Chapter Twenty Eight.

Chapter Twenty Eight.Come Back.Raby had come home with a strange story from Storr Alley that afternoon. She was not much given to romance, but to her there was something pathetic about this man “John” and his unceremonious adoption of those orphan children. She had not seen anything exactly like it, and it moved both her admiration and her curiosity.She had heard much about “John” from the neighbours, and all she had heard had been of the right sort. Jonah had talked bitterly of him now and then, but before he died he had acknowledged that John had been his only friend. Little Annie had never mentioned him without a smile brightening her face; and even those who had complaints to pour out about everybody all round could find nothing to say about him. Yet she seemed destined never to see him.The next day, at her usual time, Raby turned her steps to Storr Alley. Groups of people stood about in the court, and it was evident, since she was last there, something untoward had happened. A fireman’s helmet at the other end of the alley, in the passage leading to Driver’s Court, told its own tale; and if that was not enough, the smell of fire and the bundles of rags and broken furniture which blocked up the narrow pathway, were sufficient evidence.The exiles from Driver’s stared hard at the young lady as she made her way through the crowd; but the people of Storr Alley treated her as a friend, and she had no lack of information as to the calamity of the preceding night.Raby paid several visits on her way up. Then, with some trepidation, she knocked at the door of the garret. There was no reply from within till she turned the handle, and said—“May I come in?”Then a voice replied,—“Yes, if you like,” and she entered.It was a strange scene which met her eyes as she did so. A lad was stretched on the bed, awake, but, motionless, regarding with some anxiety a baby who slumbered, nestling close to his side. On the floor, curled up, with his face to the wall, lay a man sleeping heavily; while Tim, divided in his interest between the stranger on the bed and the visitor at the door, stood like a little watchdog suddenly put on his guard.“May I come in?” said Raby again timidly.“Here she is!” cried Tim, running to her; “John’s asleep, and he,”—pointing to the figure on the bed—“can’t run about.”“Correct, Timothy,” said the youth referred to; “I can’t—hullo!”This last exclamation was caused by his catching sight of Raby at the door. He had expected a lodger; but what was this apparition?“Please come in,” said he, bewildered; “it’s a shocking room to ask you into, and—Timothy, introduce me to your friend.”Raby smiled; and how the crippled lad thought it brightened the room! “Tim and I are friends,” said she, lifting up the child to give him a kiss. “I’m afraid you are very badly hurt. I heard of the fire as I came up.”“No, I’m all right; I’m never very active. In fact, I can only move my hands and my head, as Timothy says. I can’t run, I’m a cripple. I shouldn’t be anything if it wasn’t for Jeff. Hullo, Jeff! wake up, old man!”Raby started and turned pale as she raised her hand to prevent his waking the sleeper.“No, please, don’t wake him; what did you say his name was?”“Jeffreys—John Jeffreys—commonly called Jeff. He hauled me out of the fire last night, and guessed as little at the time who I was as I guessed who he was. I can’t believe it yet. It’s like a—”“You haven’t told me your name,” said Raby faintly.“Gerard Forrester, at your service. Hullo, I say, are you ill? Hi! Jeff, wake up, old man; you’re wanted.”Raby had only time to sink on a chair and draw Tim to her when Jeffreys suddenly woke and rose to his feet.“What is it, Forrester, old fellow? anything wrong?” said he, springing to the bedside.“I don’t know what’s the matter—look behind you.”“Why did she cry?” asked Tim presently, when she had gone. “I know; because of that ugly man,” added he, pointing to Forrester.“Excuse me, young man, I have the reputation of being good-looking; that cannot have been the reason. But, Jeff, I’m all in a dream. Who is she? and how comes she to know you or me? And, as Timothy pertinently remarks, ‘Whence these tears?’ Tell us all about it before the baby wakes.”Jeffreys told him. The story was the history of his life since he had left Bolsover; and it took long to tell, for he passed over nothing.“Poor old man!” said Forrester, when it was done; “what a lot you have been through!”“Have I not deserved it? That day at Bolsover—”“Oh, for goodness’ sake, don’t go back to that. You know it was an accident, and what was not an accident was the fault of my own folly. That night I awoke and saw you standing at the door, I knew that you had already suffered as much as I had.”“That was the last time I saw you. You forget I have still to hear what happened to you afterwards.”“It’s pretty easily told. But I say, Jeff, what did you say her name was?”“Raby Atherton,” said Jeffreys, smiling. This was about the twentieth time the boy had broken in with some question about her. “She is the daughter of your guardian, Colonel Atherton, who was your father’s comrade in Afghanistan. Some day she will tell you the story of a battle out there which will make you proud of being Captain Forrester’s son. But I want to hear about you.”“I was taken home to Grangerham, you know. My grandmother was ill at the time, and just starting South, so I was left in charge of my old nurse. She was an awful brick to me, was that old soul, and I don’t believe I know yet all she did and put up with for me.