimes struck ten, and reminded him that he was letting the precious moments slip. So he descended into the streets, determined to apply for the first vacancy which presented itself.Wandering aimlessly on, he came presently upon a bookseller’s shop, outside which were displayed several trays of second-hand volumes which attracted his attention. Jeffreys loved books and was a voracious reader, and in the midst of his wearisome search for work it was like a little harbour of refuge to come upon a nest of them here. Just, however, as he was about to indulge in the delicious luxury of turning over the contents of the tempting trays, his eye was attracted by a half-sheet of note-paper gummed on to the shop window and bearing the inscription, “Assistant wanted. Apply within.”Next instant Jeffreys stood within.“I see you want an assistant,” said he to the old spectacled bookseller who inquired his business.“That’s right.”“Will you take me?”The man glanced up and down at his visitor and said doubtfully,—“Don’t know you—are you in the trade?”“No, I’ve just left school.”“What do you know about books?”“I love them,” replied the candidate simply.The bookseller’s face lit up and shot a glow of hope into the boy’s heart.“You love them. I like that. But take my advice, young fellow, and if you love books, don’t turn bookseller.”Jeffreys’ face fell.“I’m not afraid of getting to hate them,” said he.The man beamed again.“What’s your name, my lad?”“John Jeffreys.”“And you’ve just left school? What school?”Alas! poor Jeffreys! It cost him a struggle to utter the name.“Bolsover.”“Bolsover, eh? Do you know Latin?”“Yes—and Greek,” replied the candidate.The bookseller took up a book that lay on the table. It was an old and valuable edition of Pliny’sEpistles.“Read us some of that.”Jeffreys was able fairly well to accomplish the task, greatly to the delight of the old bookseller.“Capital! You’re the first chap I ever had who could read Pliny off.”Jeffreys’ face lit up. The man spoke as if the thing was settled.“How will fifteen shillings a week and your meals suit you?” said he.“Perfectly!” replied the candidate.“Hum! you’ve got a character, of course?”Poor Jeffreys’ face fell.“Do you mean testimonials?”“No. You can refer to some one who knows you—your old schoolmaster, for instance.”“I’m afraid not,” faltered the boy.The man looked perplexed.“Couldn’t get a character from him—why not?”“Because I ran away from school.”“Oh, oh! Did they ill-treat you, then, or starve you? Come; better tell the truth.”“No—it wasn’t that. It was because—” Jeffreys gave one longing look at the shelves of beloved books, and an appealing glance at his questioner—“It was because I—nearly killed a boy.”The man whistled and looked askance at his visitor.“By accident?”“Partly. Partly not. But I assure you—”“That will do,” said the man; “that’s quite enough. Be off!”Jeffreys departed without another word. Like Tantalus, the tempting fruit had been within reach, and his evil destiny had come in to dash it from his lips. Was it wonderful if he felt disposed to give it up and in sheer desperation go back to Bolsover?The whole of the remainder of that day was spent in spiritless wandering about the streets. Once he made another attempt to obtain work, this time at a merchant’s office. But again the inconvenient question of character was raised, and he was compelled to denounce himself. This time his confession was even more unfeelingly received than at the bookseller’s.“How dare you come here, you scoundrel?” exclaimed the merchant in a rage.“Don’t call me a scoundrel!” retorted Jeffreys, his temper suddenly breaking out.“I’ll call a policeman if you are not out of here in half a minute. Here, you boys,” added he, calling his six or eight clerks, “turn this wretch out of the place. Do you hear?”Jeffreys spared them the trouble and stepped into the street, determined to die before he laid himself open to such an indignity again.His last night’s experience at a common lodging-house did not tempt him to seek shelter again now, and as it was a fine mild night even at that time of year he trudged out of York into one of the suburbs, where at least everything was clean and quiet. He had the good fortune in a country lane to come across a wagon laid up by the roadside, just inside a field—a lodging far more tempting than that offered by Mr Josephs, and considerably cheaper. The fatigues and troubles of the day operated like a feather-bed for the worn-out and dispirited outcast, and he slept soundly, dreaming of Forrester, and the bookshop, and the dog Julius.Next morning the weary search began again. Jeffreys, as he trudged back to the city, felt that he was embarked on a forlorn hope. Yet a man must live, and a sovereign cannot last for ever. He passed a railway embankment where a gang of navvies were hard at work. As he watched them he felt half envious. They had work to do, they had homes to return to at night, they had characters, perhaps. Most of them were big strong fellows like himself. Why should he not become one of them? He fancied he could wheel a barrow, and ply a crowbar, and dig with a spade, as well as any of them; he was not afraid of hard work any more than they were, and the wages that kept a roof over their heads would surely keep a roof over his.As he sat on a bank by the roadside and watched them, he had almost resolved to walk across to the foreman and ask for a job, when the sound of voices close to him arrested him.They were boys’ voices, and their talk evidently referred to himself, “Come along, Teddy,” said one. “He won’t hurt.”“I’m afraid,” said the other. “He’s so ugly.”“Perhaps that’s how he gets his living—scaring the crows,” said the first speaker.“He looks as if he meant to kill us.”“I shall fight him if he tries.”Jeffreys looked round and had a view of the valiant speaker and his companion.They were two neatly dressed little fellows, hand-in-hand, and evidently brothers. The younger—he who considered his life in danger—was about eight, his intrepid brother being apparently about a year his senior. They had little satchels over their shoulders, and parti-coloured cricket caps on their little curly heads. Their faces were bright and shining, the knees of their stockings were elaborately darned, the little hands were unmistakably ink-stained, and their pockets were bulged out almost to bursting.Such was the apparition which confronted the Bolsover “cad” as he sat slowly making up his mind to become a labourer.The younger brother drew back and began to cry, as soon as he perceived that the terrible villain on the bank had turned and was regarding them.“Freddy, Freddy, run!” he cried.“I shan’t,” said Freddy with a big heave of his chest. “I’m not afraid.” The fluttering heart beneath that manly bosom belied the words, as Freddy, dragging his brother by the hand, walked forward.Jeffreys did not exactly know what to do. Were he to rise and approach the little couple the consequences might be disastrous. Were he to remain where he was or skulk away, he would be allowing them to believe him the ruffian they thought him, and that lane would become a daily terror to their little lives. The only thing was to endeavour to make friends.“What are you afraid of?” said he, in as gentle a manner as he could. “I won’t hurt you.”The sound of his voice caused the smaller boy to scream outright, and even the elder trembled a little as he kept himself full front to the enemy.“You little donkeys, I’m a schoolboy myself,” said Jeffreys. This announcement had a magical effect. The younger brother stopped short in his scream, and Freddy boldly took two steps forward.“Are you a boy?” inquired the latter.“Of course I am. I was in the top form. I’m older than you, though.”“I’m ten,” replied the proud owner of that venerable age.“I’m nine in February,” chimed in the still-fluttered junior.“I’m about as old as you two put together. How old’s that, Freddy?”“Nineteen,” said Freddy.By this time Jeffreys had gradually descended the bank and stood close to the two small brothers.“Bravo, young ’un, you can do sums, I see!”“Compound division and vulgar fractions,” said Freddy confidentially.Jeffreys gave a whistle of admiration which won the heart of his hearer.“Are you going to school now?” inquired the latter.“No; I’ve left school,” said Jeffreys, “last week.”“Last week! why, it’s only the middle of the term. Were you sent away?”Jeffreys began to feel uncomfortable in the presence of this small cross-examiner.“I got into trouble and had to leave.”“I know why,” said the younger brother, plucking up courage.“Why?” inquired Jeffreys, with an amused smile.“Because you were so ugly!”Jeffreys laughed. “Thank you,” said he.“Was it because you killed the master?” asked the more matter-of-fact Freddy.Poor Jeffreys winced before this random shot, and hastened to divert the conversation.“Whose school do you go to?” he inquired.“Trimble’s; we hate her,” said the two youths in a breath.“Why? Does she whack you?”“No; but she worries us, and young Trimble’s worse still. Do you know the school?”“No. What’s the name of the house?”“Oh, Galloway House, in Ebor Road. It wasn’t so bad when Fison was there,” continued the open-hearted Freddy; “but now he’s gone. Trimble’s a cad.”“We hate her,” chimed in the original Teddy.“We hope the new master will be like Fison, but I don’t believe Trimble can get any one to come,” said Freddy.Jeffreys pricked up his ears and asked a good many questions about the school, which the youthful pair readily and gaily replied to, and then suggested that if Trimble was such a cad the boys had better not be late.“Have some parliament cake?” said Freddy, opening his satchel and producing a large square of crisp gingerbread.Jeffreys had not the heart to refuse a little piece of this delicacy, and enjoyed it more than the most sumptuous meal in an hotel. Teddy also insisted on his taking a bite out of his apple.“Good-bye,” said the little fellow, putting up his face in the most natural manner for a kiss. Jeffreys felt quite staggered by this unexpected attention, but recovered his presence of mind enough to do what was expected of him. Freddy, on the other hand, looked rather alarmed at his young brother’s audacity, and contented himself with holding out his hand.“Good-bye, little chap,” said Jeffreys, feeling a queer lump in his throat and not exactly knowing which way to look.Next moment the two little brothers were trotting down the road hand-in-hand as gay as young larks. Jeffreys thought no more about the navvies, or the delights of a labourer’s life. A new hope was in him, and he strolled slowly back into York wondering to himself if angels ever come to men in the shape of little schoolboys.It was still early when he reached the city. So he spent sixpence of his little store on a bath in the swimming baths, and another sixpence on some breakfast. Then, refreshed in body and mind, he called at the post-office. There was nothing for him there. Though he hardly expected any letter yet, his heart sunk as he thought what news might possibly be on its way to him at that moment. The image of Forrester as he lay on the football field haunted him constantly, and he would have given all the world even then to know that he was alive. Hope, however, came to his rescue, and helped him for a time to shake off the weight of his heart, and address himself boldly to the enterprise he had in hand.That enterprise the acute reader has easily guessed. He would offer his services to the worthy Mrs Trimble,viceMr Fison, resigned. He never imagined his heart could beat as quickly as it did when after a long search he read the words—“Galloway House. Select School for Little Boys,” inscribed on a board in the front garden of a small, old-fashioned house in Ebor Road.The sound of children’s voices in the yard at the side apprised him that he had called at a fortunate time. Mrs Trimble during the play-hour would in all probability be disengaged.Mrs Trimble was disengaged, and opened the door herself. Jeffreys beheld a stoutish harmless-looking woman, with a face by no means forbidding, even if it was decidedly unintellectual.“Well, young man,” said she. She had been eating, and, I regret to say, had not finished doing so before she began to speak.“Can I see Mrs Trimble, please?” asked Jeffreys, raising his hat. The lady, finding her visitor was a gentleman, hastily wiped her mouth and answered rather lest brusquely.“I am the lady,” said she.“Excuse me,” said Jeffreys, “I called to ask if you were in want of an assistant teacher. I heard that you were.”“How did you hear that, I wonder? I suppose he’s a friend of that Fison. Yes, young man, I am in want of an assistant.”“I should do my best to please you, if you would let me come,” said Jeffreys. And then, anxious to avoid the painful subject of his character, he added, “I have not taught in a school before, and I have no friends here, so I can’t give you any testimonials. But I am well up in classics and pretty good in mathematics, and would work hard, ma’am, if you would try me.”“Are you a steady young man? Do you drink?”“I never touch anything but water; and I am quite steady.”“What wages do you expect?”“I leave that to you. I will work for nothing for a month till you see if I suit you.”Mrs Trimble liked this. It looked like a genuine offer.“Are you good-tempered and kind to children?” she asked.“I am very fond of little boys, and I always try to keep my temper.”His heart sank at the prospect of other questions of this kind. But Mrs Trimble was not of a curious disposition. She knew when she liked a young man and when she didn’t, and she valued her own judgment as much as anybody else’s testimonials.“You mustn’t expect grand living here,” she said.“I was never used to anything but simple living,” said he.“Very well, Mr —”“Jeffreys, ma’am.”“Mr Jeffreys, we’ll try how we get on for a month; and after that I can offer you a pound a month besides your board.”“You are very kind,” said Jeffreys, to whom the offer seemed a magnificent one. “I am ready to begin work at once.”“That will do. You’d better begin now. Come this way to the schoolroom.”

