Chapter Nineteen.

Chapter Nineteen.Scarfe Promises to Remember.“Jeff,” said Percy, after a minute or two, “it’s nonsense your staying here to get frozen; do go on.”“No, old fellow; I prefer your company to my own.”“But, Jeff, we may not last out till the morning.”“We won’t give it up yet, though.” Jeffreys had great faith in the caloric of hope, especially for a boy of Percy’s temperament. For himself he saw enough to guess that their position was a desperate one. The ledge on which they sat was narrow and slanting, and the wind, shifting gradually to the west, began to get round them menacingly, and cause them now and then to grip at the stones while some specially furious gust blew past. Add to that, Percy’s arm was probably broken, and, despite a makeshift bandage and sling, adjusted at imminent peril of being swept away in the operation, increasingly painful. The mist wrapped them like a winding-sheet, and froze as it fell.“How long will Julius take getting down?” asked the boy.“Not long,” said Jeffreys, with a shudder, not wholly caused by the cold.“An hour? He could bring them up in three hours, couldn’t he?”“Less, perhaps. We can hold out for three hours.”“Jeff, old fellow, do go; whatisthe use of you staying?”“Harder work for the wind to lift two of us than one. It can’t last long, I’m certain; it’s chopping already.”They relapsed into silence, and listened to the storm as it dashed on the cliffs above them.A quarter of an hour passed. Then Jeffreys felt the boy’s head drop on his shoulder.“Percy, old man, no sleeping,” said he, raising his head.“I’m not sleeping; only wondering where Julius is.”But his voice was drowsy, and the words drawled out slowly and dreamily.“Perhaps he’s down the lower zigzag now,” said Jeffreys, giving his companion a shake, under pretext of readjusting the wraps.“I guess he’ll go to Raby first,” said Percy. “Won’t she be scared?”“She will probably go to your father, and he’ll get Appleby and Kennedy and some of the men, and they’ll—Percy! hold up your head!”“Scarfe would like to get engaged to Raby, but she would sooner—”“Percy, old man, you’re talking rubbish. Unless you sit up and keep awake we shall both come to grief.”“I’ll try,” said the boy, “but I don’t know how.”“Tell me something about your year at Rugby. I want to hear about it so much. What form were you in?”Then followed a desperate half-hour of cross-examination, Jeffreys coming down with a question at the slightest symptom of drowsiness, and Percy, with all the cunning of a “somno-maniac,” taking time to think before each answer, and even shirking a syllable here or there in order to snatch a wink.The daylight slowly faded out of the mist, but still the wind howled and shook them on their narrow perch at every gust. Jeffreys, with dismay, found his limbs growing cramped and stiff, boding ill, unless relief soon came, for the possibility of moving at all.Surely, though, the wind was abating. The dash overhead sounded a trifle less deafening; and the driving sleet, which an hour ago had struck on their faces, now froze their ears.Yes, the wind was shifting and falling.In the half-minute which it took Jeffreys to make this discovery Percy had once more fallen asleep, and it required a shake more prolonged than ever to arouse him.“What!” said he, as he slowly raised his head, “are they here? Is father there?”“No, old boy, but the wind is going down, and we may be able to move soon. Where did you field in that cricket match you were telling me of?”“Short leg, and I made two catches.”“Bravo! Were they hard ones? Tell me.”So for another half-hour this struggle with sleep went on. Jeffreys had more to do than keep his companion awake. He accompanied every question with a change of position of his knees and arms, that he might be able when the time came to use his limbs. It was little enough scope he had for any movement on that narrow ledge, but he lost no chance, and his self-imposed fidgets helped not only himself but Percy.At last the roar on the cliffs changed into a surly soughing, and the gusts edged slowly but surely round behind the great buttress of the mountain.“Percy,” said Jeffreys, “we must try a move. Can you hold yourself steady while I try to get up?”Percy was wide awake in an instant.“I can hold on, but my other arm is no good for scrambling.”“I’ll see to that, only hold on while I get up.”It was a long and painful operation; every joint and muscle seemed to be congealed. At length, however, by dint of a terrible effort, he managed to draw up his feet and even to stand on the path. He kicked up the earth so as to make a firm foothold, and then addressed himself to the still more difficult task of raising the stiff and crippled Percy.How he did it, and how he half dragged, half carried him back along the ledge to the firmer ground of the upper zigzag path, he never knew. He always counted it as one of the miracles of his life, the work of that stronger than human arm which had already helped him along his path, and which in this act showed that it still was with him. To stand even on that steep mountain path was, after the peril of that fearful ledge, like standing on a broad paved road.“Where next?” said Percy.“Over the top and down by the Sharpenholme track. Do you see the moon is coming out through the mist?”“All serene!”The heroism of that night’s adventure was not all absorbed by the elder traveller. The boy who with indomitable hopefulness toiled up that steep ascent with a broken arm bandaged to his side, making nothing of his pain, was a type of English boy happily still to be met with, giving promise of men of the right stuff yet to come to maintain the good name of their country.They were not much in the humour for admiring the wonderful beauty of the scene as the mist gradually cleared and above them rose the full white moon flooding the mountain and the hills beyond with its pure light. They welcomed the light, for it showed them the way; but they would have sold the view twenty times over for a pot of hot coffee.At the top they met the tail end of the gale spending its little remaining force on the mountain’s back. It seemed like a balmy zephyr compared with the tempest of a few hours ago.The descent down the broad grass track with its slight covering of snow towards Sharpenholme had little difficulty; but the jolting tried Percy’s arm as the steep climb with all its exertion had not done.Jeffreys noticed the boy’s steps become more unsteady, and felt him lean with increasing heaviness on his arm.“Percy, old boy, you are done up.”“No—I—Suppose we rest a minute or two; I shall be all right.”But while he spoke he staggered faintly and would have fallen but for Jeffreys’ arm in his.“I think if you went on,” said he, “I could rest a bit and follow slowly.”Jeffreys’ answer was curt and decisive.He took the boy up in his arms as if he had been a baby, and, despite all protestations, carried him.On level ground and under ordinary circumstances it would have been a simple matter. For Jeffreys was brawny and powerful; and the light weight of the slender, wiry boy was nothing to him. But on that slippery mountain-side, after the fatigue and peril of the afternoon, it was as much as he could do to stagger forward under the burden.Yet—was it quite unnatural?—a strange sort of happiness seemed to take possession of him as he felt this helpless boy’s form in his arms, the head drooped on his shoulder, and the poor bruised arm tenderly supported in his hand. There seemed hope in the burden; and in that brotherly service a promise of expiation for another still more sacred service which had been denied him! He tramped down that long gradual slope in a contented dream, halting often to rest, but never losing heart. Percy, too exhausted to remonstrate, yielded himself gratefully, and lay only half conscious in his protector’s arms, often fancying himself at home in bed or lolling idly in the summer fields.It may have been midnight, or later still, when Jeffreys, looking beyond the shadows projected by the moon in front of him, perceived a gleam of light far down in the valley.“Probably,” thought he, “some honest shepherd, after his day’s work, is happily going to rest. Think of a bed, and a pillow, and a blanket!”But no, the light—the lights, there were two—were moving—moving rapidly and evenly.Jeffreys stood still to listen. The wind had long since dropped into rest, and the clear night air would have carried a sound twice the distance. Yes, it was a cart or a carriage, and he could even detect the clatter of the horses on the hard road. Possibly some benighted wagoner, or a mail cart.He raised a shout which scared the sleeping rabbits in their holes and made the hill across the valley wake with echoes. The lights still moved on. He set Percy down tenderly on the grass with his coat beneath him. Then, running with all his speed, he halved the distance which separated him and the road, and shouted again.This time the clatter of the hoofs stopped abruptly and the lights stood still.Once more he shouted, till the night rang with echoes. Then, joyful sound! there rose from the valley an answering call, and he knew all was safe.In a few minutes he was back again where Percy, once more awake, was sitting up, bewildered, and listening to the echoes which his repeated shouts still kept waking.“It’s all right, old fellow; there’s a carriage.”“They’ve come to look for us. I can walk, Jeff, really.”“Are you sure?”“Yes, and they’d be so scared if they saw me being carried.”So they started forward, the answering shouts coming nearer and nearer at every step.“That’s Appleby,” said Percy, as a particularly loud whoop fell on their ears. It was, and with him Mr Rimbolt and Scarfe.When darkness came, and no signs of the pedestrians, the usual uneasiness had prevailed at Wildtree, increased considerably by Walker’s and Raby’s report as to the mountaineering garb in which the missing ones had started. The terrible tempest which had attacked the face of Wild Pike had swept over Wildtree too, and added a hundredfold to the alarm which, as hour passed hour, their absence caused. Scarfe, arriving at home about ten o’clock, found the whole family in a state of panic. Mr Rimbolt had been out on the lower slopes of the mountain, and reported that a storm raged there before which nothing could stand. The only hope was that they had been descending the back of the mountain, and taken refuge somewhere in the valley for the night. The carriage was ordered out, and Mr Rimbolt and Scarfe started on what seemed a forlorn hope. For an hour or two they passed and repassed the valley road, inquiring at every cottage and farm without result.At last, just as they were resolving to give it up for the night, Appleby pulled up the horses suddenly, and said he had heard a shout. Instantly they jumped out and shouted back; and now, following the direction of the voice, far up the great slope, theymetJeffreys, with the boy leaning on his arm safe, but almost exhausted.Neither of them retained a vivid recollection of that drive home. Jeffreys was vaguely conscious of them calling on the way for the doctor, and taking him along in the carriage. He also heard Scarfe say something to Mr Rimbolt in tones of commiseration, in which something was added about the inconsiderateness and untrustworthiness of Jeffreys. But for the rest he reclined back in his seat, scarcely conscious of anything but the rest and warmth.At Wildtree, the now familiar scene of the whole household gathered panic-struck an the threshold drove him precipitately to his room. He knew what to expect if he stayed there.Jeffreys dropped asleep with the dog’s howl ringing weirdly in his ears. In his dreams it seemed to change into that still more terrible howl which had stunned him long ago on the Bolsover meadow. It followed him as he carried young Forrester in his arms across that fatal ledge. It was pitch dark; and on the ledge Scarfe stood to drive him back. Then suddenly a new bright path seemed to open at his side, into which he stepped with his precious burden. And as he did so he saw, far off, Raby standing at the end of the way.It was ten o’clock when he awoke; but the house was still asleep. Only a few servants were stirring; and even Walker had taken advantage of the occasion to “sleep in.”Jeffreys was tough and hardy; and the night’s rest had done more for him than twenty doctors. He got up, shook himself, and behold his limbs were strong under him, and his head was clear and cool. He dressed himself quietly and descended to the kitchen, where he begged an early breakfast of the servants. Then he sallied forth with his stick towards Wild Pike.The grand pile on this bright winter’s morning looked almost hypocritically serene and benignant. The sunlight bathed the stern cliff which yesterday had buffeted back the wind with a roar as fierce as itself; and in the quiet spring-like air the peaceful bleating of sheep was the only sound to be heard on the steep mountain-side.But Jeffreys did not turn his steps upward. On the contrary, he kept to the lowest track in the valley, and took the path which led him nearest to the base of that terrible wall of rock. A hard scramble over the fallen stones brought him to a spot where, looking up, the top of the wall frowned down on him from a sheer height of five hundred feet, while half-way down, like a narrow scratch along the face of the cliff, he could just detect the ledge on which last night they had sat out the storm.There, among the stones, shattered and cold, lay all that remained of the brave Julius. His fate must have overtaken him before he had gone twenty yards on his desperate errand, and almost before that final howl reached his master’s ears all must have been over.Jeffreys, as he tenderly lifted his lost friend in his arms, thought bitterly and reproachfully of the dog’s strange conduct yesterday—his evident depression and forebodings of evil—the result, no doubt, of illness, but making that last act of self-devotion all the more heroic.He made a grave there at the base of that grand cliff, and piled up a little cairn to mark the last resting-place of his friend. Then, truly a mourner, he returned slowly to Wildtree.At the door he encountered Mrs Rimbolt, who glared at him and swept past.“How is Percy this morning?” he inquired.“No thanks to you, Mr Jeffreys,” said the lady, with a double venom in her tones, “he is alive.”“His arm, is it—?”“Go to your work, sir,” said the lady; “I have no wish to speak to you.”Jeffreys bowed and retreated. He had expected such a reception, and just now it neither dismayed nor concerned him.On the staircase he met Raby. She looked pale and anxious, but brightened up as she saw him.“Mr Jeffreys,” said she, “are you really up, and none the worse?”“I am well, thank you,” said he, “but very anxious to hear about Percy.”“He has had a bad night with his arm, but the doctor says he is going on all right. What a terrible adventure you had. Percy told me a little of it. Oh, Mr Jeffreys, it is all my fault!”Jeffreys could not help smiling.“By what stretch of ingenuity do you make that out?”“It was I suggested your coaxing Percy out, you know; I might have been the death of you both.”“You did not send the wind, did you, or the mist? If you did, of course you are quite entitled to all the credit.”“Don’t laugh about it, please. Percy was telling me how if it had not been for you—”“He would never have been in any danger. Perhaps he is right. By the way. Miss Atherton, is there any chance of seeing him?”“He has asked for you already; but auntie, I believe, would have a fit if you went near him. She seems to consider you are his evil genius; instead of being just the opposite. Tell me how Julius is—he went with you, did he not?”“I have been out this morning to bury Julius at the place where he fell.”Raby, already unduly excited by the events of the past few days, broke into tears, and at the same moment Scarfe, descending the stairs, stood before them.He looked first at Jeffreys, next at the girl. Then, taking her arm, he said—“What is the matter? May I take you downstairs?”“Oh no,” she cried, pushing away his hand, and dashing the tears from her eyes.“Mr Jeffreys, I am so sorry, do forgive me!” and she ran upstairs to her own room.Jeffreys and Scarfe stood facing one another.“What is the meaning of this?” said the latter wrathfully.“It would not interest you. I was telling Miss Atherton about my dog.”“Hang your dog! Did not I tell you that I did not choose for you to obtrude yourself on Raby?”“You did, and I should be sorry to obtrude myself on any one, whether you choose it or not.”“You appear to forget, Cad Jeffreys—”“I forget nothing—not even that I am keeping you from your breakfast.”And he quitted the scene.Later in the morning, as he was working in the library, Mr Rimbolt entered and greeted him cordially.“Jeffreys, my dear fellow, you are constantly adding new claims on my gratitude. What can I say to you now to thank you for your heroism yesterday, about which Percy has just told us?”“Pray say nothing, and discount Percy’s story heavily, for he was the hero. With his broken arm and in all the danger he never lost heart for a moment.”“Yes, he is a brave boy, too. But I came now to tell you he is asking for you. Will you come and see him?”Jeffreys followed the father gratefully to the sick-chamber. At the door he encountered Mrs Rimbolt, who, having evidently been present at the boy’s narrative, was pleased to regard him almost graciously, and, delightfully ignoring the previous encounter, to wish him good morning. Percy looked hot and feverish, but brightened up at once as he caught sight of his protector.“Hullo, old Jeff,” said he, “isn’t this all nonsense? They say I’m in for a mild congestion, and shall have to stick in bed for a fortnight. Just sit down; do you mind, and stay with me. You’ve pulled me through so far; you may as well finish the job.”Thus informally, and without consulting anybody, Jeffreys was constituted nurse-in-chief in the sick-chamber. The boy would tolerate no discussion or protest on the part of the authorities. He must have old Jeff. Bother a hospital nurse, bother the doctor, bother Scarfe, bother everybody. He wanted Jeff; and if Jeff couldn’t come he didn’t mean to take his medicine or do anything he ought to do. Walker had better put up a chair-bed in the dressing-room for Jeff, and Jeff and he (Percy) could have their grub together. Of course all the others could come and see him, especially Raby—but he meant to have Jeff there for good, and that was flat. Thus this selfish young invalid arranged for his own pleasure, and upset all the sober arrangements of his friends.Jeffreys delightedly accepted his new duty, and faced the jealousy of Mrs Rimbolt and Scarfe unflinchingly. It was certainly an unfortunate position for the fond mother; and little wonder if in her mind Jeffreys’ brave service should be blotted out in the offence of being preferred before herself in the sick-chamber. She readily lent an ear to the insinuations which Scarfe, also bitterly hurt, freely let out, and persuaded herself miserably that her boy was in the hands of an adventurer who had cajoled not only the boy but the father, and in short personated the proverbial viper at the fireside.So the fortnight passed. Percy turned the corner; and the time for the departure of Mrs Scarfe and her son drew near.Percy on the evening before they went had been less bright than usual, and had alarmed Jeffreys by a slight return of feverishness. He had just dropped off to sleep, and seemed about to settle quietly for the night, when the door opened and Scarfe came in.Jeffreys was there in an instant with his hand raised in warning.“Hush, please,” said he, “he has just gone over.”“Whom are you telling to hush? you canting brute!” said Scarfe, raising his voice in a passion unusual for him. “Let me come in, do you hear?”And he moved forward, as if to force his way into the room.Jeffreys caught him by the two elbows and lifted him bodily out into the landing, and then stood with his back to the door.Scarfe, livid with rage, made no attempt to get back into the room. Turning on his adversary, he said between his teeth—“I shall remember this,” and departed.