“The doctors at Grangerham couldn’t make anything of me. One said I’d be cutting about again in a few weeks, and another said I’d be buried in a few days. It’s hard to decide when doctors disagree at that rate, and old Mary gave it up, and did what was the best thing—kept me quietly at home. Of course we thought that my grandmother had written to my father, but she hadn’t, so he can’t have heard for ages. We heard of my grandmother’s death presently, and then made the pleasant discovery that she had died in debt, and that the furniture of the house was hired. That pulled Mary and me up short. She had saved a little, and I believe she spent every penny of that to get me up to London to a hospital. I didn’t have a bad time of it there for a month or two. I was considered an interesting case, and had all sorts of distinguished fellows to come and look at me, and I lived like a fighting-cock all the time. I found, as long as I lay flat, and didn’t get knocked about, I was really pretty comfortable, and what was more, I could use my hands. That was no end of a blessing. I had picked up a few ideas about drawing you know, at Bolsover, and found now that I could do pretty well at it. I believe some of my sketches at the Middlesex were thought well of. Mary came to see me nearly every day. I could see she was getting poorer and poorer, and when at last I was discharged, the little rooms she took me to were about as poor as they could be to be respectable.“I’d hardly been back a week, when one day after going out to try to sell some of my sketches, she came home ill and died quite suddenly. I was all up a tree then—no money, no friends, no legs. I wrote to Frampton, but he can’t have got my letter. Then I got threatened with eviction, and all but left out in the street, when the person old Mary had sold my sketches to called round and ordered some more. I didn’t see him, but a brute of a woman who lived in the house did, and was cute enough to see she could make a good thing out of me. So she took possession of me, and ever since then I’ve been a prisoner, cut off from the outside world as completely as if I had been in a dungeon, grinding out pictures by the dozen, and never seeing a farthing of what they fetched, except in the food which Black Sal provided to keep me alive. Now and then, in an amiable mood, she would get me a newspaper; and once I had to illustrate a cheap edition of Cook’sVoyages, and of course had the book to go by. But she never let me write to anybody or see anybody, and mounted guard over me as jealously as if I had been a veritable goose that laid golden eggs.“You know the rest. We got turned out when they pulled down the old place, and took refuge in Driver’s Alley, a nice select neighbourhood; and there you found me, old man.”“Think of being near one another so long,” said Jeffreys, “and never knowing it.”“Ten to one that’s exactly what my guardian’s daughter is observing to herself at this moment. I say, Jeff, compared with Driver’s Court, this is a palatial apartment, and you are a great improvement on Black Sal; but for ah that, don’t you look forward to seeing a little civilisation—to eating with a fork, for instance, and hearing an ‘h’ aspirated; and—oh, Jeff, it will be heavenly to wear a clean collar!”Jeffreys laughed.“Your two years’ trouble haven’t cast out the spirit of irreverence, youngster,” said he.“Itisjolly to hear myself called youngster,” said the boy, in a parenthesis; “it reminds me of the good old days.”“Before Bolsover?” said Jeffreys sadly.“Look here! If you go back to that again, and pull any more of those long faces, Jeff, I’ll be angry with you. Wasn’t all that affair perhaps a blessing in the long run? It sent me to a school that’s done me more good than Bolsover; and as for you—well, but for it you’d never have had that sweet visitor this morning.”“Don’t talk of that. That is one of the chief drawbacks to my going back into civilisation, as you call it.”“A very nice drawback—if it’s the only one—”“It’s not—there’s another.”“What is that?”“My babies!”It was a strange, happy night, that last in the Storr Alley garret. Jeffreys had begged Raby to let them stay where they were in peace for that day; and she considerately kept their counsel till the morning. Then she told her father the strange story.“Two birds with one stone, and such a stone!” ejaculated the bewildered colonel.“Four birds, father—there are two babies as well.”“Whew!” said the colonel, “what a holiday I am having!”“Poor father,” said the girl, “it’s too bad!”“Oh, well. The more the merrier. What’s to be done now? We’d better charter a coach and four and a brass band and go and fetch them home in state. If they’d wait till to-morrow we would have up a triumphal arch too.”“How frivolous you are, father! We must get them away with as little fuss as possible. I arranged with Mr Jeffreys that he would bring Mr Forrester here in a cab this morning.”“And the babies?”“He will go back for them afterwards.”“Well, as you like; but what about Percy and the Rimbolts?”“Percy was to go out of town to-day, you know, and will not be back till to-morrow. By that time we shall be able to find out what Mr Jeffreys would like best.”“Oh, very good. We’ll wait till his royal highness signifies his pleasure, and meanwhile our relatives and friends must be avoided—that’s what you mean.”“No,” said Raby, colouring; “but you know how easily frightened he is.”The colonel laughed pleasantly.“All right, Raby; they shall be let down as easily as you like. Now shall I be in the way when they come, or shall I make myself scarce? And, by the way, I must go at once and get a perambulator, and feeding-bottles, and all that sort of thing. How many times a day am I to be sent out to take them walks?”