John Jeffreys, as he stood in the street that October evening, had no more idea what his next step was to be than had Mr Halgrove or the motherly Mrs Jessop. He was a matter-of-fact youth, and not much given to introspection; but the reader may do well on this particular occasion to take a hasty stock of him as he walked aimlessly down the darkening street.

He was nineteen years old. In appearance he was particularly ugly in face and clumsy in build. Against that, he was tall and unusually powerful whenever he chose to exert his strength. In mind he was reputed slow and almost stupid, although he was a good classical scholar and possessed a good memory. He was cursed with a bad and sometimes ungovernable temper. He was honest and courageous. He rarely knew how to do the right thing at the right time or in the right place. And finally he had a bad name, and believed himself to be a homicide. Such was the commonplace creature who, with a sovereign in his pocket and the whole world before him, paced the streets of York that Tuesday night.

On one point his mind was made up. He must remain in York for the present, prepared at a moment’s notice to repair to Bolsover, should the dreaded summons come. With that exception, as I have said, his mind was open, and utterly devoid of ideas as to the future.

He directed his steps to the poor part of the town, not so much because it was poor, as because it was farthest away from his guardian’s. He resolved that to-night at any rate he would indulge in the luxury of a bed, and accordingly, selecting the least repulsive-looking of a number of tenements offering “Cheap beds for Single Men,” he turned in and demanded lodging. To the end of his days he looked back on the “cheap bed” he that night occupied with a shudder. And he was by no means a Sybarite, either. Happily, he had still some sleep to make up; and despite his foul bed, his unattractive fellow-lodgers, and his own dismal thoughts, he fell asleep, in his clothes and with his bag under his pillow, and slept till morning.

He partook of a cheap breakfast at a coffee-stall on one of the bridges, and occupied the remainder of the time before the opening of business houses in wandering about on the city walls, endeavouring to make up his mind what calling in life he should seek to adopt. He had not decided this knotty point when the minster chimes struck ten, and reminded him that he was letting the precious moments slip. So he descended into the streets, determined to apply for the first vacancy which presented itself.

Wandering aimlessly on, he came presently upon a bookseller’s shop, outside which were displayed several trays of second-hand volumes which attracted his attention. Jeffreys loved books and was a voracious reader, and in the midst of his wearisome search for work it was like a little harbour of refuge to come upon a nest of them here. Just, however, as he was about to indulge in the delicious luxury of turning over the contents of the tempting trays, his eye was attracted by a half-sheet of note-paper gummed on to the shop window and bearing the inscription, “Assistant wanted. Apply within.”

Next instant Jeffreys stood within.

“I see you want an assistant,” said he to the old spectacled bookseller who inquired his business.

“That’s right.”

“Will you take me?”

The man glanced up and down at his visitor and said doubtfully,—

“Don’t know you—are you in the trade?”

“No, I’ve just left school.”

“What do you know about books?”

“I love them,” replied the candidate simply.