“Jeff,” said Percy, after a minute or two, “it’s nonsense your staying here to get frozen; do go on.”

“No, old fellow; I prefer your company to my own.”

“But, Jeff, we may not last out till the morning.”

“We won’t give it up yet, though.” Jeffreys had great faith in the caloric of hope, especially for a boy of Percy’s temperament. For himself he saw enough to guess that their position was a desperate one. The ledge on which they sat was narrow and slanting, and the wind, shifting gradually to the west, began to get round them menacingly, and cause them now and then to grip at the stones while some specially furious gust blew past. Add to that, Percy’s arm was probably broken, and, despite a makeshift bandage and sling, adjusted at imminent peril of being swept away in the operation, increasingly painful. The mist wrapped them like a winding-sheet, and froze as it fell.

“How long will Julius take getting down?” asked the boy.

“Not long,” said Jeffreys, with a shudder, not wholly caused by the cold.

“An hour? He could bring them up in three hours, couldn’t he?”

“Less, perhaps. We can hold out for three hours.”

“Jeff, old fellow, do go; whatisthe use of you staying?”

“Harder work for the wind to lift two of us than one. It can’t last long, I’m certain; it’s chopping already.”

They relapsed into silence, and listened to the storm as it dashed on the cliffs above them.

A quarter of an hour passed. Then Jeffreys felt the boy’s head drop on his shoulder.

“Percy, old man, no sleeping,” said he, raising his head.

“I’m not sleeping; only wondering where Julius is.”

But his voice was drowsy, and the words drawled out slowly and dreamily.

“Perhaps he’s down the lower zigzag now,” said Jeffreys, giving his companion a shake, under pretext of readjusting the wraps.

“I guess he’ll go to Raby first,” said Percy. “Won’t she be scared?”

“She will probably go to your father, and he’ll get Appleby and Kennedy and some of the men, and they’ll—Percy! hold up your head!”

“Scarfe would like to get engaged to Raby, but she would sooner—”

“Percy, old man, you’re talking rubbish. Unless you sit up and keep awake we shall both come to grief.”

“I’ll try,” said the boy, “but I don’t know how.”

“Tell me something about your year at Rugby. I want to hear about it so much. What form were you in?”

Then followed a desperate half-hour of cross-examination, Jeffreys coming down with a question at the slightest symptom of drowsiness, and Percy, with all the cunning of a “somno-maniac,” taking time to think before each answer, and even shirking a syllable here or there in order to snatch a wink.

The daylight slowly faded out of the mist, but still the wind howled and shook them on their narrow perch at every gust. Jeffreys, with dismay, found his limbs growing cramped and stiff, boding ill, unless relief soon came, for the possibility of moving at all.

Surely, though, the wind was abating. The dash overhead sounded a trifle less deafening; and the driving sleet, which an hour ago had struck on their faces, now froze their ears.

Yes, the wind was shifting and falling.

In the half-minute which it took Jeffreys to make this discovery Percy had once more fallen asleep, and it required a shake more prolonged than ever to arouse him.

“What!” said he, as he slowly raised his head, “are they here? Is father there?”

“No, old boy, but the wind is going down, and we may be able to move soon. Where did you field in that cricket match you were telling me of?”

“Short leg, and I made two catches.”

“Bravo! Were they hard ones? Tell me.”

So for another half-hour this struggle with sleep went on. Jeffreys had more to do than keep his companion awake. He accompanied every question with a change of position of his knees and arms, that he might be able when the time came to use his limbs. It was little enough scope he had for any movement on that narrow ledge, but he lost no chance, and his self-imposed fidgets helped not only himself but Percy.

At last the roar on the cliffs changed into a surly soughing, and the gusts edged slowly but surely round behind the great buttress of the mountain.

“Percy,” said Jeffreys, “we must try a move. Can you hold yourself steady while I try to get up?”

Percy was wide awake in an instant.

“I can hold on, but my other arm is no good for scrambling.”

“I’ll see to that, only hold on while I get up.”

It was a long and painful operation; every joint and muscle seemed to be congealed. At length, however, by dint of a terrible effort, he managed to draw up his feet and even to stand on the path. He kicked up the earth so as to make a firm foothold, and then addressed himself to the still more difficult task of raising the stiff and crippled Percy.

How he did it, and how he half dragged, half carried him back along the ledge to the firmer ground of the upper zigzag path, he never knew. He always counted it as one of the miracles of his life, the work of that stronger than human arm which had already helped him along his path, and which in this act showed that it still was with him. To stand even on that steep mountain path was, after the peril of that fearful ledge, like standing on a broad paved road.

“Where next?” said Percy.

“Over the top and down by the Sharpenholme track. Do you see the moon is coming out through the mist?”

“All serene!”

The heroism of that night’s adventure was not all absorbed by the elder traveller. The boy who with indomitable hopefulness toiled up that steep ascent with a broken arm bandaged to his side, making nothing of his pain, was a type of English boy happily still to be met with, giving promise of men of the right stuff yet to come to maintain the good name of their country.

They were not much in the humour for admiring the wonderful beauty of the scene as the mist gradually cleared and above them rose the full white moon flooding the mountain and the hills beyond with its pure light. They welcomed the light, for it showed them the way; but they would have sold the view twenty times over for a pot of hot coffee.

At the top they met the tail end of the gale spending its little remaining force on the mountain’s back. It seemed like a balmy zephyr compared with the tempest of a few hours ago.

The descent down the broad grass track with its slight covering of snow towards Sharpenholme had little difficulty; but the jolting tried Percy’s arm as the steep climb with all its exertion had not done.

Jeffreys noticed the boy’s steps become more unsteady, and felt him lean with increasing heaviness on his arm.

“Percy, old boy, you are done up.”

“No—I—Suppose we rest a minute or two; I shall be all right.”

But while he spoke he staggered faintly and would have fallen but for Jeffreys’ arm in his.

“I think if you went on,” said he, “I could rest a bit and follow slowly.”

Jeffreys’ answer was curt and decisive.

He took the boy up in his arms as if he had been a baby, and, despite all protestations, carried him.

On level ground and under ordinary circumstances it would have been a simple matter. For Jeffreys was brawny and powerful; and the light weight of the slender, wiry boy was nothing to him. But on that slippery mountain-side, after the fatigue and peril of the afternoon, it was as much as he could do to stagger forward under the burden.

Yet—was it quite unnatural?—a strange sort of happiness seemed to take possession of him as he felt this helpless boy’s form in his arms, the head drooped on his shoulder, and the poor bruised arm tenderly supported in his hand. There seemed hope in the burden; and in that brotherly service a promise of expiation for another still more sacred service which had been denied him! He tramped down that long gradual slope in a contented dream, halting often to rest, but never losing heart. Percy, too exhausted to remonstrate, yielded himself gratefully, and lay only half conscious in his protector’s arms, often fancying himself at home in bed or lolling idly in the summer fields.

It may have been midnight, or later still, when Jeffreys, looking beyond the shadows projected by the moon in front of him, perceived a gleam of light far down in the valley.

“Probably,” thought he, “some honest shepherd, after his day’s work, is happily going to rest. Think of a bed, and a pillow, and a blanket!”

But no, the light—the lights, there were two—were moving—moving rapidly and evenly.

Jeffreys stood still to listen. The wind had long since dropped into rest, and the clear night air would have carried a sound twice the distance. Yes, it was a cart or a carriage, and he could even detect the clatter of the horses on the hard road. Possibly some benighted wagoner, or a mail cart.