“You’re too silly for anything,” said Raby dutifully.She was grateful to him for making things so easy, and for covering her own ill-disguised embarrassment by this adroit show of frivolity.There was no frivolity in the manner in which the gallant soldier welcomed his old comrade’s son, when an hour later he entered the house, borne in the strong arms of his friend. A couch was ready for him, and everything was made as simple and homelike as possible. Jeffreys stayed long enough to help the boy into the civilised garments provided for him, and then quietly betook himself once more to Storr Alley.The curiosity roused by the departure of ‘Black Sal’s Forrester’ in a cab was redoubled when, late that afternoon, Jeffreys was seen walking out of the alley with the baby in one arm and Tim holding onto the other. He had considered it best to make no public announcement of his departure. If he had, he might have found it more difficult than it was to take the important step. As it was, he had to run a gauntlet of a score of inquisitive idlers, who were by no means satisfied with the assurance that he was going to give the children an airing.The general opinion seemed to be that he was about to take the children to the workhouse, and a good deal of odium was worked up in consequence. Some went so far as to say he was going to sell or drown the infants; and others, Driver’s Alley refugees, promised him a warm reception if he returned without them! He neither returned with nor without them. They saw him no more. But it was given to the respectable inhabitants of a crescent near Regent’s Park, about half an hour later, to witness the strange spectacle of a big young man, carrying a small baby in his arms and a big one on his shoulder—for Tim had turned restive on his hands—walk solemnly along the footpath till he reached the door of Colonel Atherton’s, where he rang.The colonel and Raby had a queer tea-party that evening. When the meal was ended, Jeffreys was called upon to put his infants to bed, and a wonderful experience to those small mortals was the warm bath and the feather-bed to which they were severally introduced. Jeffreys was thankful that the baby was restless, and gave him an excuse for remaining in retirement most of the evening. At length, however, silence reigned; and he had no further excuse.Entering the parlour, he perceived almost with a shock that Mr Rimbolt was there. He had called in accidentally, and had just been told the news.“My dear fellow,” said he, as he took his old librarian’s hand, “how we have longed for this day!”Raby and her father were occupied with Forrester, and Jeffreys and his old employer were left undisturbed.What they talked about I need not repeat. It chiefly had reference to Storr Alley and to Percy.“He is down at Watford seeing a friend to-night. We expect him back to-morrow morning. How happy he will be! By the way,” added Mr Rimbolt, a moment afterwards, “now I remember, there is a train leaves Euston for Overstone at 12:30, half an hour after Percy’s train comes in. How should you like to meet him, and run down with him for a week or two to Wildtree? He sadly wants a change, and my books sadly want looking after there. You will have the place to yourselves, but perhaps you won’t mind that.”Jeffreys flushed with pleasure at the proposal. It was the very programme he would have selected. But for a moment his face clouded, as he glanced towards Forrester.“I don’t know whether I ought to leave him?”“He is with his guardian, you know, and could not be in better quarters.”“Then—you know I have—that is, you know—there are two—babies.”Raby, however, when the question was subsequently discussed, expressed herself fully equal to the care of these promising infants until a home could be found for them; and Forrester, for his part, declared that Jeffreys must and should go to Wildtree.“Can’t you see I don’t want you any more?” said he. “This sofa’s so comfortable, I’m certain I shall sleep a fortnight straight away, and then my guardian and I have no end of business to talk over, haven’t we, guardian? and you’d really be in the way.”So it was settled. The whole party retired early to bed after their exciting day. Jeffreys slept for the last time between the babies, and could scarcely believe, when he awoke, that he was not still in Storr Alley.Still less could Tim when he awoke realise where he was. For the John he was accustomed to stood no longer in his weather-beaten, tattered garments, but in the respectable librarian’s suit which he had left behind him at Clarges Street, and which now, by some mysterious agency, found itself transferred to his present room.Tim resented the change, and bellowed vehemently for the space of an hour, being joined at intervals by his younger brother, and egged on by the mocking laughter of young Forrester, who was enjoying the exhibition from the adjoining chamber.For once Jeffreys could do nothing with his disorderly infants, and was compelled finally to carry them down one under each arm, to the sitting-room, where Raby came to the rescue, and thus established her claim on their allegiance for a week or so to come.In a strange turmoil of feelings Jeffreys at mid-day walked to Euston. Mr Rimbolt was there with Percy’s travelling bag and the tickets, but he did not remain till the train from Watford came in.“I may be running down to the North myself in about a fortnight,” said he, as he bade good-bye; “we can leave business till then—good-bye.”The train came in at last. Jeffreys could see the boy pacing in a nonchalant way down the platform, evidently expecting anything but this meeting.His eyes seemed by some strange perversity even to avoid the figure which stood waiting for him; nor was it till Jeffreys quietly stepped in front of him, and said “Percy,” that they took him in and blazed forth a delighted recognition.“Jeff,” he said, “you’ve come back—really?”“Yes, really.”“To stay—for good?”“For good—old fellow.”Percy heaved a sight of mighty content as he slipped his arm into that of his friend. And half an hour later the two were whizzing northwards on their way to Wildtree, with their troubles all behind them.