The bookseller’s face lit up and shot a glow of hope into the boy’s heart.

“You love them. I like that. But take my advice, young fellow, and if you love books, don’t turn bookseller.”

Jeffreys’ face fell.

“I’m not afraid of getting to hate them,” said he.

The man beamed again.

“What’s your name, my lad?”

“John Jeffreys.”

“And you’ve just left school? What school?”

Alas! poor Jeffreys! It cost him a struggle to utter the name.

“Bolsover.”

“Bolsover, eh? Do you know Latin?”

“Yes—and Greek,” replied the candidate.

The bookseller took up a book that lay on the table. It was an old and valuable edition of Pliny’sEpistles.

“Read us some of that.”

Jeffreys was able fairly well to accomplish the task, greatly to the delight of the old bookseller.

“Capital! You’re the first chap I ever had who could read Pliny off.”

Jeffreys’ face lit up. The man spoke as if the thing was settled.

“How will fifteen shillings a week and your meals suit you?” said he.

“Perfectly!” replied the candidate.

“Hum! you’ve got a character, of course?”

Poor Jeffreys’ face fell.

“Do you mean testimonials?”

“No. You can refer to some one who knows you—your old schoolmaster, for instance.”

“I’m afraid not,” faltered the boy.

The man looked perplexed.

“Couldn’t get a character from him—why not?”

“Because I ran away from school.”

“Oh, oh! Did they ill-treat you, then, or starve you? Come; better tell the truth.”

“No—it wasn’t that. It was because—” Jeffreys gave one longing look at the shelves of beloved books, and an appealing glance at his questioner—“It was because I—nearly killed a boy.”

The man whistled and looked askance at his visitor.

“By accident?”

“Partly. Partly not. But I assure you—”

“That will do,” said the man; “that’s quite enough. Be off!”

Jeffreys departed without another word. Like Tantalus, the tempting fruit had been within reach, and his evil destiny had come in to dash it from his lips. Was it wonderful if he felt disposed to give it up and in sheer desperation go back to Bolsover?

The whole of the remainder of that day was spent in spiritless wandering about the streets. Once he made another attempt to obtain work, this time at a merchant’s office. But again the inconvenient question of character was raised, and he was compelled to denounce himself. This time his confession was even more unfeelingly received than at the bookseller’s.

“How dare you come here, you scoundrel?” exclaimed the merchant in a rage.

“Don’t call me a scoundrel!” retorted Jeffreys, his temper suddenly breaking out.

“I’ll call a policeman if you are not out of here in half a minute. Here, you boys,” added he, calling his six or eight clerks, “turn this wretch out of the place. Do you hear?”

Jeffreys spared them the trouble and stepped into the street, determined to die before he laid himself open to such an indignity again.

His last night’s experience at a common lodging-house did not tempt him to seek shelter again now, and as it was a fine mild night even at that time of year he trudged out of York into one of the suburbs, where at least everything was clean and quiet. He had the good fortune in a country lane to come across a wagon laid up by the roadside, just inside a field—a lodging far more tempting than that offered by Mr Josephs, and considerably cheaper. The fatigues and troubles of the day operated like a feather-bed for the worn-out and dispirited outcast, and he slept soundly, dreaming of Forrester, and the bookshop, and the dog Julius.

Next morning the weary search began again. Jeffreys, as he trudged back to the city, felt that he was embarked on a forlorn hope. Yet a man must live, and a sovereign cannot last for ever. He passed a railway embankment where a gang of navvies were hard at work. As he watched them he felt half envious. They had work to do, they had homes to return to at night, they had characters, perhaps. Most of them were big strong fellows like himself. Why should he not become one of them? He fancied he could wheel a barrow, and ply a crowbar, and dig with a spade, as well as any of them; he was not afraid of hard work any more than they were, and the wages that kept a roof over their heads would surely keep a roof over his.

As he sat on a bank by the roadside and watched them, he had almost resolved to walk across to the foreman and ask for a job, when the sound of voices close to him arrested him.

They were boys’ voices, and their talk evidently referred to himself, “Come along, Teddy,” said one. “He won’t hurt.”

“I’m afraid,” said the other. “He’s so ugly.”

“Perhaps that’s how he gets his living—scaring the crows,” said the first speaker.

“He looks as if he meant to kill us.”

“I shall fight him if he tries.”

Jeffreys looked round and had a view of the valiant speaker and his companion.

They were two neatly dressed little fellows, hand-in-hand, and evidently brothers. The younger—he who considered his life in danger—was about eight, his intrepid brother being apparently about a year his senior. They had little satchels over their shoulders, and parti-coloured cricket caps on their little curly heads. Their faces were bright and shining, the knees of their stockings were elaborately darned, the little hands were unmistakably ink-stained, and their pockets were bulged out almost to bursting.

Such was the apparition which confronted the Bolsover “cad” as he sat slowly making up his mind to become a labourer.

The younger brother drew back and began to cry, as soon as he perceived that the terrible villain on the bank had turned and was regarding them.

“Freddy, Freddy, run!” he cried.

“I shan’t,” said Freddy with a big heave of his chest. “I’m not afraid.” The fluttering heart beneath that manly bosom belied the words, as Freddy, dragging his brother by the hand, walked forward.

Jeffreys did not exactly know what to do. Were he to rise and approach the little couple the consequences might be disastrous. Were he to remain where he was or skulk away, he would be allowing them to believe him the ruffian they thought him, and that lane would become a daily terror to their little lives. The only thing was to endeavour to make friends.

“What are you afraid of?” said he, in as gentle a manner as he could. “I won’t hurt you.”

The sound of his voice caused the smaller boy to scream outright, and even the elder trembled a little as he kept himself full front to the enemy.

“You little donkeys, I’m a schoolboy myself,” said Jeffreys. This announcement had a magical effect. The younger brother stopped short in his scream, and Freddy boldly took two steps forward.

“Are you a boy?” inquired the latter.

“Of course I am. I was in the top form. I’m older than you, though.”

“I’m ten,” replied the proud owner of that venerable age.

“I’m nine in February,” chimed in the still-fluttered junior.

“I’m about as old as you two put together. How old’s that, Freddy?”

“Nineteen,” said Freddy.

By this time Jeffreys had gradually descended the bank and stood close to the two small brothers.

“Bravo, young ’un, you can do sums, I see!”

“Compound division and vulgar fractions,” said Freddy confidentially.

Jeffreys gave a whistle of admiration which won the heart of his hearer.

“Are you going to school now?” inquired the latter.

“No; I’ve left school,” said Jeffreys, “last week.”

“Last week! why, it’s only the middle of the term. Were you sent away?”

Jeffreys began to feel uncomfortable in the presence of this small cross-examiner.

“I got into trouble and had to leave.”

“I know why,” said the younger brother, plucking up courage.

“Why?” inquired Jeffreys, with an amused smile.

“Because you were so ugly!”

Jeffreys laughed. “Thank you,” said he.

“Was it because you killed the master?” asked the more matter-of-fact Freddy.

Poor Jeffreys winced before this random shot, and hastened to divert the conversation.

“Whose school do you go to?” he inquired.

“Trimble’s; we hate her,” said the two youths in a breath.

“Why? Does she whack you?”

“No; but she worries us, and young Trimble’s worse still. Do you know the school?”

“No. What’s the name of the house?”

“Oh, Galloway House, in Ebor Road. It wasn’t so bad when Fison was there,” continued the open-hearted Freddy; “but now he’s gone. Trimble’s a cad.”

“We hate her,” chimed in the original Teddy.

“We hope the new master will be like Fison, but I don’t believe Trimble can get any one to come,” said Freddy.