He raised a shout which scared the sleeping rabbits in their holes and made the hill across the valley wake with echoes. The lights still moved on. He set Percy down tenderly on the grass with his coat beneath him. Then, running with all his speed, he halved the distance which separated him and the road, and shouted again.

This time the clatter of the hoofs stopped abruptly and the lights stood still.

Once more he shouted, till the night rang with echoes. Then, joyful sound! there rose from the valley an answering call, and he knew all was safe.

In a few minutes he was back again where Percy, once more awake, was sitting up, bewildered, and listening to the echoes which his repeated shouts still kept waking.

“It’s all right, old fellow; there’s a carriage.”

“They’ve come to look for us. I can walk, Jeff, really.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, and they’d be so scared if they saw me being carried.”

So they started forward, the answering shouts coming nearer and nearer at every step.

“That’s Appleby,” said Percy, as a particularly loud whoop fell on their ears. It was, and with him Mr Rimbolt and Scarfe.

When darkness came, and no signs of the pedestrians, the usual uneasiness had prevailed at Wildtree, increased considerably by Walker’s and Raby’s report as to the mountaineering garb in which the missing ones had started. The terrible tempest which had attacked the face of Wild Pike had swept over Wildtree too, and added a hundredfold to the alarm which, as hour passed hour, their absence caused. Scarfe, arriving at home about ten o’clock, found the whole family in a state of panic. Mr Rimbolt had been out on the lower slopes of the mountain, and reported that a storm raged there before which nothing could stand. The only hope was that they had been descending the back of the mountain, and taken refuge somewhere in the valley for the night. The carriage was ordered out, and Mr Rimbolt and Scarfe started on what seemed a forlorn hope. For an hour or two they passed and repassed the valley road, inquiring at every cottage and farm without result.

At last, just as they were resolving to give it up for the night, Appleby pulled up the horses suddenly, and said he had heard a shout. Instantly they jumped out and shouted back; and now, following the direction of the voice, far up the great slope, theymetJeffreys, with the boy leaning on his arm safe, but almost exhausted.

Neither of them retained a vivid recollection of that drive home. Jeffreys was vaguely conscious of them calling on the way for the doctor, and taking him along in the carriage. He also heard Scarfe say something to Mr Rimbolt in tones of commiseration, in which something was added about the inconsiderateness and untrustworthiness of Jeffreys. But for the rest he reclined back in his seat, scarcely conscious of anything but the rest and warmth.

At Wildtree, the now familiar scene of the whole household gathered panic-struck an the threshold drove him precipitately to his room. He knew what to expect if he stayed there.

Jeffreys dropped asleep with the dog’s howl ringing weirdly in his ears. In his dreams it seemed to change into that still more terrible howl which had stunned him long ago on the Bolsover meadow. It followed him as he carried young Forrester in his arms across that fatal ledge. It was pitch dark; and on the ledge Scarfe stood to drive him back. Then suddenly a new bright path seemed to open at his side, into which he stepped with his precious burden. And as he did so he saw, far off, Raby standing at the end of the way.

It was ten o’clock when he awoke; but the house was still asleep. Only a few servants were stirring; and even Walker had taken advantage of the occasion to “sleep in.”

Jeffreys was tough and hardy; and the night’s rest had done more for him than twenty doctors. He got up, shook himself, and behold his limbs were strong under him, and his head was clear and cool. He dressed himself quietly and descended to the kitchen, where he begged an early breakfast of the servants. Then he sallied forth with his stick towards Wild Pike.

The grand pile on this bright winter’s morning looked almost hypocritically serene and benignant. The sunlight bathed the stern cliff which yesterday had buffeted back the wind with a roar as fierce as itself; and in the quiet spring-like air the peaceful bleating of sheep was the only sound to be heard on the steep mountain-side.

But Jeffreys did not turn his steps upward. On the contrary, he kept to the lowest track in the valley, and took the path which led him nearest to the base of that terrible wall of rock. A hard scramble over the fallen stones brought him to a spot where, looking up, the top of the wall frowned down on him from a sheer height of five hundred feet, while half-way down, like a narrow scratch along the face of the cliff, he could just detect the ledge on which last night they had sat out the storm.

There, among the stones, shattered and cold, lay all that remained of the brave Julius. His fate must have overtaken him before he had gone twenty yards on his desperate errand, and almost before that final howl reached his master’s ears all must have been over.

Jeffreys, as he tenderly lifted his lost friend in his arms, thought bitterly and reproachfully of the dog’s strange conduct yesterday—his evident depression and forebodings of evil—the result, no doubt, of illness, but making that last act of self-devotion all the more heroic.

He made a grave there at the base of that grand cliff, and piled up a little cairn to mark the last resting-place of his friend. Then, truly a mourner, he returned slowly to Wildtree.

At the door he encountered Mrs Rimbolt, who glared at him and swept past.

“How is Percy this morning?” he inquired.

“No thanks to you, Mr Jeffreys,” said the lady, with a double venom in her tones, “he is alive.”

“His arm, is it—?”

“Go to your work, sir,” said the lady; “I have no wish to speak to you.”

Jeffreys bowed and retreated. He had expected such a reception, and just now it neither dismayed nor concerned him.

On the staircase he met Raby. She looked pale and anxious, but brightened up as she saw him.

“Mr Jeffreys,” said she, “are you really up, and none the worse?”

“I am well, thank you,” said he, “but very anxious to hear about Percy.”

“He has had a bad night with his arm, but the doctor says he is going on all right. What a terrible adventure you had. Percy told me a little of it. Oh, Mr Jeffreys, it is all my fault!”

Jeffreys could not help smiling.

“By what stretch of ingenuity do you make that out?”

“It was I suggested your coaxing Percy out, you know; I might have been the death of you both.”

“You did not send the wind, did you, or the mist? If you did, of course you are quite entitled to all the credit.”

“Don’t laugh about it, please. Percy was telling me how if it had not been for you—”

“He would never have been in any danger. Perhaps he is right. By the way. Miss Atherton, is there any chance of seeing him?”

“He has asked for you already; but auntie, I believe, would have a fit if you went near him. She seems to consider you are his evil genius; instead of being just the opposite. Tell me how Julius is—he went with you, did he not?”

“I have been out this morning to bury Julius at the place where he fell.”

Raby, already unduly excited by the events of the past few days, broke into tears, and at the same moment Scarfe, descending the stairs, stood before them.

He looked first at Jeffreys, next at the girl. Then, taking her arm, he said—

“What is the matter? May I take you downstairs?”

“Oh no,” she cried, pushing away his hand, and dashing the tears from her eyes.

“Mr Jeffreys, I am so sorry, do forgive me!” and she ran upstairs to her own room.

Jeffreys and Scarfe stood facing one another.

“What is the meaning of this?” said the latter wrathfully.

“It would not interest you. I was telling Miss Atherton about my dog.”

“Hang your dog! Did not I tell you that I did not choose for you to obtrude yourself on Raby?”

“You did, and I should be sorry to obtrude myself on any one, whether you choose it or not.”

“You appear to forget, Cad Jeffreys—”

“I forget nothing—not even that I am keeping you from your breakfast.”

And he quitted the scene.

Later in the morning, as he was working in the library, Mr Rimbolt entered and greeted him cordially.

“Jeffreys, my dear fellow, you are constantly adding new claims on my gratitude. What can I say to you now to thank you for your heroism yesterday, about which Percy has just told us?”

“Pray say nothing, and discount Percy’s story heavily, for he was the hero. With his broken arm and in all the danger he never lost heart for a moment.”

“Yes, he is a brave boy, too. But I came now to tell you he is asking for you. Will you come and see him?”

Jeffreys followed the father gratefully to the sick-chamber. At the door he encountered Mrs Rimbolt, who, having evidently been present at the boy’s narrative, was pleased to regard him almost graciously, and, delightfully ignoring the previous encounter, to wish him good morning. Percy looked hot and feverish, but brightened up at once as he caught sight of his protector.

“Hullo, old Jeff,” said he, “isn’t this all nonsense? They say I’m in for a mild congestion, and shall have to stick in bed for a fortnight. Just sit down; do you mind, and stay with me. You’ve pulled me through so far; you may as well finish the job.”

Thus informally, and without consulting anybody, Jeffreys was constituted nurse-in-chief in the sick-chamber. The boy would tolerate no discussion or protest on the part of the authorities. He must have old Jeff. Bother a hospital nurse, bother the doctor, bother Scarfe, bother everybody. He wanted Jeff; and if Jeff couldn’t come he didn’t mean to take his medicine or do anything he ought to do. Walker had better put up a chair-bed in the dressing-room for Jeff, and Jeff and he (Percy) could have their grub together. Of course all the others could come and see him, especially Raby—but he meant to have Jeff there for good, and that was flat. Thus this selfish young invalid arranged for his own pleasure, and upset all the sober arrangements of his friends.

Jeffreys delightedly accepted his new duty, and faced the jealousy of Mrs Rimbolt and Scarfe unflinchingly. It was certainly an unfortunate position for the fond mother; and little wonder if in her mind Jeffreys’ brave service should be blotted out in the offence of being preferred before herself in the sick-chamber. She readily lent an ear to the insinuations which Scarfe, also bitterly hurt, freely let out, and persuaded herself miserably that her boy was in the hands of an adventurer who had cajoled not only the boy but the father, and in short personated the proverbial viper at the fireside.

So the fortnight passed. Percy turned the corner; and the time for the departure of Mrs Scarfe and her son drew near.

Percy on the evening before they went had been less bright than usual, and had alarmed Jeffreys by a slight return of feverishness. He had just dropped off to sleep, and seemed about to settle quietly for the night, when the door opened and Scarfe came in.

Jeffreys was there in an instant with his hand raised in warning.

“Hush, please,” said he, “he has just gone over.”

“Whom are you telling to hush? you canting brute!” said Scarfe, raising his voice in a passion unusual for him. “Let me come in, do you hear?”

And he moved forward, as if to force his way into the room.

Jeffreys caught him by the two elbows and lifted him bodily out into the landing, and then stood with his back to the door.

Scarfe, livid with rage, made no attempt to get back into the room. Turning on his adversary, he said between his teeth—

“I shall remember this,” and departed.