Raby had come home with a strange story from Storr Alley that afternoon. She was not much given to romance, but to her there was something pathetic about this man “John” and his unceremonious adoption of those orphan children. She had not seen anything exactly like it, and it moved both her admiration and her curiosity.

She had heard much about “John” from the neighbours, and all she had heard had been of the right sort. Jonah had talked bitterly of him now and then, but before he died he had acknowledged that John had been his only friend. Little Annie had never mentioned him without a smile brightening her face; and even those who had complaints to pour out about everybody all round could find nothing to say about him. Yet she seemed destined never to see him.

The next day, at her usual time, Raby turned her steps to Storr Alley. Groups of people stood about in the court, and it was evident, since she was last there, something untoward had happened. A fireman’s helmet at the other end of the alley, in the passage leading to Driver’s Court, told its own tale; and if that was not enough, the smell of fire and the bundles of rags and broken furniture which blocked up the narrow pathway, were sufficient evidence.

The exiles from Driver’s stared hard at the young lady as she made her way through the crowd; but the people of Storr Alley treated her as a friend, and she had no lack of information as to the calamity of the preceding night.

Raby paid several visits on her way up. Then, with some trepidation, she knocked at the door of the garret. There was no reply from within till she turned the handle, and said—

“May I come in?”

Then a voice replied,—

“Yes, if you like,” and she entered.

It was a strange scene which met her eyes as she did so. A lad was stretched on the bed, awake, but, motionless, regarding with some anxiety a baby who slumbered, nestling close to his side. On the floor, curled up, with his face to the wall, lay a man sleeping heavily; while Tim, divided in his interest between the stranger on the bed and the visitor at the door, stood like a little watchdog suddenly put on his guard.

“May I come in?” said Raby again timidly.

“Here she is!” cried Tim, running to her; “John’s asleep, and he,”—pointing to the figure on the bed—“can’t run about.”

“Correct, Timothy,” said the youth referred to; “I can’t—hullo!”

This last exclamation was caused by his catching sight of Raby at the door. He had expected a lodger; but what was this apparition?