Jeffreys pricked up his ears and asked a good many questions about the school, which the youthful pair readily and gaily replied to, and then suggested that if Trimble was such a cad the boys had better not be late.

“Have some parliament cake?” said Freddy, opening his satchel and producing a large square of crisp gingerbread.

Jeffreys had not the heart to refuse a little piece of this delicacy, and enjoyed it more than the most sumptuous meal in an hotel. Teddy also insisted on his taking a bite out of his apple.

“Good-bye,” said the little fellow, putting up his face in the most natural manner for a kiss. Jeffreys felt quite staggered by this unexpected attention, but recovered his presence of mind enough to do what was expected of him. Freddy, on the other hand, looked rather alarmed at his young brother’s audacity, and contented himself with holding out his hand.

“Good-bye, little chap,” said Jeffreys, feeling a queer lump in his throat and not exactly knowing which way to look.

Next moment the two little brothers were trotting down the road hand-in-hand as gay as young larks. Jeffreys thought no more about the navvies, or the delights of a labourer’s life. A new hope was in him, and he strolled slowly back into York wondering to himself if angels ever come to men in the shape of little schoolboys.

It was still early when he reached the city. So he spent sixpence of his little store on a bath in the swimming baths, and another sixpence on some breakfast. Then, refreshed in body and mind, he called at the post-office. There was nothing for him there. Though he hardly expected any letter yet, his heart sunk as he thought what news might possibly be on its way to him at that moment. The image of Forrester as he lay on the football field haunted him constantly, and he would have given all the world even then to know that he was alive. Hope, however, came to his rescue, and helped him for a time to shake off the weight of his heart, and address himself boldly to the enterprise he had in hand.

That enterprise the acute reader has easily guessed. He would offer his services to the worthy Mrs Trimble,viceMr Fison, resigned. He never imagined his heart could beat as quickly as it did when after a long search he read the words—“Galloway House. Select School for Little Boys,” inscribed on a board in the front garden of a small, old-fashioned house in Ebor Road.

The sound of children’s voices in the yard at the side apprised him that he had called at a fortunate time. Mrs Trimble during the play-hour would in all probability be disengaged.

Mrs Trimble was disengaged, and opened the door herself. Jeffreys beheld a stoutish harmless-looking woman, with a face by no means forbidding, even if it was decidedly unintellectual.

“Well, young man,” said she. She had been eating, and, I regret to say, had not finished doing so before she began to speak.

“Can I see Mrs Trimble, please?” asked Jeffreys, raising his hat. The lady, finding her visitor was a gentleman, hastily wiped her mouth and answered rather lest brusquely.

“I am the lady,” said she.

“Excuse me,” said Jeffreys, “I called to ask if you were in want of an assistant teacher. I heard that you were.”

“How did you hear that, I wonder? I suppose he’s a friend of that Fison. Yes, young man, I am in want of an assistant.”

“I should do my best to please you, if you would let me come,” said Jeffreys. And then, anxious to avoid the painful subject of his character, he added, “I have not taught in a school before, and I have no friends here, so I can’t give you any testimonials. But I am well up in classics and pretty good in mathematics, and would work hard, ma’am, if you would try me.”

“Are you a steady young man? Do you drink?”

“I never touch anything but water; and I am quite steady.”

“What wages do you expect?”

“I leave that to you. I will work for nothing for a month till you see if I suit you.”

Mrs Trimble liked this. It looked like a genuine offer.

“Are you good-tempered and kind to children?” she asked.

“I am very fond of little boys, and I always try to keep my temper.”

His heart sank at the prospect of other questions of this kind. But Mrs Trimble was not of a curious disposition. She knew when she liked a young man and when she didn’t, and she valued her own judgment as much as anybody else’s testimonials.

“You mustn’t expect grand living here,” she said.

“I was never used to anything but simple living,” said he.

“Very well, Mr —”

“Jeffreys, ma’am.”

“Mr Jeffreys, we’ll try how we get on for a month; and after that I can offer you a pound a month besides your board.”

“You are very kind,” said Jeffreys, to whom the offer seemed a magnificent one. “I am ready to begin work at once.”

“That will do. You’d better begin now. Come this way to the schoolroom.”