Chapter Twenty.A Polite Letter-Writer.Scarfe descended to the drawing-room, where he found Mrs Rimbolt alone.“I am so sorry you are going,” said she. “Your visit has been greatly spoiled, I fear. You must come to us at Easter, when we shall be in London, you know.”“Thank you; I shall be glad to come. I hope to find Percy well again. I went to wish him good-bye just now, but was pretty abruptly denied admission, so I must ask you to say good-bye for me.”“Dear me, it is very annoying. I cannot understand the craze the boy has taken for this companion of his. I am so sorry you should have been annoyed.”“I assure you I am far more annoyed on Percy’s account than my own. I happen to know something of Jeffreys before he came to Wildtree. To tell you the truth, Mrs Rimbolt, I don’t think he is a safe companion for Percy at all.”“I have long felt the same; but what is to be done, Mr Scarfe? Mr Rimbolt has almost the same craze as Percy for this librarian of his, and I have really no voice in the matter. He contrives to leave nothing definite to lay hold of; I should be thankful if he did. But it is most uncomfortable to feel that one’s own son is perhaps being ruined under this roof.”“It must be. It is no business of mine, of course, except that I am fond of Percy, and should be sorry to see harm come to him; and knowing what I do—”At that moment Mr Rimbolt, with Mrs Scarfe, entered the room.“What secrets are you two talking?” said the latter.“Your son was just telling me how fond he is of Percy; and I am sure it will be a great loss to Percy when he is gone. He has promised me to come to see us in town at Easter.”“It is a satisfaction that you can leave with the assurance that Percy is virtually well again,” said Mr Rimbolt. “Really, I do not know how we should have got on without Mr Jeffreys to nurse him. I never knew such devotion. He has never wanted for a thing all the time; and Jeffreys’ influence is of the highest and manliest sort. Percy will be able to reckon this illness among the blessings of his life.”Mr Rimbolt spoke feelingly and warmly.Scarfe and Mrs Rimbolt exchanged glances; and the conversation shortly afterwards turned to the journey before the travellers.Scarfe had come down to the drawing-room resolved, cost what it would, to settle scores with Jeffreys there and then by denouncing him to the family on whose favour he was dependent; and had Mr Rimbolt’s entrance been delayed a few minutes, Mrs Rimbolt would have known all about young Forrester. Once again, however, he was stopped in time, and a few moments’ reflection convinced him it was as well.Raby, he knew, whatever she might think of Jeffreys, would never forgive the informant who should be the means of turning him out of Wildtree, still less would Percy. Nor was Mr Rimbolt likely to esteem his guest more highly in the capacity of tale-bearer; and he decidedly wished to “keep in” with all three.And there was another reason still.Scarfe was at the bottom of his heart not quite a villain, and much as he detested Jeffreys, and longed to be revenged—for what injury do certain minds feel half so much as that which one man commits in being better than another?—he had an uncomfortable suspicion in his mind that after all Jeffreys was not quite the miscreant he tried to imagine him.That he was guilty in the matter of young Forrester there was no doubt; but much as he should have liked to believe it, he could not be quite sure that the accident at Bolsover was the result of a deliberate murderous design, or indeed of anything more than the accidental catastrophe of a blundering fit of temper—criminal, if you like, and cowardly, but not fiendish. And his conscience made coward enough of him just now to cause him to hesitate before plunging into ruin one who, hateful as he was to him, was after all a poor wretch, miserable enough for any one.Not having done what he intended to do, Scarfe felt decidedly virtuous, and considered himself entitled to any amount of credit for his forbearance! It seemed a pity Raby should not know of this noble effort of self-denial.“Miss Atherton,” said he, just as they were about to separate for the night, “I’m afraid you will have forgotten all about me when you see me next.”“You are very uncomplimentary, Mr Scarfe.”“I do not mean to be; and I’m sure I shall not forget you.”“Thank you. This has been a very eventful visit.”“It has; but I shall never regret that day on the ice, although I fear I made one enemy by what I did.”“You don’t understand Mr Jeffreys; he is very shy and proud.”“I understand him quite well, and wish for Percy’s sake every one here did too. But I am not going to disobey you, and talk of people behind their backs, Miss Atherton. I am sure you will approve of that.”“I do; I never like it unless it is something nice of them.”“Then I certainly had better not talk to you about Mr Jeffreys,” said Scarfe with a sneer, which did him more damage in Raby’s eyes than a torrent of abuse from his lips. “Do you know you have never yet shown me the telegram you had about your father’s last battle? It came the morning I was away, you know.”“Yes. I fancied perhaps you did not care to see it, as you never asked me,” said Raby, producing the precious paper from her dress, where she kept it like a sort of talisman.“How could you think that?” said Scarfe reproachfully, who had quite forgotten to ask to see it.He took the paper and glanced down it.“Hullo!” said he, starting as Jeffreys had done. “Captain Forrester! I wonder if that’s poor young Forrester’s father?”“Who is poor young Forrester?” inquired Raby.Scarfe read the paper to the end, and then looked up in well-simulated confusion.“Poor young Forrester? Oh—well, I dare say Jeffreys could tell you about him. The fact is, Miss Atherton, if I am not allowed to talk of people behind their backs it is impossible for me to tell you the story of poor young Forrester.”“Then,” said Raby, flushing, as she folded up the paper, “I’ve no desire to hear it.”Scarfe could see he had gone too far.“I have offended you,” said he, “but really I came upon the name so unexpectedly that—”“Do you expect to be working hard this term at Oxford?” said Raby, doing the kindest thing in turning the conversation.It was hardly to be wondered at if she retired that night considerably perplexed and disturbed. There was some mystery attaching to Jeffreys, which, if she was to set any store by Scarfe’s insinuations, was of a disgraceful kind. And the agitation which both Scarfe and Jeffreys had shown on reading the telegram seemed to connect this Captain Forrester, or rather his son, whom Scarfe spoke of as “poor young Forrester,” with the same mystery. Raby was a young lady with the usual allowance of feminine curiosity, which, though she was charity itself, did not like to be baulked by a mystery.She therefore opened a letter she had just finished to her father, to add the following postscript:—“Was this brave Captain Forrester who saved the guns a friend of yours? Tell me all about him. Had he a wife and children? Surely something will be done for them, poor things.”Early next morning Mrs Scarfe and her son left Wildtree.Jeffreys, from Percy’s window, watched them drive away.“Very glad you must be to see the back of them,” said Percy.“I am glad,” responded Jeffreys honestly.“I’m not so frightfully sorry,” said Percy. “Scarfe’s a jolly enough chap, but he’s up to too many dodges, don’t you know? And he’s dead on Raby, too. Quite as dead as you are, Jeff.”“Percy, a fortnight’s congestion has not cured you of the bad habit of talking nonsense,” said Jeffreys.“All very well, you old humbug, but you know you are, aren’t you?”“Your cousin is very good and kind, and no one could help liking her. Everybody is ‘dead on her,’ as you call it, even Walker.”Percy enjoyed this, and allowed himself to be led off the dangerous topic. He was allowed to sit up for the first time this day, and held a smalllevéein his room.Jeffreys took the opportunity to escape for a short time to the library, which he had scarcely been in since the day on the mountain.He knew Mrs Rimbolt would enjoy her visit to the sick-chamber better without him, and he decidedly preferred his beloved books to her majestic society.Percy, however, was by no means satisfied with the arrangement.“Where’s old Jeff?” said he presently, when his mother, Raby, and he were left alone. “Raby, go and tell Jeff, there’s a brick. You can bet he’s in the library. Tell him if he means to cut me dead, he might break it gently.”“Raby,” said Mrs Rimbolt, as her niece, with a smile, started on his majesty’s errand, “I do not choose for you to go looking about for Mr Jeffreys. There is a bell in the room, and Walker can do it if required. It is unseemly in a young lady.”“One would think old Jeff was a wild beast or a nigger by the way you talk,” said Percy complainingly. “All I know is, if it hadn’t been for him, you’d all have been in deep mourning now, instead of having tea up here with me.”“It is quite possible, Percy,” said his mother, “for a person—”“Person!” interrupted the boy. “Jeff’s not a person; he’s a gentleman. As good as any of us, only he hasn’t got so much money.”“I fear, Percy, your illness has not improved your good manners. I wish to say that Mr Jeffreys may have done you service—”“I should think he has,” interrupted the irrepressible one.“But it by no means follows that he is a proper companion for a good innocent boy like you.”Percy laughed hilariously.“Really, ma, you are coming it strong. Do you see my blushes, Raby?”“You must make up your mind to see a great deal less of Mr Jeffreys for the future; he is not the sort of person—”“Look here, ma,” said Percy, terrifying his parent by the energy with which he sprang to his feet. “I’m jolly ill, and you’d be awfully sorry if I had a fit of coughing and brought up blood, wouldn’t you? Well, I shall if you call Jeff a person again. WhereisJeff, I say? I want Jeff. Why don’t you tell him, Raby?”After this, for a season at any rate, Percy was allowed to have his own way, and jeopardised his moral welfare by unrestricted intercourse with the “person” Jeffreys.They spent their time not wholly unprofitably. For, besides a good deal of reading of history and classics (for which Percy was rapidly developing a considerable taste), and a good deal of discussion on all sorts of topics, they were deep in constructing the model of a new kind of bookcase, designed by Percy, with some ingenious contrivances for keeping out dust and for marking, by means of automatic signals, the place of any book which should be taken from its shelf. This wonderful work of art promised to eclipse every bookcase ever invented. The only drawback to it was that it was too good. Percy insisted on introducing into it every “dodge” of which he was capable, and the poor model more than once threatened to collapse under the burden of its own ingenuity. However, they stuck to it, and by dint of sacrificing a “dodge” here and a “dodge” there, they succeeded in producing a highly curious and not unworthy model, which Percy was most urgent that his father should forthwith adopt for his library, all the existing bookcases being sacrificed for firewood to make way for the new ones.Mr Rimbolt diplomatically promised to give the matter his consideration, and consult authorities on the subject when next in London, and meanwhile was not unsparing in his compliments to the inventor and his coadjutor.So the time passed happily enough for Jeffreys, until about three weeks after the Scarfes’ departure, when the following amiable letter reached him with the Oxford post-mark on the envelope:—Christ Church,February 20th.“Jeffreys,—You may have supposed that because I left Wildtree without showing you up in your proper character as a murderer and a hypocrite, that I have changed my opinions as to what is my duty to Mr Rimbolt and his family in this matter. It is not necessary for me to explain to you why I did not do it at once, especially after the blackguardly manner in which you acted on the last evening of my stay there. You being Mr Rimbolt’s servant, I had to consider his convenience. I now write to say that you can spare me the unpleasant duty of informing the Wildtree household of what a miscreant they have in their midst by doing it yourself. If, after they know all, they choose to keep you on, there is nothing more to be said. You are welcome to the chance you will have of lying in order to whitewash yourself, but either I or you must tell what we know. Meanwhile I envy you the feelings with which I dare say you read of the death of poor young Forrester’s father in Afghanistan. How your cowardly crime must have brightened his last hours!“Yours,—“E. Scarfe.”Jeffreys pitched this elegant specimen of polite Billingsgate contemptuously into the grate. He was not much a man of the world, but he could read through the lines of a poor performance like this.Scarfe, for some reason or other, did not like to tell the Rimbolts himself, but he was most anxious they should know, and desired Jeffreys to do the dirty work himself. There was something almost amusing in the artlessness of the suggestion, and had the subject been less personally grievous, Jeffreys could have afforded to scoff at the whole business.He sat down on the impulse of the moment and dashed off the following reply:—“Dear Scarfe,—Would it not be a pity that your sense of duty should not have the satisfaction of doing its own work, instead of begging me to do it for you? I may be all you say, but I am not mean enough to rob you of so priceless a jewel as the good conscience of a man who has done his duty. So I respectfully decline your invitation, and am,—“Yours,—“J. Jeffreys.”Having relieved himself by writing it, he tore the note up, and tried to forget all about it.But that was not quite so easy. Scarfe’s part in the drama he could not forget, but the question faced him, not for the first time. Had he any right to be here, trusted, and by some of the family even respected? Was he not sailing under false colours, and pretending to be something he was not?True, he had been originally engaged as a librarian, a post in which character was accounted of less importance than scholarship and general proficiency. But he was more than a librarian now. Circumstances had made him the mentor and companion of a high-spirited, honest boy. Was it fair to Percy to keep a secret what would certainly shut the doors of Wildtree against him for ever? Was it fair to Mr Rimbolt to accept this new responsibility without a word? Was it fair to Raby, who would shrink from him with detestation, did she know the whole story?Scarfe would have been amply satisfied had he been present to note the disquietude which ensued for some days after the arrival of his letter. Jeffreys felt uncomfortable in his intercourse with Mr Rimbolt; he avoided Raby, and even with Percy he was often unaccountably reserved and pensive.“What are you in the blues about?” demanded that quick-sighted young gentleman on the first day out of doors after his illness. “Are you sorry I’m all serene again?”“Rather,” said Jeffreys; “it’s not been a bad time.”“No more it has; but I must say I don’t mind feeling my legs under me. I shall soon be ready for the top of Wild Pike again. But, I say, aren’t you well? I expect you’ve been knocking yourself up over me?”“Not a bit of it; I’m as well as anything.” Percy, however, was not satisfied. He had a vague idea that young gentlemen in love were as a rule sickly, and by a simple process of reasoning he guessed that Jeffreys and Raby “had had a row.” He therefore took an early opportunity of mentioning the matter to his cousin, greatly to that young lady’s confusion.“Raby, I say, look here!” he began, a day or two afterwards, as he and his cousin were walking together. “What makes you so jolly down on Jeff?”“I down on Mr Jeffreys? What do you mean?”“Well, he’s so dismal, I’m certain he’s eating his heart out about you! Why don’t you back him up? He’s a good enough chap and no end of a brick, and say what you will, he meant to fish you out that day on the ice. He went off like a shot directly after the ice cracked.”“Percy, you ridiculous boy!” said Raby, biting her lips; “how can you talk such nonsense?”“Oh! but he did,” persisted the boy.“I’m not talking about the ice,” said she. “Mr Jeffreys and I are very good friends; chiefly on your account, too,” added she, with a vague idea of qualifying her admission.“Oh, ah, that won’t wash, you know,” said Percy. “Anyhow, it’s nonsense you being so precious stiff with him; I’m sure he’s as good as Scarfe.”“Percy, if you cannot talk sense,” said Raby, nearly crying with vexation, “I shall not listen to you.”“Oh, all serene!” responded Percy. “Of course you’re bound to make out it’s all humbug, but I know better. Come, don’t be in a rage, Raby; you forget I’m an invalid.”So they made it up on the spot, and Percy flattered himself he had done a great deal to make things right for Jeffreys.Jeffreys, however, was still harassed by perplexity, and was gradually veering round to the conclusion that he must at all costs relieve his mind of his secret to Mr Rimbolt. He put the task off day after day, shrinking from the wrench of all the ties which made his life happy.One day, however, finding himself alone with Mr Rimbolt in the library, he suddenly resolved then and there to speak out.“Oh, Jeffreys,” began Mr Rimbolt, “I am very anxious to get those books from the Wanley Abbey sale looked through and catalogued within the next few days if you can manage it. We all go up to London, you know, next week, and I should be glad to have all square before we start.”“I have no doubt they can all be gone through before then.”“I should like you to come to town, too,” said Mr Rimbolt. “Percy sets great store by your companionship; besides which, there are some very important book sales coming on in which I shall want your help.”“I had been going to ask you—” began Jeffreys, feeling his temples throbbing like two steam-engines.“Oh, by the way,” interrupted Mr Rimbolt, taking a letter from his pocket, “did not you tell me you were at a school called Bolsover?”“Yes,” faltered Jeffreys, wondering what was coming.“It’s very odd. I have a letter from an old Oxford acquaintance of mine, called Frampton, who appears to be head-master there, and whom I have never heard of for about sixteen years. He is fond of books, and writes to ask if he may come and see the library. I’ve asked him to stay a night, and expect him here to-morrow. I dare say you will be glad to meet him. Perhaps he knows you are here?”“No, I don’t think so,” said Jeffreys.“Ah, then I dare say you will be glad to see one another again.”Jeffreys was considerably staggered by this unexpected announcement, but it relieved him of all present perplexity as to speaking to Mr Rimbolt of young Forrester. He would at least wait till Mr Frampton came, and put himself in his hands.Mr Frampton came, as young and fresh as ever. He was taking a three days’ run in the Lake country during a term holiday, and, determined to do and see all he could, had decided to visit his old college friend, and look over the now famous Wildtree library.His surprise at meeting Jeffreys was very considerable; and at first it seemed to the quondam pupil that his old master was shy of him. This, however, was explained as soon as they were alone, and had to do with the seven pounds, which had burned holes in Mr Frampton’s pockets ever since he received them, but which, not knowing Jeffreys’ address, he had never been able to return.“I was never more pained than when I received this money,” said he. “Your guardian was written to by the clerk in ordinary course, but I never imagined the bill would be passed on to you.”Jeffreys had nothing for it but to take the money back, much as he disliked it. Until he did so, Mr Frampton was too fidgety to be approachable on any other subject.The morning after his arrival, they went up Wild Pike together—the first time Jeffreys had been on the mountain since the death of Julius. They had a fine day and no difficulty; but the long talk which beguiled the way amply made up to Jeffreys for the lack of adventure.Mr Frampton told him much about Bolsover, and of how it was at last beginning to thrive and recover from the dry-rot; how this winter the football team had got up a name for itself; how the school discussion society was crowded with members; how the cricket prospects were decidedly hopeful; and how two fellows had lately gained scholarships at Oxford. Then he began to ask Jeffreys about himself, and got from him a full account of all that had befallen him since he left school. Mr Frampton was a most sympathetic listener, and the poor “dog with a bad name,” who had almost forgotten the art of speaking his mind fully to any one, warmed insensibly to this friend as they talked, and reproached himself for the pride and shortsightedness which had induced him to shut himself out so long from his friendship.Then they talked of young Forrester. Mr Frampton made no attempt to gloss over the wickedness of that unhappy act of passion. But he showed how fully he made allowances for the poor blundering offender, and how he, at least, saw more to pity than to upbraid in it all.He knew nothing of young Forrester’s fate. He had seen in the papers the notice of Captain Forrester’s death, from whom, months before, he had had a letter of inquiry as to his son’s whereabouts, and to whom he had written telling all he knew, which was but little.Then Jeffreys unfolded his present uncomfortable dilemma, and his intention of speaking to Mr Rimbolt, and they talked it over very seriously and anxiously. At last Mr Frampton said,—“Let me speak to Mr Rimbolt.”“Most thankfully I will.”So Mr Frampton spoke to Mr Rimbolt, and told him frankly all there was to tell, and Mr Rimbolt, like a gentleman who knew something of Christian charity, joined his informant in pitying the offender.“Jeffreys,” said he, the day after Mr Frampton’s departure, “your friend has told me a story about you which I heard with great sorrow. You are now doing all that an honest man can do, with God’s help, to make up for what is past. What I have been told does not shake my present confidence in you in any way, and I need not tell you that not a single person in this house beyond yourself and me shall know anything about this unhappy affair.”