“Please come in,” said he, bewildered; “it’s a shocking room to ask you into, and—Timothy, introduce me to your friend.”

Raby smiled; and how the crippled lad thought it brightened the room! “Tim and I are friends,” said she, lifting up the child to give him a kiss. “I’m afraid you are very badly hurt. I heard of the fire as I came up.”

“No, I’m all right; I’m never very active. In fact, I can only move my hands and my head, as Timothy says. I can’t run, I’m a cripple. I shouldn’t be anything if it wasn’t for Jeff. Hullo, Jeff! wake up, old man!”

Raby started and turned pale as she raised her hand to prevent his waking the sleeper.

“No, please, don’t wake him; what did you say his name was?”

“Jeffreys—John Jeffreys—commonly called Jeff. He hauled me out of the fire last night, and guessed as little at the time who I was as I guessed who he was. I can’t believe it yet. It’s like a—”

“You haven’t told me your name,” said Raby faintly.

“Gerard Forrester, at your service. Hullo, I say, are you ill? Hi! Jeff, wake up, old man; you’re wanted.”

Raby had only time to sink on a chair and draw Tim to her when Jeffreys suddenly woke and rose to his feet.

“What is it, Forrester, old fellow? anything wrong?” said he, springing to the bedside.

“I don’t know what’s the matter—look behind you.”

“Why did she cry?” asked Tim presently, when she had gone. “I know; because of that ugly man,” added he, pointing to Forrester.

“Excuse me, young man, I have the reputation of being good-looking; that cannot have been the reason. But, Jeff, I’m all in a dream. Who is she? and how comes she to know you or me? And, as Timothy pertinently remarks, ‘Whence these tears?’ Tell us all about it before the baby wakes.”

Jeffreys told him. The story was the history of his life since he had left Bolsover; and it took long to tell, for he passed over nothing.

“Poor old man!” said Forrester, when it was done; “what a lot you have been through!”

“Have I not deserved it? That day at Bolsover—”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, don’t go back to that. You know it was an accident, and what was not an accident was the fault of my own folly. That night I awoke and saw you standing at the door, I knew that you had already suffered as much as I had.”

“That was the last time I saw you. You forget I have still to hear what happened to you afterwards.”

“It’s pretty easily told. But I say, Jeff, what did you say her name was?”

“Raby Atherton,” said Jeffreys, smiling. This was about the twentieth time the boy had broken in with some question about her. “She is the daughter of your guardian, Colonel Atherton, who was your father’s comrade in Afghanistan. Some day she will tell you the story of a battle out there which will make you proud of being Captain Forrester’s son. But I want to hear about you.”

“I was taken home to Grangerham, you know. My grandmother was ill at the time, and just starting South, so I was left in charge of my old nurse. She was an awful brick to me, was that old soul, and I don’t believe I know yet all she did and put up with for me.

“The doctors at Grangerham couldn’t make anything of me. One said I’d be cutting about again in a few weeks, and another said I’d be buried in a few days. It’s hard to decide when doctors disagree at that rate, and old Mary gave it up, and did what was the best thing—kept me quietly at home. Of course we thought that my grandmother had written to my father, but she hadn’t, so he can’t have heard for ages. We heard of my grandmother’s death presently, and then made the pleasant discovery that she had died in debt, and that the furniture of the house was hired. That pulled Mary and me up short. She had saved a little, and I believe she spent every penny of that to get me up to London to a hospital. I didn’t have a bad time of it there for a month or two. I was considered an interesting case, and had all sorts of distinguished fellows to come and look at me, and I lived like a fighting-cock all the time. I found, as long as I lay flat, and didn’t get knocked about, I was really pretty comfortable, and what was more, I could use my hands. That was no end of a blessing. I had picked up a few ideas about drawing you know, at Bolsover, and found now that I could do pretty well at it. I believe some of my sketches at the Middlesex were thought well of. Mary came to see me nearly every day. I could see she was getting poorer and poorer, and when at last I was discharged, the little rooms she took me to were about as poor as they could be to be respectable.