Chapter Six.Galloway House.My business-like readers have, I dare say, found fault with me for representing a business conference on which so much depended as having taken place on the front doorstep of Galloway House, and without occupying much more than five minutes in the transaction. How did Jeffreys know what sort of person Mrs Trimble was? She might have been a Fury or a Harpy. Her house might have been badly drained. Mr Fison might have left her because he couldn’t get his wages. And what did Mrs Trimble know about the Bolsover cad? She never even asked for a testimonial. He might be a burglar in disguise, or a murderer, or a child-eater. And yet these two foolish people struck a bargain with one another five minutes after their first introduction, and before even the potatoes which Mrs Trimble had left on her plate when she went to the door had had time to get cold.I am just as much surprised as the reader at their rashness, which I can only account for by supposing that they were both what the reader would call “hard up.” Jeffreys, as we know, was very hard up; and as for Mrs Trimble, the amount of worry she had endured since Mr Fison had left was beyond all words. She had had to teach as well as manage, the thing she never liked. And her son and assistant, without a second usher to keep him steady, had been turning her hair grey. For three weeks she had waited in vain. Several promising-looking young men had come and looked at the place and then gone away. She had not been able to enjoy an afternoon’s nap for a month. In short, she was getting worn-out. When, therefore, Jeffreys came and asked for the post, she had to put a check on herself to prevent herself from “jumping down his throat.” Hence the rapid conference at the hall door, and the ease with which Jeffreys got his footing in Galloway House.“Come and have a bite of mutton,” said Mrs Trimble, leading the way into the parlour. “Jonah and I are just having dinner.”Jonah, who, if truth must be told, had been neglecting his inner man during the last five minutes in order to peep through the crack of the door, and overhear the conference in the hall between his mother and the stranger, was a vulgar-looking youth of about Jeffrey’s age, with a slight cast in his eye, but otherwise not bad-looking. He eyed the new usher as he entered with a mingled expression of suspicion and contempt; and Jeffreys, slow of apprehension though he usually was, knew at a glance that he had not fallen on a bed of roses at Galloway House.“Jonah, this is Mr Jeffreys; I’ve taken him on in Fison’s place. My son, Mr Jeffreys.”Jonah made a face at his mother, as much as to say, “I don’t admire your choice,” and then, with a half-nod at Jeffreys, said,—“Ah, how are you?”“Jonah and I always dine at twelve, Mr Jeffreys,” said Mrs Trimble, over whom the prospect of the afternoon’s nap was beginning to cast a balmy sense of ease. “You two young men will be good friends, I hope, and look well after the boys.”“More than you do,” said the undutiful Jonah; “they’ve been doing just as they please the last month.”“It’s a pity, Jonah, you never found fault with that before.”“What’s the use of finding fault? No end to it when you once begin.”“Well,” observed the easy-going matron, “you two will have to see I don’t have occasion to find fault with you.”Jonah laughed, and asked Jeffreys to cut him a slice of bread.Presently Mrs Trimble quitted the festive board, and the two ushers were left together.“Lucky for you,” said young Trimble, “you got hold of ma and pinned her down to taking you on on the spot. What’s she going to pay you?”The question did not altogether please the new assistant, but he was anxious not to come across his colleague too early in their acquaintanceship.“She pays me nothing the first month. After that, if I suit, I’m to have a pound a month.”“If you suit? I suppose you know that depends on whether I like you or not?”“I hope not,” blurted out Jeffreys—“that is,” added he, seeing his mistake, “I hope we shallgeton well together.”“Depends,” said Trimble. “I may as well tell you at once I hate stuck-uppedness (this was a compound word worthy of a young schoolmaster). If you’re that sort you’d better cry off at once. If you can do your work without giving yourself airs, I shall let you alone.”Jeffreys was strongly tempted after this candid avowal to take the youthful snob’s advice and cry off. But the memory of yesterday’s miserable experiences restrained him. He therefore replied, with as little contempt as he was able to put into the words,—“Thanks.”Trimble’s quick ear detected the ill-disguised scorn of the reply. “You needn’t try on that sort of talk,” said he; “I can tell you plump, it won’t do. You needn’t think because ma took you on for the asking, you’re going to turn up your nose at the place!”“I don’t think so,” said Jeffreys, struggling hard with himself. “How many boys are there here?”“Forty-four. Are you anything of a teacher? Can you keep order?”“I don’t know; I haven’t tried yet.”“Well, just mind what you’re about. Keep your hands off the boys; we don’t want manslaughter or anything of that sort here.”Jeffreys started. Was it possible that this was a random shot, or did Trimble know about Bolsover and young Forrester? The next remark somewhat reassured him.“They’re looking sharp after private schools now; so mind, hands off. There’s one o’clock striking. All in! Come along. You’d better take the second class and see what you can make of them. Precious little ma will put her nose in, now you’re here to do the work.”He led the way down the passage and across a yard into an outhouse which formed the schoolroom. Here were assembled, as the two ushers entered, some forty boys ranging in age from seven to twelve, mostly, to judge from their dress and manners, of the small shopkeeper and farmer class.The sound of Trimble’s voice produced a dead silence in the room, followed immediately by a movement of wonder as the big, ungainly form of the new assistant appeared. Jeffreys’ looks, as he himself knew, were not prepossessing, and the juvenile population of Galloway House took no pains to conceal the fact that they agreed with him.“Gordon,” said Trimble, addressing a small boy who had been standing up when they entered, “what are you doing?”“Nothing, sir.”“You’ve no business to be doing nothing! Stand upon that form for an hour!”The boy obeyed, and Trimble looked round at Jeffreys with a glance of patronising complacency.“That’s the proper way to do with them,” said he. “Plenty of ways of taking it out of them without knocking them about.”Jeffreys made no reply; he felt rather sorry for the weak-kneed little youngster perched up on that form, and wondered if Mr Trimble would expect him (Jeffreys) to adopt his method of “taking it out” of his new pupils.Just then he caught sight of the familiar face of Master Freddy, one of his friends of the morning, who was standing devouring him with his eyes as if he had been a ghost. Jeffreys walked across the room and shook hands with him.“Well, Freddy, how are you? How’s Teddy?”“I say,” said Trimble, in by no means an amiable voice, as he returned from this little excursion, “what on earth are you up to? What did you go and do that for?”“I know Freddy.”“Oh, do you? Freddy Rosher, you’re talking. What do you mean by it?”“Please, sir, I didn’t mean—”“Then stay in an hour after school, and write four pages of your copy-book.”It took all Jeffreys’ resolution to stand by and listen to this vindictive sentence without a protest. But he restrained himself, and resolved that Freddy should find before long that all his masters were not against him.“That’s your fault,” said Trimble, noticing the dissatisfied look of his colleague. “How are we to keep order if you go and make the boys break rules? Now you’d better get to work. Take the second class over there and give them their English history. James the Second they’re at. Now, you boys, first class, come up to me with your sums. Second class, take your history up to Mr Jeffreys. Come along; look alive!”Jeffreys thereupon found himself mobbed by a troop of twenty of the youngest of the boys, and haled away to a desk at the far end of the room, round which they congregated book in hand, and waited for him to commence operations.It was an embarrassing situation for the new usher. He had never been so fixed before. He had often had a crowd of small boys round him, tormenting him and provoking him to anger; but to be perched up here at a desk, with twenty tender youths hanging on the first word which should fall from his lips, was to say the least, a novel experience. He glanced up towards the far end of the room, in the hopes of being able to catch a hint from the practised Jonah as to how to proceed. But he found Jonah was looking at him suspiciously over the top of his book, and that was no assistance whatever. The boys evidently enjoyed his perplexity; and, emboldened by his recent act of friendliness to the unlucky Freddy, regarded him benevolently.“Will some one lend me a book?” at last said Jeffreys, half desperate.A friendly titter followed this request.“Don’t you know it without the book?” asked one innocent, handing up a book.“I hope you do,” said Jeffreys, blushing very much as he took it. “Now,” added he, turning to the reign of James II, “can any one tell we what year King James II came to the throne?”“Please, sir, that’s not the way,” interposed another irreverent youngster, with a giggle. “You’ve got to read it first, and then ask us.”Jeffreys blushed again.“Is that the way?” said he. “Very well. James II succeeded his brother Charles in 1685. One of his first acts on coming—”“Oh, we’re long past that,” said two or three of his delighted audience at a breath; “we’ve done to where Monmouth’s head was cut off.”This was very uncomfortable for the new master. He coloured up, as if he had been guilty of a scandalous misdemeanour, and fumbled nervously with the book, positively dreading to make a fresh attempt. At last, however, he summoned up courage.“The death of this ill-fated nobleman was followed by a still more terrible measure of retribution against those who had—”“Please, sir, we can’t do such long words; we don’t know what that means. You’ve got to say it in easy words, not what’s put in the book.”Jeffreys felt that all the sins of his youth were rising up against him that moment. Nothing that he had ever done seemed just then as bad as this latest delinquency.“After Monmouth’s death they made it very—(hot, he was going to say, but he pulled himself up in time), they made it very (whatever was the word?)—very awkward for those who had helped him. A cruel judge named Jeffreys—”That was a finishing stroke! The reader could have sunk through the floor as he saw the sensation which this denunciation of himself caused among his audience. There was not a shadow of doubt in the face of any one of them as to his identity with the ferocious judge in question. What followed he felt was being listened to as a chapter or autobiography, and nothing he could say could now clear his character of the awful stain that rested upon it.“A cruel judge condemned more than three hundred persons—”“You forgot to say his name, please, sir,” they put in.“Never mind his name; that is, I told you once, you should remember,” stammered the hapless usher.“I remember it. Jeffreys, wasn’t it, Mr Jeffreys?” said one boy triumphantly.“He condemned more than—”“Who, Jeffreys?”What was the use of keeping it up?“Yes; this wicked judge, Jeffreys, condemned more than three hundred people to death, just because they had helped Monmouth.”There was a low whistle of horror, as every eye transfixed the speaker.“Did he repent?” asked one.“It doesn’t say so,” said the wretched Jeffreys, turning over to the next page in a miserable attempt to appear as if he was not involved in the inquiry.“How dreadful!” said another.“Besides this, 849 people were transported.”“By Jeffreys, sir?”“Yes,” replied the owner of the name, finally throwing off all disguise and giving himself up to his fate, “by this wicked Jeffreys.”“Yes, sir; and what else did he do?”Trimble, as he looked every now and then down the room, was astonished to notice the quiet which prevailed in the lower class, and the interest with which every boy was listening to the new master.He did not like it. He couldn’t manage to interest his class, and it didn’t please him at all that this casual newcomer should come and cut him out before his face.After a while he walked down the room and approached the assistant’s desk.He was convinced this, unwonted order could not result from any legitimate cause.“You don’t seem to be doing much work here, I must say,” said he. “Give me the book, Mr Jeffreys: I want to see what they know of the lesson. Where’s the place?”Jeffreys handed the book, putting his finger on the place.Trimble glanced through a paragraph or two, and then pointing to a boy, one of the least sharp in the class, said,—“Now, Walker, what happened after Monmouth’s death?”“Oh, if you please, sir, a cruel judge, called Jeffreys, condemned—”“That will do. You, Rosher, how many people did he condemn to death?”“More than three hundred, sir,” answered Freddy promptly.“What for, Bacon?”“Because they helped Monmouth.”Trimble felt perplexed. He never had a class that answered like this. He tried once more.“Pridger, what else did he do?”“He had 849 transported, sir.”Trimble shut the book. It was beyond him. If Pridger had said 848 or 850, he could have made something of it. But it floored him completely to find the second class knowing the exact number of convicts in one given year of English history.“Don’t let me catch any of you wasting your time,” he said. “Farrar, what do you mean by looking about you, sir? Stand on the form for half an hour.”“Farrar has been very quiet and attentive all the afternoon,” said Jeffreys.“Stand on the form an hour, Farrar,” said Trimble, with a scowl.Jeffreys’ brow darkened as he watched the little tyrant strut off to his class. How long would he be able to keep hands off him?The rest of the afternoon passed uneventfully. An unconscious bond of sympathy had arisen between the new master and his pupils. His historical importance invested him with a glamour which was nearly heroic; and his kind word on Farrar’s behalf had won him an amount of confidence which was quick in showing itself. “We like you better than Fison, though he was nice,” said Bacon, as the class was about to separate.“I hope Trimble won’t send you away,” said another.“I wish you’d condemn young Trimble to death, or transport him, Mr Jeffreys,” said a third confidentially.“Good-bye, Mr Jeffreys,” said Freddy, with all the confidence of an old friend. “Did you like that parliament cake?”“Awfully,” said Jeffreys. “Good-bye.”Every one insisted on shaking hands with him, greatly to his embarrassment; and a few minutes later the school was scattered, and Jeffreys was left to go over in his mind his first day’s experience.On the whole he was cheerful. His heart warmed to these simple little fellows, who thought none the worse of him for being ugly and clumsy. With Mrs Trimble, too, he anticipated not much difficulty. Young Trimble was a rock ahead undoubtedly, but Jeffreys would stand him as long as he could, and not anticipate the day, which he felt to be inevitable, when he would be able to stand him no longer.“Well, Mr Jeffreys,” said Mrs Trimble, as the dame and her two assistants sat down to tea, “how do you manage?”“Pretty well, thank you, ma’am,” replied Jeffreys; “they are a nice lot of little boys, and I found them very good and quiet.”“Of course you would, if you let them do as they like,” said Jonah. “You’ll have to keep them in, I can tell you, if you expect to keep order.”It did occur to Jeffreys that if they were good without being kept in, Jonah ought to be satisfied, but he was too wise to embark on a discussion with his colleague, and confined his attentions to Mrs Trimble.The meal being ended, he said—“Will you excuse me, ma’am, if I go into the city for about an hour? I have to call at the post-office for letters.”“Look here,” said Jonah, “we don’t let our assistants out any time they like. It’s not usual. They ought to stay here. There’s plenty of work to do here.”“It’s very important for me to get the letters, Mrs Trimble,” said Jeffreys.“Well, of course, this once,” said the matron, glancing uneasily at her son; “but, as Jonah says, we like our young men to stay in, especially at night. We parted with Mr Fison because he was not steady.”“Thank you, ma’am,” said Jeffreys; “if the letters have come to-day I shall not have to trouble you again. Can I do anything for you in town?”“That chap won’t do,” said Jonah to his mother when at last Jeffreys started on his expedition.“I think he will; he means well. It wouldn’t do, Jonah,” said the good lady, “to have all the trouble again of finding a young man. I think Mr Jeffreys will do.”“I don’t,” said Jonah sulkily, taking up a newspaper.Jeffreys meanwhile, in a strange frame of mind, hurried down to the post-office. The day’s adventures seemed like a dream to him as he walked along, and poor Forrester seemed the only reality of his life.Would there be a letter? And what news would it bring him? During the last twelve hours a new hope and object in life had opened before him. But what was it worth, if, after all, at this very moment Forrester should be lying lifeless at Bolsover?“Have you any letter for John Jeffreys?” he asked; but his heart beat so loud that he scarcely heard his own voice.The man, humming cheerily to himself, took a batch of letters out of a pigeon-hole and began to turn them over. Jeffreys watched him feverishly, and marvelled at his indifference.“What name did you say—Jones?”“No, Jeffreys—John Jeffreys.”Again he turned over the bundle, almost carelessly. At length he extracted a letter, which he tossed onto the counter.“There you are, my beauty,” said he.Jeffreys, heeding nothing except that it was addressed in Mr Frampton’s hand, seized the missive and hastened from the office.At the first shop window he stood and tore it open.“My dear Jeffreys,—I was glad to hear from you, although your letter gave me great pain. It would have been wiser in you to return here, whatever your circumstances might be; wiser still would it have been had you never run away. But I do not write now to reproach you. You have suffered enough, I know. I write to tell you of Forrester.”Jeffreys gave a gasp for breath before he dare read on.“The poor fellow has made a temporary rally, but the doctors by no means consider him out of danger. Should he recover, which I fear is hardly probable, I grieve to say the injuries he has received would leave him a cripple for life. There is an injury to the spine and partial paralysis, which, at the best, would necessitate his lying constantly on his back, and thus being dependent entirely on others. If he can bear it, he is to be removed to his home in a day or two. He has asked about you, and on my telling him that I was writing to you, said, ‘Tell him I know it was only an accident.’ I am sure that this letter will grieve you; I wish I could say anything which will help you. May God in His mercy bring good to us all out of this sorrow! As for yourself, I hope that your guardian’s resentment will be short-lived, and that you will let me hear of your welfare. Count on me as a friend, in spite of all.“Yours always,—“T. Frampton.”“In spite of all!” groaned poor Jeffreys, as he crushed the letter into his pocket. “Will no one have pity on me?”