Scarfe descended to the drawing-room, where he found Mrs Rimbolt alone.

“I am so sorry you are going,” said she. “Your visit has been greatly spoiled, I fear. You must come to us at Easter, when we shall be in London, you know.”

“Thank you; I shall be glad to come. I hope to find Percy well again. I went to wish him good-bye just now, but was pretty abruptly denied admission, so I must ask you to say good-bye for me.”

“Dear me, it is very annoying. I cannot understand the craze the boy has taken for this companion of his. I am so sorry you should have been annoyed.”

“I assure you I am far more annoyed on Percy’s account than my own. I happen to know something of Jeffreys before he came to Wildtree. To tell you the truth, Mrs Rimbolt, I don’t think he is a safe companion for Percy at all.”

“I have long felt the same; but what is to be done, Mr Scarfe? Mr Rimbolt has almost the same craze as Percy for this librarian of his, and I have really no voice in the matter. He contrives to leave nothing definite to lay hold of; I should be thankful if he did. But it is most uncomfortable to feel that one’s own son is perhaps being ruined under this roof.”

“It must be. It is no business of mine, of course, except that I am fond of Percy, and should be sorry to see harm come to him; and knowing what I do—”

At that moment Mr Rimbolt, with Mrs Scarfe, entered the room.

“What secrets are you two talking?” said the latter.

“Your son was just telling me how fond he is of Percy; and I am sure it will be a great loss to Percy when he is gone. He has promised me to come to see us in town at Easter.”

“It is a satisfaction that you can leave with the assurance that Percy is virtually well again,” said Mr Rimbolt. “Really, I do not know how we should have got on without Mr Jeffreys to nurse him. I never knew such devotion. He has never wanted for a thing all the time; and Jeffreys’ influence is of the highest and manliest sort. Percy will be able to reckon this illness among the blessings of his life.”

Mr Rimbolt spoke feelingly and warmly.

Scarfe and Mrs Rimbolt exchanged glances; and the conversation shortly afterwards turned to the journey before the travellers.

Scarfe had come down to the drawing-room resolved, cost what it would, to settle scores with Jeffreys there and then by denouncing him to the family on whose favour he was dependent; and had Mr Rimbolt’s entrance been delayed a few minutes, Mrs Rimbolt would have known all about young Forrester. Once again, however, he was stopped in time, and a few moments’ reflection convinced him it was as well.

Raby, he knew, whatever she might think of Jeffreys, would never forgive the informant who should be the means of turning him out of Wildtree, still less would Percy. Nor was Mr Rimbolt likely to esteem his guest more highly in the capacity of tale-bearer; and he decidedly wished to “keep in” with all three.

And there was another reason still.

Scarfe was at the bottom of his heart not quite a villain, and much as he detested Jeffreys, and longed to be revenged—for what injury do certain minds feel half so much as that which one man commits in being better than another?—he had an uncomfortable suspicion in his mind that after all Jeffreys was not quite the miscreant he tried to imagine him.

That he was guilty in the matter of young Forrester there was no doubt; but much as he should have liked to believe it, he could not be quite sure that the accident at Bolsover was the result of a deliberate murderous design, or indeed of anything more than the accidental catastrophe of a blundering fit of temper—criminal, if you like, and cowardly, but not fiendish. And his conscience made coward enough of him just now to cause him to hesitate before plunging into ruin one who, hateful as he was to him, was after all a poor wretch, miserable enough for any one.

Not having done what he intended to do, Scarfe felt decidedly virtuous, and considered himself entitled to any amount of credit for his forbearance! It seemed a pity Raby should not know of this noble effort of self-denial.

“Miss Atherton,” said he, just as they were about to separate for the night, “I’m afraid you will have forgotten all about me when you see me next.”

“You are very uncomplimentary, Mr Scarfe.”

“I do not mean to be; and I’m sure I shall not forget you.”

“Thank you. This has been a very eventful visit.”

“It has; but I shall never regret that day on the ice, although I fear I made one enemy by what I did.”

“You don’t understand Mr Jeffreys; he is very shy and proud.”

“I understand him quite well, and wish for Percy’s sake every one here did too. But I am not going to disobey you, and talk of people behind their backs, Miss Atherton. I am sure you will approve of that.”

“I do; I never like it unless it is something nice of them.”

“Then I certainly had better not talk to you about Mr Jeffreys,” said Scarfe with a sneer, which did him more damage in Raby’s eyes than a torrent of abuse from his lips. “Do you know you have never yet shown me the telegram you had about your father’s last battle? It came the morning I was away, you know.”

“Yes. I fancied perhaps you did not care to see it, as you never asked me,” said Raby, producing the precious paper from her dress, where she kept it like a sort of talisman.

“How could you think that?” said Scarfe reproachfully, who had quite forgotten to ask to see it.

He took the paper and glanced down it.

“Hullo!” said he, starting as Jeffreys had done. “Captain Forrester! I wonder if that’s poor young Forrester’s father?”

“Who is poor young Forrester?” inquired Raby.

Scarfe read the paper to the end, and then looked up in well-simulated confusion.

“Poor young Forrester? Oh—well, I dare say Jeffreys could tell you about him. The fact is, Miss Atherton, if I am not allowed to talk of people behind their backs it is impossible for me to tell you the story of poor young Forrester.”

“Then,” said Raby, flushing, as she folded up the paper, “I’ve no desire to hear it.”

Scarfe could see he had gone too far.

“I have offended you,” said he, “but really I came upon the name so unexpectedly that—”

“Do you expect to be working hard this term at Oxford?” said Raby, doing the kindest thing in turning the conversation.

It was hardly to be wondered at if she retired that night considerably perplexed and disturbed. There was some mystery attaching to Jeffreys, which, if she was to set any store by Scarfe’s insinuations, was of a disgraceful kind. And the agitation which both Scarfe and Jeffreys had shown on reading the telegram seemed to connect this Captain Forrester, or rather his son, whom Scarfe spoke of as “poor young Forrester,” with the same mystery. Raby was a young lady with the usual allowance of feminine curiosity, which, though she was charity itself, did not like to be baulked by a mystery.

She therefore opened a letter she had just finished to her father, to add the following postscript:—

“Was this brave Captain Forrester who saved the guns a friend of yours? Tell me all about him. Had he a wife and children? Surely something will be done for them, poor things.”

Early next morning Mrs Scarfe and her son left Wildtree.

Jeffreys, from Percy’s window, watched them drive away.

“Very glad you must be to see the back of them,” said Percy.

“I am glad,” responded Jeffreys honestly.

“I’m not so frightfully sorry,” said Percy. “Scarfe’s a jolly enough chap, but he’s up to too many dodges, don’t you know? And he’s dead on Raby, too. Quite as dead as you are, Jeff.”

“Percy, a fortnight’s congestion has not cured you of the bad habit of talking nonsense,” said Jeffreys.

“All very well, you old humbug, but you know you are, aren’t you?”

“Your cousin is very good and kind, and no one could help liking her. Everybody is ‘dead on her,’ as you call it, even Walker.”

Percy enjoyed this, and allowed himself to be led off the dangerous topic. He was allowed to sit up for the first time this day, and held a smalllevéein his room.

Jeffreys took the opportunity to escape for a short time to the library, which he had scarcely been in since the day on the mountain.

He knew Mrs Rimbolt would enjoy her visit to the sick-chamber better without him, and he decidedly preferred his beloved books to her majestic society.

Percy, however, was by no means satisfied with the arrangement.