“I’d hardly been back a week, when one day after going out to try to sell some of my sketches, she came home ill and died quite suddenly. I was all up a tree then—no money, no friends, no legs. I wrote to Frampton, but he can’t have got my letter. Then I got threatened with eviction, and all but left out in the street, when the person old Mary had sold my sketches to called round and ordered some more. I didn’t see him, but a brute of a woman who lived in the house did, and was cute enough to see she could make a good thing out of me. So she took possession of me, and ever since then I’ve been a prisoner, cut off from the outside world as completely as if I had been in a dungeon, grinding out pictures by the dozen, and never seeing a farthing of what they fetched, except in the food which Black Sal provided to keep me alive. Now and then, in an amiable mood, she would get me a newspaper; and once I had to illustrate a cheap edition of Cook’sVoyages, and of course had the book to go by. But she never let me write to anybody or see anybody, and mounted guard over me as jealously as if I had been a veritable goose that laid golden eggs.

“You know the rest. We got turned out when they pulled down the old place, and took refuge in Driver’s Alley, a nice select neighbourhood; and there you found me, old man.”

“Think of being near one another so long,” said Jeffreys, “and never knowing it.”

“Ten to one that’s exactly what my guardian’s daughter is observing to herself at this moment. I say, Jeff, compared with Driver’s Court, this is a palatial apartment, and you are a great improvement on Black Sal; but for ah that, don’t you look forward to seeing a little civilisation—to eating with a fork, for instance, and hearing an ‘h’ aspirated; and—oh, Jeff, it will be heavenly to wear a clean collar!”

Jeffreys laughed.

“Your two years’ trouble haven’t cast out the spirit of irreverence, youngster,” said he.

“Itisjolly to hear myself called youngster,” said the boy, in a parenthesis; “it reminds me of the good old days.”

“Before Bolsover?” said Jeffreys sadly.

“Look here! If you go back to that again, and pull any more of those long faces, Jeff, I’ll be angry with you. Wasn’t all that affair perhaps a blessing in the long run? It sent me to a school that’s done me more good than Bolsover; and as for you—well, but for it you’d never have had that sweet visitor this morning.”

“Don’t talk of that. That is one of the chief drawbacks to my going back into civilisation, as you call it.”

“A very nice drawback—if it’s the only one—”

“It’s not—there’s another.”

“What is that?”

“My babies!”

It was a strange, happy night, that last in the Storr Alley garret. Jeffreys had begged Raby to let them stay where they were in peace for that day; and she considerately kept their counsel till the morning. Then she told her father the strange story.

“Two birds with one stone, and such a stone!” ejaculated the bewildered colonel.

“Four birds, father—there are two babies as well.”

“Whew!” said the colonel, “what a holiday I am having!”

“Poor father,” said the girl, “it’s too bad!”

“Oh, well. The more the merrier. What’s to be done now? We’d better charter a coach and four and a brass band and go and fetch them home in state. If they’d wait till to-morrow we would have up a triumphal arch too.”

“How frivolous you are, father! We must get them away with as little fuss as possible. I arranged with Mr Jeffreys that he would bring Mr Forrester here in a cab this morning.”

“And the babies?”

“He will go back for them afterwards.”

“Well, as you like; but what about Percy and the Rimbolts?”

“Percy was to go out of town to-day, you know, and will not be back till to-morrow. By that time we shall be able to find out what Mr Jeffreys would like best.”

“Oh, very good. We’ll wait till his royal highness signifies his pleasure, and meanwhile our relatives and friends must be avoided—that’s what you mean.”

“No,” said Raby, colouring; “but you know how easily frightened he is.”

The colonel laughed pleasantly.

“All right, Raby; they shall be let down as easily as you like. Now shall I be in the way when they come, or shall I make myself scarce? And, by the way, I must go at once and get a perambulator, and feeding-bottles, and all that sort of thing. How many times a day am I to be sent out to take them walks?”

“You’re too silly for anything,” said Raby dutifully.

She was grateful to him for making things so easy, and for covering her own ill-disguised embarrassment by this adroit show of frivolity.

There was no frivolity in the manner in which the gallant soldier welcomed his old comrade’s son, when an hour later he entered the house, borne in the strong arms of his friend. A couch was ready for him, and everything was made as simple and homelike as possible. Jeffreys stayed long enough to help the boy into the civilised garments provided for him, and then quietly betook himself once more to Storr Alley.