My business-like readers have, I dare say, found fault with me for representing a business conference on which so much depended as having taken place on the front doorstep of Galloway House, and without occupying much more than five minutes in the transaction. How did Jeffreys know what sort of person Mrs Trimble was? She might have been a Fury or a Harpy. Her house might have been badly drained. Mr Fison might have left her because he couldn’t get his wages. And what did Mrs Trimble know about the Bolsover cad? She never even asked for a testimonial. He might be a burglar in disguise, or a murderer, or a child-eater. And yet these two foolish people struck a bargain with one another five minutes after their first introduction, and before even the potatoes which Mrs Trimble had left on her plate when she went to the door had had time to get cold.

I am just as much surprised as the reader at their rashness, which I can only account for by supposing that they were both what the reader would call “hard up.” Jeffreys, as we know, was very hard up; and as for Mrs Trimble, the amount of worry she had endured since Mr Fison had left was beyond all words. She had had to teach as well as manage, the thing she never liked. And her son and assistant, without a second usher to keep him steady, had been turning her hair grey. For three weeks she had waited in vain. Several promising-looking young men had come and looked at the place and then gone away. She had not been able to enjoy an afternoon’s nap for a month. In short, she was getting worn-out. When, therefore, Jeffreys came and asked for the post, she had to put a check on herself to prevent herself from “jumping down his throat.” Hence the rapid conference at the hall door, and the ease with which Jeffreys got his footing in Galloway House.

“Come and have a bite of mutton,” said Mrs Trimble, leading the way into the parlour. “Jonah and I are just having dinner.”

Jonah, who, if truth must be told, had been neglecting his inner man during the last five minutes in order to peep through the crack of the door, and overhear the conference in the hall between his mother and the stranger, was a vulgar-looking youth of about Jeffrey’s age, with a slight cast in his eye, but otherwise not bad-looking. He eyed the new usher as he entered with a mingled expression of suspicion and contempt; and Jeffreys, slow of apprehension though he usually was, knew at a glance that he had not fallen on a bed of roses at Galloway House.