“Where’s old Jeff?” said he presently, when his mother, Raby, and he were left alone. “Raby, go and tell Jeff, there’s a brick. You can bet he’s in the library. Tell him if he means to cut me dead, he might break it gently.”

“Raby,” said Mrs Rimbolt, as her niece, with a smile, started on his majesty’s errand, “I do not choose for you to go looking about for Mr Jeffreys. There is a bell in the room, and Walker can do it if required. It is unseemly in a young lady.”

“One would think old Jeff was a wild beast or a nigger by the way you talk,” said Percy complainingly. “All I know is, if it hadn’t been for him, you’d all have been in deep mourning now, instead of having tea up here with me.”

“It is quite possible, Percy,” said his mother, “for a person—”

“Person!” interrupted the boy. “Jeff’s not a person; he’s a gentleman. As good as any of us, only he hasn’t got so much money.”

“I fear, Percy, your illness has not improved your good manners. I wish to say that Mr Jeffreys may have done you service—”

“I should think he has,” interrupted the irrepressible one.

“But it by no means follows that he is a proper companion for a good innocent boy like you.”

Percy laughed hilariously.

“Really, ma, you are coming it strong. Do you see my blushes, Raby?”

“You must make up your mind to see a great deal less of Mr Jeffreys for the future; he is not the sort of person—”

“Look here, ma,” said Percy, terrifying his parent by the energy with which he sprang to his feet. “I’m jolly ill, and you’d be awfully sorry if I had a fit of coughing and brought up blood, wouldn’t you? Well, I shall if you call Jeff a person again. WhereisJeff, I say? I want Jeff. Why don’t you tell him, Raby?”

After this, for a season at any rate, Percy was allowed to have his own way, and jeopardised his moral welfare by unrestricted intercourse with the “person” Jeffreys.

They spent their time not wholly unprofitably. For, besides a good deal of reading of history and classics (for which Percy was rapidly developing a considerable taste), and a good deal of discussion on all sorts of topics, they were deep in constructing the model of a new kind of bookcase, designed by Percy, with some ingenious contrivances for keeping out dust and for marking, by means of automatic signals, the place of any book which should be taken from its shelf. This wonderful work of art promised to eclipse every bookcase ever invented. The only drawback to it was that it was too good. Percy insisted on introducing into it every “dodge” of which he was capable, and the poor model more than once threatened to collapse under the burden of its own ingenuity. However, they stuck to it, and by dint of sacrificing a “dodge” here and a “dodge” there, they succeeded in producing a highly curious and not unworthy model, which Percy was most urgent that his father should forthwith adopt for his library, all the existing bookcases being sacrificed for firewood to make way for the new ones.

Mr Rimbolt diplomatically promised to give the matter his consideration, and consult authorities on the subject when next in London, and meanwhile was not unsparing in his compliments to the inventor and his coadjutor.

So the time passed happily enough for Jeffreys, until about three weeks after the Scarfes’ departure, when the following amiable letter reached him with the Oxford post-mark on the envelope:—

Christ Church,February 20th.

“Jeffreys,—You may have supposed that because I left Wildtree without showing you up in your proper character as a murderer and a hypocrite, that I have changed my opinions as to what is my duty to Mr Rimbolt and his family in this matter. It is not necessary for me to explain to you why I did not do it at once, especially after the blackguardly manner in which you acted on the last evening of my stay there. You being Mr Rimbolt’s servant, I had to consider his convenience. I now write to say that you can spare me the unpleasant duty of informing the Wildtree household of what a miscreant they have in their midst by doing it yourself. If, after they know all, they choose to keep you on, there is nothing more to be said. You are welcome to the chance you will have of lying in order to whitewash yourself, but either I or you must tell what we know. Meanwhile I envy you the feelings with which I dare say you read of the death of poor young Forrester’s father in Afghanistan. How your cowardly crime must have brightened his last hours!

“Yours,—

“E. Scarfe.”

Jeffreys pitched this elegant specimen of polite Billingsgate contemptuously into the grate. He was not much a man of the world, but he could read through the lines of a poor performance like this.

Scarfe, for some reason or other, did not like to tell the Rimbolts himself, but he was most anxious they should know, and desired Jeffreys to do the dirty work himself. There was something almost amusing in the artlessness of the suggestion, and had the subject been less personally grievous, Jeffreys could have afforded to scoff at the whole business.

He sat down on the impulse of the moment and dashed off the following reply:—

“Dear Scarfe,—Would it not be a pity that your sense of duty should not have the satisfaction of doing its own work, instead of begging me to do it for you? I may be all you say, but I am not mean enough to rob you of so priceless a jewel as the good conscience of a man who has done his duty. So I respectfully decline your invitation, and am,—

“Yours,—

“J. Jeffreys.”

Having relieved himself by writing it, he tore the note up, and tried to forget all about it.

But that was not quite so easy. Scarfe’s part in the drama he could not forget, but the question faced him, not for the first time. Had he any right to be here, trusted, and by some of the family even respected? Was he not sailing under false colours, and pretending to be something he was not?

True, he had been originally engaged as a librarian, a post in which character was accounted of less importance than scholarship and general proficiency. But he was more than a librarian now. Circumstances had made him the mentor and companion of a high-spirited, honest boy. Was it fair to Percy to keep a secret what would certainly shut the doors of Wildtree against him for ever? Was it fair to Mr Rimbolt to accept this new responsibility without a word? Was it fair to Raby, who would shrink from him with detestation, did she know the whole story?

Scarfe would have been amply satisfied had he been present to note the disquietude which ensued for some days after the arrival of his letter. Jeffreys felt uncomfortable in his intercourse with Mr Rimbolt; he avoided Raby, and even with Percy he was often unaccountably reserved and pensive.

“What are you in the blues about?” demanded that quick-sighted young gentleman on the first day out of doors after his illness. “Are you sorry I’m all serene again?”

“Rather,” said Jeffreys; “it’s not been a bad time.”

“No more it has; but I must say I don’t mind feeling my legs under me. I shall soon be ready for the top of Wild Pike again. But, I say, aren’t you well? I expect you’ve been knocking yourself up over me?”

“Not a bit of it; I’m as well as anything.” Percy, however, was not satisfied. He had a vague idea that young gentlemen in love were as a rule sickly, and by a simple process of reasoning he guessed that Jeffreys and Raby “had had a row.” He therefore took an early opportunity of mentioning the matter to his cousin, greatly to that young lady’s confusion.

“Raby, I say, look here!” he began, a day or two afterwards, as he and his cousin were walking together. “What makes you so jolly down on Jeff?”

“I down on Mr Jeffreys? What do you mean?”

“Well, he’s so dismal, I’m certain he’s eating his heart out about you! Why don’t you back him up? He’s a good enough chap and no end of a brick, and say what you will, he meant to fish you out that day on the ice. He went off like a shot directly after the ice cracked.”

“Percy, you ridiculous boy!” said Raby, biting her lips; “how can you talk such nonsense?”

“Oh! but he did,” persisted the boy.

“I’m not talking about the ice,” said she. “Mr Jeffreys and I are very good friends; chiefly on your account, too,” added she, with a vague idea of qualifying her admission.

“Oh, ah, that won’t wash, you know,” said Percy. “Anyhow, it’s nonsense you being so precious stiff with him; I’m sure he’s as good as Scarfe.”

“Percy, if you cannot talk sense,” said Raby, nearly crying with vexation, “I shall not listen to you.”

“Oh, all serene!” responded Percy. “Of course you’re bound to make out it’s all humbug, but I know better. Come, don’t be in a rage, Raby; you forget I’m an invalid.”

So they made it up on the spot, and Percy flattered himself he had done a great deal to make things right for Jeffreys.

Jeffreys, however, was still harassed by perplexity, and was gradually veering round to the conclusion that he must at all costs relieve his mind of his secret to Mr Rimbolt. He put the task off day after day, shrinking from the wrench of all the ties which made his life happy.

One day, however, finding himself alone with Mr Rimbolt in the library, he suddenly resolved then and there to speak out.

“Oh, Jeffreys,” began Mr Rimbolt, “I am very anxious to get those books from the Wanley Abbey sale looked through and catalogued within the next few days if you can manage it. We all go up to London, you know, next week, and I should be glad to have all square before we start.”

“I have no doubt they can all be gone through before then.”

“I should like you to come to town, too,” said Mr Rimbolt. “Percy sets great store by your companionship; besides which, there are some very important book sales coming on in which I shall want your help.”

“I had been going to ask you—” began Jeffreys, feeling his temples throbbing like two steam-engines.

“Oh, by the way,” interrupted Mr Rimbolt, taking a letter from his pocket, “did not you tell me you were at a school called Bolsover?”

“Yes,” faltered Jeffreys, wondering what was coming.

“It’s very odd. I have a letter from an old Oxford acquaintance of mine, called Frampton, who appears to be head-master there, and whom I have never heard of for about sixteen years. He is fond of books, and writes to ask if he may come and see the library. I’ve asked him to stay a night, and expect him here to-morrow. I dare say you will be glad to meet him. Perhaps he knows you are here?”

“No, I don’t think so,” said Jeffreys.

“Ah, then I dare say you will be glad to see one another again.”

Jeffreys was considerably staggered by this unexpected announcement, but it relieved him of all present perplexity as to speaking to Mr Rimbolt of young Forrester. He would at least wait till Mr Frampton came, and put himself in his hands.

Mr Frampton came, as young and fresh as ever. He was taking a three days’ run in the Lake country during a term holiday, and, determined to do and see all he could, had decided to visit his old college friend, and look over the now famous Wildtree library.

His surprise at meeting Jeffreys was very considerable; and at first it seemed to the quondam pupil that his old master was shy of him. This, however, was explained as soon as they were alone, and had to do with the seven pounds, which had burned holes in Mr Frampton’s pockets ever since he received them, but which, not knowing Jeffreys’ address, he had never been able to return.

“I was never more pained than when I received this money,” said he. “Your guardian was written to by the clerk in ordinary course, but I never imagined the bill would be passed on to you.”

Jeffreys had nothing for it but to take the money back, much as he disliked it. Until he did so, Mr Frampton was too fidgety to be approachable on any other subject.

The morning after his arrival, they went up Wild Pike together—the first time Jeffreys had been on the mountain since the death of Julius. They had a fine day and no difficulty; but the long talk which beguiled the way amply made up to Jeffreys for the lack of adventure.

Mr Frampton told him much about Bolsover, and of how it was at last beginning to thrive and recover from the dry-rot; how this winter the football team had got up a name for itself; how the school discussion society was crowded with members; how the cricket prospects were decidedly hopeful; and how two fellows had lately gained scholarships at Oxford. Then he began to ask Jeffreys about himself, and got from him a full account of all that had befallen him since he left school. Mr Frampton was a most sympathetic listener, and the poor “dog with a bad name,” who had almost forgotten the art of speaking his mind fully to any one, warmed insensibly to this friend as they talked, and reproached himself for the pride and shortsightedness which had induced him to shut himself out so long from his friendship.

Then they talked of young Forrester. Mr Frampton made no attempt to gloss over the wickedness of that unhappy act of passion. But he showed how fully he made allowances for the poor blundering offender, and how he, at least, saw more to pity than to upbraid in it all.

He knew nothing of young Forrester’s fate. He had seen in the papers the notice of Captain Forrester’s death, from whom, months before, he had had a letter of inquiry as to his son’s whereabouts, and to whom he had written telling all he knew, which was but little.

Then Jeffreys unfolded his present uncomfortable dilemma, and his intention of speaking to Mr Rimbolt, and they talked it over very seriously and anxiously. At last Mr Frampton said,—

“Let me speak to Mr Rimbolt.”

“Most thankfully I will.”

So Mr Frampton spoke to Mr Rimbolt, and told him frankly all there was to tell, and Mr Rimbolt, like a gentleman who knew something of Christian charity, joined his informant in pitying the offender.

“Jeffreys,” said he, the day after Mr Frampton’s departure, “your friend has told me a story about you which I heard with great sorrow. You are now doing all that an honest man can do, with God’s help, to make up for what is past. What I have been told does not shake my present confidence in you in any way, and I need not tell you that not a single person in this house beyond yourself and me shall know anything about this unhappy affair.”