“Jonah, this is Mr Jeffreys; I’ve taken him on in Fison’s place. My son, Mr Jeffreys.”

Jonah made a face at his mother, as much as to say, “I don’t admire your choice,” and then, with a half-nod at Jeffreys, said,—

“Ah, how are you?”

“Jonah and I always dine at twelve, Mr Jeffreys,” said Mrs Trimble, over whom the prospect of the afternoon’s nap was beginning to cast a balmy sense of ease. “You two young men will be good friends, I hope, and look well after the boys.”

“More than you do,” said the undutiful Jonah; “they’ve been doing just as they please the last month.”

“It’s a pity, Jonah, you never found fault with that before.”

“What’s the use of finding fault? No end to it when you once begin.”

“Well,” observed the easy-going matron, “you two will have to see I don’t have occasion to find fault with you.”

Jonah laughed, and asked Jeffreys to cut him a slice of bread.

Presently Mrs Trimble quitted the festive board, and the two ushers were left together.

“Lucky for you,” said young Trimble, “you got hold of ma and pinned her down to taking you on on the spot. What’s she going to pay you?”

The question did not altogether please the new assistant, but he was anxious not to come across his colleague too early in their acquaintanceship.

“She pays me nothing the first month. After that, if I suit, I’m to have a pound a month.”

“If you suit? I suppose you know that depends on whether I like you or not?”

“I hope not,” blurted out Jeffreys—“that is,” added he, seeing his mistake, “I hope we shallgeton well together.”

“Depends,” said Trimble. “I may as well tell you at once I hate stuck-uppedness (this was a compound word worthy of a young schoolmaster). If you’re that sort you’d better cry off at once. If you can do your work without giving yourself airs, I shall let you alone.”

Jeffreys was strongly tempted after this candid avowal to take the youthful snob’s advice and cry off. But the memory of yesterday’s miserable experiences restrained him. He therefore replied, with as little contempt as he was able to put into the words,—

“Thanks.”

Trimble’s quick ear detected the ill-disguised scorn of the reply. “You needn’t try on that sort of talk,” said he; “I can tell you plump, it won’t do. You needn’t think because ma took you on for the asking, you’re going to turn up your nose at the place!”

“I don’t think so,” said Jeffreys, struggling hard with himself. “How many boys are there here?”

“Forty-four. Are you anything of a teacher? Can you keep order?”

“I don’t know; I haven’t tried yet.”

“Well, just mind what you’re about. Keep your hands off the boys; we don’t want manslaughter or anything of that sort here.”

Jeffreys started. Was it possible that this was a random shot, or did Trimble know about Bolsover and young Forrester? The next remark somewhat reassured him.

“They’re looking sharp after private schools now; so mind, hands off. There’s one o’clock striking. All in! Come along. You’d better take the second class and see what you can make of them. Precious little ma will put her nose in, now you’re here to do the work.”

He led the way down the passage and across a yard into an outhouse which formed the schoolroom. Here were assembled, as the two ushers entered, some forty boys ranging in age from seven to twelve, mostly, to judge from their dress and manners, of the small shopkeeper and farmer class.

The sound of Trimble’s voice produced a dead silence in the room, followed immediately by a movement of wonder as the big, ungainly form of the new assistant appeared. Jeffreys’ looks, as he himself knew, were not prepossessing, and the juvenile population of Galloway House took no pains to conceal the fact that they agreed with him.

“Gordon,” said Trimble, addressing a small boy who had been standing up when they entered, “what are you doing?”

“Nothing, sir.”

“You’ve no business to be doing nothing! Stand upon that form for an hour!”

The boy obeyed, and Trimble looked round at Jeffreys with a glance of patronising complacency.

“That’s the proper way to do with them,” said he. “Plenty of ways of taking it out of them without knocking them about.”

Jeffreys made no reply; he felt rather sorry for the weak-kneed little youngster perched up on that form, and wondered if Mr Trimble would expect him (Jeffreys) to adopt his method of “taking it out” of his new pupils.

Just then he caught sight of the familiar face of Master Freddy, one of his friends of the morning, who was standing devouring him with his eyes as if he had been a ghost. Jeffreys walked across the room and shook hands with him.

“Well, Freddy, how are you? How’s Teddy?”

“I say,” said Trimble, in by no means an amiable voice, as he returned from this little excursion, “what on earth are you up to? What did you go and do that for?”

“I know Freddy.”

“Oh, do you? Freddy Rosher, you’re talking. What do you mean by it?”

“Please, sir, I didn’t mean—”

“Then stay in an hour after school, and write four pages of your copy-book.”

It took all Jeffreys’ resolution to stand by and listen to this vindictive sentence without a protest. But he restrained himself, and resolved that Freddy should find before long that all his masters were not against him.

“That’s your fault,” said Trimble, noticing the dissatisfied look of his colleague. “How are we to keep order if you go and make the boys break rules? Now you’d better get to work. Take the second class over there and give them their English history. James the Second they’re at. Now, you boys, first class, come up to me with your sums. Second class, take your history up to Mr Jeffreys. Come along; look alive!”

Jeffreys thereupon found himself mobbed by a troop of twenty of the youngest of the boys, and haled away to a desk at the far end of the room, round which they congregated book in hand, and waited for him to commence operations.

It was an embarrassing situation for the new usher. He had never been so fixed before. He had often had a crowd of small boys round him, tormenting him and provoking him to anger; but to be perched up here at a desk, with twenty tender youths hanging on the first word which should fall from his lips, was to say the least, a novel experience. He glanced up towards the far end of the room, in the hopes of being able to catch a hint from the practised Jonah as to how to proceed. But he found Jonah was looking at him suspiciously over the top of his book, and that was no assistance whatever. The boys evidently enjoyed his perplexity; and, emboldened by his recent act of friendliness to the unlucky Freddy, regarded him benevolently.

“Will some one lend me a book?” at last said Jeffreys, half desperate.

A friendly titter followed this request.

“Don’t you know it without the book?” asked one innocent, handing up a book.

“I hope you do,” said Jeffreys, blushing very much as he took it. “Now,” added he, turning to the reign of James II, “can any one tell we what year King James II came to the throne?”

“Please, sir, that’s not the way,” interposed another irreverent youngster, with a giggle. “You’ve got to read it first, and then ask us.”

Jeffreys blushed again.

“Is that the way?” said he. “Very well. James II succeeded his brother Charles in 1685. One of his first acts on coming—”

“Oh, we’re long past that,” said two or three of his delighted audience at a breath; “we’ve done to where Monmouth’s head was cut off.”

This was very uncomfortable for the new master. He coloured up, as if he had been guilty of a scandalous misdemeanour, and fumbled nervously with the book, positively dreading to make a fresh attempt. At last, however, he summoned up courage.

“The death of this ill-fated nobleman was followed by a still more terrible measure of retribution against those who had—”

“Please, sir, we can’t do such long words; we don’t know what that means. You’ve got to say it in easy words, not what’s put in the book.”

Jeffreys felt that all the sins of his youth were rising up against him that moment. Nothing that he had ever done seemed just then as bad as this latest delinquency.

“After Monmouth’s death they made it very—(hot, he was going to say, but he pulled himself up in time), they made it very (whatever was the word?)—very awkward for those who had helped him. A cruel judge named Jeffreys—”

That was a finishing stroke! The reader could have sunk through the floor as he saw the sensation which this denunciation of himself caused among his audience. There was not a shadow of doubt in the face of any one of them as to his identity with the ferocious judge in question. What followed he felt was being listened to as a chapter or autobiography, and nothing he could say could now clear his character of the awful stain that rested upon it.