Chapter Twenty One.“Going It.”Jeffreys started for London with a lighter heart than he had known since he first came to Wildtree. When he contrasted his present sense of relief with the oppression which had preceded it, he marvelled how he could ever have gone on so long, dishonestly nursing his wretched secret under Mr Rimbolt’s roof. Now, in the first reaction of relief, he was tempted to believe his good name was really come back, and that Mr Rimbolt having condoned his offence, the memory of Bolsover was cancelled.It was a passing temptation only. Alas! that memory clung still. Nothing could alter the past; and though he might now feel secure from its consequences, he had only to think of young Forrester to remind him that somewhere the black mark stood against his name as cruelly as ever.Yet, comparatively, he felt light-hearted, as with the Rimbolt family he stood at last on the London platform.It was new ground to him. Some years ago Mr Halgrove had lived several months in the Metropolis, and the boy, spending his summer holidays there, and left entirely to his own devices, had learned in a plodding way about as much of the great city as a youth of seventeen could well do in the time.The Rimbolts’ house in Clarges Street was to Jeffreys’ mind not nearly so cheerful as Wildtree. The library in it consisted of a small collection of books, chiefly political, for Mr Rimbolt’s use in his parliamentary work; and the dark little room allotted to him, with its look-out on the mews, was dull indeed compared with the chamber at Wildtree, from which he could at least see the mountain.Nor did he by any means enjoy the constant round of entertainments which went on in London, at which he was sometimes called upon in a humble way to assist. He had been obliged, in deference to Mrs Rimbolt’s broad hints, to buy a dress suit, and in this he was expected on occasions to present himself at the end of a grand dinner-party, or when Mr Rimbolt required his professional attendance.For, there being no books to take care of here, Mr Rimbolt availed himself of his librarian’s services as a private secretary in some important political business, and found him so efficient and willing, that he proposed to him a considerable increase in his salary, in consideration of his permanently undertaking a good share of his employer’s ordinary correspondence.The chief portion of Jeffreys’ time, however, still belonged to Percy, and it was a decided relief to him that that young gentleman scoffed at and eschewed the endless hospitalities and entertainments with which his mother delighted to fill up their life in London.“I don’t see the fun of gorging night after night, do you, Jeff? A good spread’s all very well now and again, but you get sick of it seven nights a week. Makes me sleepy. Then all these shows and things! I’ve a good mind to get laid up again, and have a real good time. There’s to be no end of a crowd here to-night—everybody. I shall cut it if I can; shan’t you?”“Mr Rimbolt wants me to come into the drawing-room after dinner,” said Jeffreys.“All serene! That won’t be till nine. Come up to Putney, and have a row on the river this afternoon.”Percy was an enthusiastic oarsman, and many an afternoon Jeffreys and he, flying from the crowd, had spent on the grand old Thames. Jeffreys enjoyed it as much as he, and no one, seeing the boy and his tutor together in their pair-oar, would have imagined that the broader of the two was that ungainly lout who had once been an object of derision in the Bolsover meadows.The party that evening was, as Percy predicted, a very large one, and Jeffreys had the discomfort of recognising a few of the guests who last autumn had helped to make his position so painful.They, to do them justice, did not now add to his discomfort by recognising him. Even the lady who had given him that half-crown appeared wholly to have forgotten the object of her charity.What, however, made him most uncomfortable was the sight of Mrs Scarfe, and hearing her say to Percy, “Edward is coming on Saturday, Percy; he is looking forward with such pleasure to taking you about to see the University sports and the Boat Race. Your dear mamma has kindly asked two of his college friends to come too, so you will be quite a merry quartette.”Jeffreys had nearly forgotten Scarfe’s existence of late. He no longer dreaded him on his own account, but on Percy’s he looked forward to Saturday with dismay. He would have liked to know also, as a mere matter of curiosity of course, what Raby thought about the promised visit.His own communications with that young lady had not been very frequent of late, although they continued friendly. Percy’s nonsense gave them both a considerable amount of embarrassment; for although Jeffreys never for a moment supposed that Mr Rimbolt’s niece thought twice about him except as a persecuted dependant and a friend to Percy, to have anything else suggested disturbed his shy nature, and made him feel constrained in her presence.“You’ll have to mind your eye with Raby now that Scarfe’s coming,” said Percy that night. “You bet he’ll try to hook her. I heard his mother flying kites with ma about it, to see how the land lies.”Jeffreys had given up the formality of pretending, when Percy launched out on this delicate subject, not to know what he was talking about.“Whatever Scarfe does,” said he, “is nothing to me.”“What I don’t you and Raby hit it off, then?”“Hit what off?”“I mean aren’t you dead on her, don’t you know?—spoons, and all that sort of thing?”“I am not aware that I entertain feelings towards anybody which could be described by any article of cutlery at all.”“Well, all I can say is, when I blowed her up for being down on you, she blushed up no end, and cried too. I should like to know what you call that, if it isn’t spoons?”“I think it would be kinder, Percy, if you did not talk to your cousin about me; and I fancy she would as soon you did not talk about her to me.”“Well, that’s rather what I should call a shut-up,” said Percy. “It bothers me how people that like one another get so precious shy of letting the other fellow know it. I know I shan’t. I’ll have it out at once, before any other chap comes and cuts me out.”With which valiant determination Percy earned Jeffreys’ gratitude by relapsing into silence.He was, however, destined to have the uncomfortable topic revived in another and more unexpected quarter.On the day before Scarfe’s proposed visit, Walker accosted him as he was going out, with the announcement that my lady would like to speak to him in the morning-room.This rare summons never failed to wring a groan from the depths of the librarian’s spirit, and it did now as he proceeded to the torture-chamber.The lady was alone, and evidently burdened with the importance of the occasion.“Mr Jeffreys,” said she, with a tone of half conciliation which put up Jeffreys’ back far more than her usual severe drawl, “kindly take a seat; I wish to speak to you.”“It’s all up with me!” groaned the unhappy Jeffreys inwardly, as he obeyed.Mrs Rimbolt gathered herself together, and began.“I desire to speak to you, Mr Jeffreys, in reference to my niece, Miss Atherton, who, in her father’s absence, is here under my protection and parental control.”Jeffreys flushed up ominously.“It does not please me, Mr Jeffreys, to find you, occupying, as you do, the position of a dependant in this house, so far forgetting yourself as to consider that there is anything in your respective positions which justifies you in having communications with Miss Atherton other than those of a respectful stranger.”Jeffreys found himself frivolously thinking this elaborate sentence would be an interesting exercise in parsing for the head class at Galloway House. He barely took in that the remarks were intended for him at all, and his abstracted look apparently disconcerted Mrs Rimbolt.“I must request your attention, Mr Jeffreys,” said she severely.“I beg your pardon. I am all attention.”“I am quite willing to suppose,” continued she, “that it is ignorance on your part rather than intentional misconduct which has led you into this; but from henceforth I wish it to be clearly understood that I shall expect you to remember your proper station in this house. Miss Atherton, let me tell you, has no need of your attentions. You perfectly understand me, Mr Jeffreys?”Jeffreys bowed, still rather abstractedly.“You do not reply to my question, Mr Jeffreys.”“I perfectly understand you, madam.”“I trust I shall not have to speak to you again.”“I trust not,” said Jeffreys, with a fervour which startled the lady.He left the room, outraged, insulted, sorely tempted to shake the dust of the place once and for all from off his feet. The evil temper within him once more asserted itself as he flung himself into his room, slamming the door behind him with a force that made the whole house vibrate.The narrow room was insupportable. It stifled him. He must get out into the fresh air or choke.On the doorstep he met Mr Rimbolt, alighting from his brougham.“Oh, Jeffreys, so glad to have caught you. Look here. I find I must be in the House to-night and to-morrow, and I intended to go down to Exeter to attend that four days’ sale of Lord Waterfield’s library. I must get you to go for me. You have the catalogue we went through together, with the lots marked which I must have. I have put an outside price against some, and the others must be mine at any price—you understand. Stick at nothing. Take plenty of money with you for travelling and expenses. Do things comfortably, and I will give you a blank cheque for the books. Mind I must have them, if it comes to four figures. Go down by the Flying Dutchman to-night, and send me a telegram at the end of each day to say what you have secured.”The proposal came opportunely to Jeffreys. He was in the humour of accepting anything for a change; and thiscarte blancheproposal, and the responsibility it involved, contained a spice of excitement which suited with his present mood.He went down to Exeter that night, trying to think of nothing but Lord Waterfield’s books, and to forget all about Raby, and Percy, and Mrs Rimbolt, and Scarfe.The last-named hero and his two friends duly presented themselves at Clarges Street next day. Scarfe was in great good-humour with himself, and even his antipathies to the world at large were decidedly modified by the discovery that Jeffreys was out of town.His two friends were of the gay and festive order—youths who would have liked to be considered fast, but betrayed constantly that they did not yet know the way how.Percy, with his usual facile disposition, quickly fell into the ways of the trio, and rather enjoyed the luxury of now and then getting a rise out of the undergrads by showing that “he knew a thing or two” himself.They spent their first few days together in “going it”—that is, in seeing and doing all they could. Scarfe’s friends began shyly, feeling their way both with their host and hostess and with their son. But then they saw that Mr Rimbolt was far too engrossed to think of anything beyond that they should all enjoy themselves and do as they liked—when they saw that Mrs Rimbolt swore by Scarfe, and, to use the choice language of one of them, “didn’t sit up at anything as long as the Necktie was in it”—and when they saw that Percy was a cool hand, and, whatever he thought, did not let himself be startled by anything, these two ingenuous youths plucked up heart and “let out all round.”They haunted billiard saloons, but failed to delude any one into the belief that they knew one end of a cue from another. They went to theatres, where the last thing they looked at was the stage. They played cards without being quite sure what was the name of the game they played. They smoked cigars, which it was well for their juvenile stomachs were “warranted extra mild”; and they drank wine which neither made glad their hearts nor improved their digestions; and they spiced their conversation with big words which they did not know the meaning of themselves, and would certainly have never found explained in the dictionary.Percy, after a few days, got sick of it. He had never “gone it” in this style before; and finding out what it meant, he didn’t see much fun in it. Late hours and unwholesome food and never-ending “sport” did not agree with him. He had looked forward to seeing a lot of the boat practice on the river, and hearing a lot about University sport and life. But in this he was disappointed. The “boats” were voted a nuisance; and whenever the talk turned on Oxford it was instantly tabooed as “shop.” Scarfe sneered to him in private about these two fools, but when with them he “went it” with the rest, and made no protest.“Percy,” said Raby, two or three days after this sort of thing had been going on, “you look wretchedly pale and tired. Why do you stay out so late every night?”“Oh,” said Percy wearily, “I don’t know—we humbug about. Nothing very bad.”“If it makes you ill and wretched, I say it is bad, Percy,” said the girl.“Oh, I don’t know. Scarfe goes in for it, you know.”“I don’t care a bit who goes in for it. It’s bad.”“You don’t mean to say you think Scarfe is a bad lot?”“Don’t speak to me of Mr Scarfe. I hate him for this!”Percy whistled.“Hullo, I say! here’s a go!” he cried. “Then you’re really spoons on Jeff after all? How awfully glad he’ll be when I tell him!”“Percy I shall hateyouif you talk like that!” said the girl. “I hate any one who is not good to you; and it is certainly not good to you to lead you into folly and perhaps wickedness.”This protest had its effect on Percy. The next day he struck, and pleaded an excuse for accompanying the precious trio on an expedition to Windsor, to be consummated by a champagne supper at the “Christopher.”They urged him hard, and tempted him sorely by the prospect of a row on the river and any amount of fun. He declined stubbornly. He was fagged, and not in the humour. Awfully sorry to back out and all that, but he couldn’t help it, and wanted to save up for the Sports and Boat Race on Friday and Saturday.They gave him up as a bad job, and started without him.He watched them go without much regret, and then, putting on his hat, walked off towards Paddington to meet Jeffreys, who was due in about an hour.The quiet walk through the streets rather revived him; and the prospect of seeing Jeffreys again was still more refreshing.Of course he knew he should have to tell him of his folly, and Jeff would “sit on him” in his solemn style. Still, that was better than getting his head split open with cigars, and having to laugh at a lot of trashy jokes.Jeffreys was delighted to see him; and the two were leaving Paddington arm-in-arm when Scarfe and his two friends, alighting from a cab, suddenly confronted them.

Jeffreys started for London with a lighter heart than he had known since he first came to Wildtree. When he contrasted his present sense of relief with the oppression which had preceded it, he marvelled how he could ever have gone on so long, dishonestly nursing his wretched secret under Mr Rimbolt’s roof. Now, in the first reaction of relief, he was tempted to believe his good name was really come back, and that Mr Rimbolt having condoned his offence, the memory of Bolsover was cancelled.

It was a passing temptation only. Alas! that memory clung still. Nothing could alter the past; and though he might now feel secure from its consequences, he had only to think of young Forrester to remind him that somewhere the black mark stood against his name as cruelly as ever.

Yet, comparatively, he felt light-hearted, as with the Rimbolt family he stood at last on the London platform.

It was new ground to him. Some years ago Mr Halgrove had lived several months in the Metropolis, and the boy, spending his summer holidays there, and left entirely to his own devices, had learned in a plodding way about as much of the great city as a youth of seventeen could well do in the time.

The Rimbolts’ house in Clarges Street was to Jeffreys’ mind not nearly so cheerful as Wildtree. The library in it consisted of a small collection of books, chiefly political, for Mr Rimbolt’s use in his parliamentary work; and the dark little room allotted to him, with its look-out on the mews, was dull indeed compared with the chamber at Wildtree, from which he could at least see the mountain.

Nor did he by any means enjoy the constant round of entertainments which went on in London, at which he was sometimes called upon in a humble way to assist. He had been obliged, in deference to Mrs Rimbolt’s broad hints, to buy a dress suit, and in this he was expected on occasions to present himself at the end of a grand dinner-party, or when Mr Rimbolt required his professional attendance.

For, there being no books to take care of here, Mr Rimbolt availed himself of his librarian’s services as a private secretary in some important political business, and found him so efficient and willing, that he proposed to him a considerable increase in his salary, in consideration of his permanently undertaking a good share of his employer’s ordinary correspondence.

The chief portion of Jeffreys’ time, however, still belonged to Percy, and it was a decided relief to him that that young gentleman scoffed at and eschewed the endless hospitalities and entertainments with which his mother delighted to fill up their life in London.

“I don’t see the fun of gorging night after night, do you, Jeff? A good spread’s all very well now and again, but you get sick of it seven nights a week. Makes me sleepy. Then all these shows and things! I’ve a good mind to get laid up again, and have a real good time. There’s to be no end of a crowd here to-night—everybody. I shall cut it if I can; shan’t you?”

“Mr Rimbolt wants me to come into the drawing-room after dinner,” said Jeffreys.

“All serene! That won’t be till nine. Come up to Putney, and have a row on the river this afternoon.”

Percy was an enthusiastic oarsman, and many an afternoon Jeffreys and he, flying from the crowd, had spent on the grand old Thames. Jeffreys enjoyed it as much as he, and no one, seeing the boy and his tutor together in their pair-oar, would have imagined that the broader of the two was that ungainly lout who had once been an object of derision in the Bolsover meadows.

The party that evening was, as Percy predicted, a very large one, and Jeffreys had the discomfort of recognising a few of the guests who last autumn had helped to make his position so painful.

They, to do them justice, did not now add to his discomfort by recognising him. Even the lady who had given him that half-crown appeared wholly to have forgotten the object of her charity.

What, however, made him most uncomfortable was the sight of Mrs Scarfe, and hearing her say to Percy, “Edward is coming on Saturday, Percy; he is looking forward with such pleasure to taking you about to see the University sports and the Boat Race. Your dear mamma has kindly asked two of his college friends to come too, so you will be quite a merry quartette.”

Jeffreys had nearly forgotten Scarfe’s existence of late. He no longer dreaded him on his own account, but on Percy’s he looked forward to Saturday with dismay. He would have liked to know also, as a mere matter of curiosity of course, what Raby thought about the promised visit.

His own communications with that young lady had not been very frequent of late, although they continued friendly. Percy’s nonsense gave them both a considerable amount of embarrassment; for although Jeffreys never for a moment supposed that Mr Rimbolt’s niece thought twice about him except as a persecuted dependant and a friend to Percy, to have anything else suggested disturbed his shy nature, and made him feel constrained in her presence.

“You’ll have to mind your eye with Raby now that Scarfe’s coming,” said Percy that night. “You bet he’ll try to hook her. I heard his mother flying kites with ma about it, to see how the land lies.”

Jeffreys had given up the formality of pretending, when Percy launched out on this delicate subject, not to know what he was talking about.

“Whatever Scarfe does,” said he, “is nothing to me.”

“What I don’t you and Raby hit it off, then?”

“Hit what off?”

“I mean aren’t you dead on her, don’t you know?—spoons, and all that sort of thing?”

“I am not aware that I entertain feelings towards anybody which could be described by any article of cutlery at all.”

“Well, all I can say is, when I blowed her up for being down on you, she blushed up no end, and cried too. I should like to know what you call that, if it isn’t spoons?”

“I think it would be kinder, Percy, if you did not talk to your cousin about me; and I fancy she would as soon you did not talk about her to me.”

“Well, that’s rather what I should call a shut-up,” said Percy. “It bothers me how people that like one another get so precious shy of letting the other fellow know it. I know I shan’t. I’ll have it out at once, before any other chap comes and cuts me out.”

With which valiant determination Percy earned Jeffreys’ gratitude by relapsing into silence.

He was, however, destined to have the uncomfortable topic revived in another and more unexpected quarter.

On the day before Scarfe’s proposed visit, Walker accosted him as he was going out, with the announcement that my lady would like to speak to him in the morning-room.

This rare summons never failed to wring a groan from the depths of the librarian’s spirit, and it did now as he proceeded to the torture-chamber.

The lady was alone, and evidently burdened with the importance of the occasion.

“Mr Jeffreys,” said she, with a tone of half conciliation which put up Jeffreys’ back far more than her usual severe drawl, “kindly take a seat; I wish to speak to you.”

“It’s all up with me!” groaned the unhappy Jeffreys inwardly, as he obeyed.

Mrs Rimbolt gathered herself together, and began.

“I desire to speak to you, Mr Jeffreys, in reference to my niece, Miss Atherton, who, in her father’s absence, is here under my protection and parental control.”

Jeffreys flushed up ominously.

“It does not please me, Mr Jeffreys, to find you, occupying, as you do, the position of a dependant in this house, so far forgetting yourself as to consider that there is anything in your respective positions which justifies you in having communications with Miss Atherton other than those of a respectful stranger.”

Jeffreys found himself frivolously thinking this elaborate sentence would be an interesting exercise in parsing for the head class at Galloway House. He barely took in that the remarks were intended for him at all, and his abstracted look apparently disconcerted Mrs Rimbolt.

“I must request your attention, Mr Jeffreys,” said she severely.

“I beg your pardon. I am all attention.”

“I am quite willing to suppose,” continued she, “that it is ignorance on your part rather than intentional misconduct which has led you into this; but from henceforth I wish it to be clearly understood that I shall expect you to remember your proper station in this house. Miss Atherton, let me tell you, has no need of your attentions. You perfectly understand me, Mr Jeffreys?”

Jeffreys bowed, still rather abstractedly.

“You do not reply to my question, Mr Jeffreys.”

“I perfectly understand you, madam.”

“I trust I shall not have to speak to you again.”

“I trust not,” said Jeffreys, with a fervour which startled the lady.

He left the room, outraged, insulted, sorely tempted to shake the dust of the place once and for all from off his feet. The evil temper within him once more asserted itself as he flung himself into his room, slamming the door behind him with a force that made the whole house vibrate.

The narrow room was insupportable. It stifled him. He must get out into the fresh air or choke.

On the doorstep he met Mr Rimbolt, alighting from his brougham.

“Oh, Jeffreys, so glad to have caught you. Look here. I find I must be in the House to-night and to-morrow, and I intended to go down to Exeter to attend that four days’ sale of Lord Waterfield’s library. I must get you to go for me. You have the catalogue we went through together, with the lots marked which I must have. I have put an outside price against some, and the others must be mine at any price—you understand. Stick at nothing. Take plenty of money with you for travelling and expenses. Do things comfortably, and I will give you a blank cheque for the books. Mind I must have them, if it comes to four figures. Go down by the Flying Dutchman to-night, and send me a telegram at the end of each day to say what you have secured.”

The proposal came opportunely to Jeffreys. He was in the humour of accepting anything for a change; and thiscarte blancheproposal, and the responsibility it involved, contained a spice of excitement which suited with his present mood.

He went down to Exeter that night, trying to think of nothing but Lord Waterfield’s books, and to forget all about Raby, and Percy, and Mrs Rimbolt, and Scarfe.

The last-named hero and his two friends duly presented themselves at Clarges Street next day. Scarfe was in great good-humour with himself, and even his antipathies to the world at large were decidedly modified by the discovery that Jeffreys was out of town.

His two friends were of the gay and festive order—youths who would have liked to be considered fast, but betrayed constantly that they did not yet know the way how.

Percy, with his usual facile disposition, quickly fell into the ways of the trio, and rather enjoyed the luxury of now and then getting a rise out of the undergrads by showing that “he knew a thing or two” himself.

They spent their first few days together in “going it”—that is, in seeing and doing all they could. Scarfe’s friends began shyly, feeling their way both with their host and hostess and with their son. But then they saw that Mr Rimbolt was far too engrossed to think of anything beyond that they should all enjoy themselves and do as they liked—when they saw that Mrs Rimbolt swore by Scarfe, and, to use the choice language of one of them, “didn’t sit up at anything as long as the Necktie was in it”—and when they saw that Percy was a cool hand, and, whatever he thought, did not let himself be startled by anything, these two ingenuous youths plucked up heart and “let out all round.”

They haunted billiard saloons, but failed to delude any one into the belief that they knew one end of a cue from another. They went to theatres, where the last thing they looked at was the stage. They played cards without being quite sure what was the name of the game they played. They smoked cigars, which it was well for their juvenile stomachs were “warranted extra mild”; and they drank wine which neither made glad their hearts nor improved their digestions; and they spiced their conversation with big words which they did not know the meaning of themselves, and would certainly have never found explained in the dictionary.

Percy, after a few days, got sick of it. He had never “gone it” in this style before; and finding out what it meant, he didn’t see much fun in it. Late hours and unwholesome food and never-ending “sport” did not agree with him. He had looked forward to seeing a lot of the boat practice on the river, and hearing a lot about University sport and life. But in this he was disappointed. The “boats” were voted a nuisance; and whenever the talk turned on Oxford it was instantly tabooed as “shop.” Scarfe sneered to him in private about these two fools, but when with them he “went it” with the rest, and made no protest.

“Percy,” said Raby, two or three days after this sort of thing had been going on, “you look wretchedly pale and tired. Why do you stay out so late every night?”

“Oh,” said Percy wearily, “I don’t know—we humbug about. Nothing very bad.”

“If it makes you ill and wretched, I say it is bad, Percy,” said the girl.

“Oh, I don’t know. Scarfe goes in for it, you know.”

“I don’t care a bit who goes in for it. It’s bad.”

“You don’t mean to say you think Scarfe is a bad lot?”

“Don’t speak to me of Mr Scarfe. I hate him for this!”

Percy whistled.

“Hullo, I say! here’s a go!” he cried. “Then you’re really spoons on Jeff after all? How awfully glad he’ll be when I tell him!”

“Percy I shall hateyouif you talk like that!” said the girl. “I hate any one who is not good to you; and it is certainly not good to you to lead you into folly and perhaps wickedness.”

This protest had its effect on Percy. The next day he struck, and pleaded an excuse for accompanying the precious trio on an expedition to Windsor, to be consummated by a champagne supper at the “Christopher.”

They urged him hard, and tempted him sorely by the prospect of a row on the river and any amount of fun. He declined stubbornly. He was fagged, and not in the humour. Awfully sorry to back out and all that, but he couldn’t help it, and wanted to save up for the Sports and Boat Race on Friday and Saturday.

They gave him up as a bad job, and started without him.

He watched them go without much regret, and then, putting on his hat, walked off towards Paddington to meet Jeffreys, who was due in about an hour.

The quiet walk through the streets rather revived him; and the prospect of seeing Jeffreys again was still more refreshing.

Of course he knew he should have to tell him of his folly, and Jeff would “sit on him” in his solemn style. Still, that was better than getting his head split open with cigars, and having to laugh at a lot of trashy jokes.

Jeffreys was delighted to see him; and the two were leaving Paddington arm-in-arm when Scarfe and his two friends, alighting from a cab, suddenly confronted them.

Back to IndexNext