“A cruel judge condemned more than three hundred persons—”

“You forgot to say his name, please, sir,” they put in.

“Never mind his name; that is, I told you once, you should remember,” stammered the hapless usher.

“I remember it. Jeffreys, wasn’t it, Mr Jeffreys?” said one boy triumphantly.

“He condemned more than—”

“Who, Jeffreys?”

What was the use of keeping it up?

“Yes; this wicked judge, Jeffreys, condemned more than three hundred people to death, just because they had helped Monmouth.”

There was a low whistle of horror, as every eye transfixed the speaker.

“Did he repent?” asked one.

“It doesn’t say so,” said the wretched Jeffreys, turning over to the next page in a miserable attempt to appear as if he was not involved in the inquiry.

“How dreadful!” said another.

“Besides this, 849 people were transported.”

“By Jeffreys, sir?”

“Yes,” replied the owner of the name, finally throwing off all disguise and giving himself up to his fate, “by this wicked Jeffreys.”

“Yes, sir; and what else did he do?”

Trimble, as he looked every now and then down the room, was astonished to notice the quiet which prevailed in the lower class, and the interest with which every boy was listening to the new master.

He did not like it. He couldn’t manage to interest his class, and it didn’t please him at all that this casual newcomer should come and cut him out before his face.

After a while he walked down the room and approached the assistant’s desk.

He was convinced this, unwonted order could not result from any legitimate cause.

“You don’t seem to be doing much work here, I must say,” said he. “Give me the book, Mr Jeffreys: I want to see what they know of the lesson. Where’s the place?”

Jeffreys handed the book, putting his finger on the place.

Trimble glanced through a paragraph or two, and then pointing to a boy, one of the least sharp in the class, said,—

“Now, Walker, what happened after Monmouth’s death?”

“Oh, if you please, sir, a cruel judge, called Jeffreys, condemned—”

“That will do. You, Rosher, how many people did he condemn to death?”

“More than three hundred, sir,” answered Freddy promptly.

“What for, Bacon?”

“Because they helped Monmouth.”

Trimble felt perplexed. He never had a class that answered like this. He tried once more.

“Pridger, what else did he do?”

“He had 849 transported, sir.”

Trimble shut the book. It was beyond him. If Pridger had said 848 or 850, he could have made something of it. But it floored him completely to find the second class knowing the exact number of convicts in one given year of English history.

“Don’t let me catch any of you wasting your time,” he said. “Farrar, what do you mean by looking about you, sir? Stand on the form for half an hour.”

“Farrar has been very quiet and attentive all the afternoon,” said Jeffreys.

“Stand on the form an hour, Farrar,” said Trimble, with a scowl.

Jeffreys’ brow darkened as he watched the little tyrant strut off to his class. How long would he be able to keep hands off him?

The rest of the afternoon passed uneventfully. An unconscious bond of sympathy had arisen between the new master and his pupils. His historical importance invested him with a glamour which was nearly heroic; and his kind word on Farrar’s behalf had won him an amount of confidence which was quick in showing itself. “We like you better than Fison, though he was nice,” said Bacon, as the class was about to separate.

“I hope Trimble won’t send you away,” said another.

“I wish you’d condemn young Trimble to death, or transport him, Mr Jeffreys,” said a third confidentially.

“Good-bye, Mr Jeffreys,” said Freddy, with all the confidence of an old friend. “Did you like that parliament cake?”

“Awfully,” said Jeffreys. “Good-bye.”

Every one insisted on shaking hands with him, greatly to his embarrassment; and a few minutes later the school was scattered, and Jeffreys was left to go over in his mind his first day’s experience.

On the whole he was cheerful. His heart warmed to these simple little fellows, who thought none the worse of him for being ugly and clumsy. With Mrs Trimble, too, he anticipated not much difficulty. Young Trimble was a rock ahead undoubtedly, but Jeffreys would stand him as long as he could, and not anticipate the day, which he felt to be inevitable, when he would be able to stand him no longer.

“Well, Mr Jeffreys,” said Mrs Trimble, as the dame and her two assistants sat down to tea, “how do you manage?”

“Pretty well, thank you, ma’am,” replied Jeffreys; “they are a nice lot of little boys, and I found them very good and quiet.”

“Of course you would, if you let them do as they like,” said Jonah. “You’ll have to keep them in, I can tell you, if you expect to keep order.”

It did occur to Jeffreys that if they were good without being kept in, Jonah ought to be satisfied, but he was too wise to embark on a discussion with his colleague, and confined his attentions to Mrs Trimble.

The meal being ended, he said—

“Will you excuse me, ma’am, if I go into the city for about an hour? I have to call at the post-office for letters.”

“Look here,” said Jonah, “we don’t let our assistants out any time they like. It’s not usual. They ought to stay here. There’s plenty of work to do here.”

“It’s very important for me to get the letters, Mrs Trimble,” said Jeffreys.

“Well, of course, this once,” said the matron, glancing uneasily at her son; “but, as Jonah says, we like our young men to stay in, especially at night. We parted with Mr Fison because he was not steady.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” said Jeffreys; “if the letters have come to-day I shall not have to trouble you again. Can I do anything for you in town?”

“That chap won’t do,” said Jonah to his mother when at last Jeffreys started on his expedition.

“I think he will; he means well. It wouldn’t do, Jonah,” said the good lady, “to have all the trouble again of finding a young man. I think Mr Jeffreys will do.”

“I don’t,” said Jonah sulkily, taking up a newspaper.

Jeffreys meanwhile, in a strange frame of mind, hurried down to the post-office. The day’s adventures seemed like a dream to him as he walked along, and poor Forrester seemed the only reality of his life.

Would there be a letter? And what news would it bring him? During the last twelve hours a new hope and object in life had opened before him. But what was it worth, if, after all, at this very moment Forrester should be lying lifeless at Bolsover?

“Have you any letter for John Jeffreys?” he asked; but his heart beat so loud that he scarcely heard his own voice.

The man, humming cheerily to himself, took a batch of letters out of a pigeon-hole and began to turn them over. Jeffreys watched him feverishly, and marvelled at his indifference.

“What name did you say—Jones?”

“No, Jeffreys—John Jeffreys.”

Again he turned over the bundle, almost carelessly. At length he extracted a letter, which he tossed onto the counter.

“There you are, my beauty,” said he.

Jeffreys, heeding nothing except that it was addressed in Mr Frampton’s hand, seized the missive and hastened from the office.

At the first shop window he stood and tore it open.

“My dear Jeffreys,—I was glad to hear from you, although your letter gave me great pain. It would have been wiser in you to return here, whatever your circumstances might be; wiser still would it have been had you never run away. But I do not write now to reproach you. You have suffered enough, I know. I write to tell you of Forrester.”

Jeffreys gave a gasp for breath before he dare read on.

“The poor fellow has made a temporary rally, but the doctors by no means consider him out of danger. Should he recover, which I fear is hardly probable, I grieve to say the injuries he has received would leave him a cripple for life. There is an injury to the spine and partial paralysis, which, at the best, would necessitate his lying constantly on his back, and thus being dependent entirely on others. If he can bear it, he is to be removed to his home in a day or two. He has asked about you, and on my telling him that I was writing to you, said, ‘Tell him I know it was only an accident.’ I am sure that this letter will grieve you; I wish I could say anything which will help you. May God in His mercy bring good to us all out of this sorrow! As for yourself, I hope that your guardian’s resentment will be short-lived, and that you will let me hear of your welfare. Count on me as a friend, in spite of all.

“Yours always,—

“T. Frampton.”

“In spite of all!” groaned poor Jeffreys, as he crushed the letter into his pocket. “Will no one have pity on me?”

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