The curiosity roused by the departure of ‘Black Sal’s Forrester’ in a cab was redoubled when, late that afternoon, Jeffreys was seen walking out of the alley with the baby in one arm and Tim holding onto the other. He had considered it best to make no public announcement of his departure. If he had, he might have found it more difficult than it was to take the important step. As it was, he had to run a gauntlet of a score of inquisitive idlers, who were by no means satisfied with the assurance that he was going to give the children an airing.

The general opinion seemed to be that he was about to take the children to the workhouse, and a good deal of odium was worked up in consequence. Some went so far as to say he was going to sell or drown the infants; and others, Driver’s Alley refugees, promised him a warm reception if he returned without them! He neither returned with nor without them. They saw him no more. But it was given to the respectable inhabitants of a crescent near Regent’s Park, about half an hour later, to witness the strange spectacle of a big young man, carrying a small baby in his arms and a big one on his shoulder—for Tim had turned restive on his hands—walk solemnly along the footpath till he reached the door of Colonel Atherton’s, where he rang.

The colonel and Raby had a queer tea-party that evening. When the meal was ended, Jeffreys was called upon to put his infants to bed, and a wonderful experience to those small mortals was the warm bath and the feather-bed to which they were severally introduced. Jeffreys was thankful that the baby was restless, and gave him an excuse for remaining in retirement most of the evening. At length, however, silence reigned; and he had no further excuse.

Entering the parlour, he perceived almost with a shock that Mr Rimbolt was there. He had called in accidentally, and had just been told the news.

“My dear fellow,” said he, as he took his old librarian’s hand, “how we have longed for this day!”

Raby and her father were occupied with Forrester, and Jeffreys and his old employer were left undisturbed.

What they talked about I need not repeat. It chiefly had reference to Storr Alley and to Percy.

“He is down at Watford seeing a friend to-night. We expect him back to-morrow morning. How happy he will be! By the way,” added Mr Rimbolt, a moment afterwards, “now I remember, there is a train leaves Euston for Overstone at 12:30, half an hour after Percy’s train comes in. How should you like to meet him, and run down with him for a week or two to Wildtree? He sadly wants a change, and my books sadly want looking after there. You will have the place to yourselves, but perhaps you won’t mind that.”

Jeffreys flushed with pleasure at the proposal. It was the very programme he would have selected. But for a moment his face clouded, as he glanced towards Forrester.

“I don’t know whether I ought to leave him?”

“He is with his guardian, you know, and could not be in better quarters.”

“Then—you know I have—that is, you know—there are two—babies.”

Raby, however, when the question was subsequently discussed, expressed herself fully equal to the care of these promising infants until a home could be found for them; and Forrester, for his part, declared that Jeffreys must and should go to Wildtree.

“Can’t you see I don’t want you any more?” said he. “This sofa’s so comfortable, I’m certain I shall sleep a fortnight straight away, and then my guardian and I have no end of business to talk over, haven’t we, guardian? and you’d really be in the way.”

So it was settled. The whole party retired early to bed after their exciting day. Jeffreys slept for the last time between the babies, and could scarcely believe, when he awoke, that he was not still in Storr Alley.

Still less could Tim when he awoke realise where he was. For the John he was accustomed to stood no longer in his weather-beaten, tattered garments, but in the respectable librarian’s suit which he had left behind him at Clarges Street, and which now, by some mysterious agency, found itself transferred to his present room.

Tim resented the change, and bellowed vehemently for the space of an hour, being joined at intervals by his younger brother, and egged on by the mocking laughter of young Forrester, who was enjoying the exhibition from the adjoining chamber.

For once Jeffreys could do nothing with his disorderly infants, and was compelled finally to carry them down one under each arm, to the sitting-room, where Raby came to the rescue, and thus established her claim on their allegiance for a week or so to come.

In a strange turmoil of feelings Jeffreys at mid-day walked to Euston. Mr Rimbolt was there with Percy’s travelling bag and the tickets, but he did not remain till the train from Watford came in.

“I may be running down to the North myself in about a fortnight,” said he, as he bade good-bye; “we can leave business till then—good-bye.”

The train came in at last. Jeffreys could see the boy pacing in a nonchalant way down the platform, evidently expecting anything but this meeting.

His eyes seemed by some strange perversity even to avoid the figure which stood waiting for him; nor was it till Jeffreys quietly stepped in front of him, and said “Percy,” that they took him in and blazed forth a delighted recognition.

“Jeff,” he said, “you’ve come back—really?”

“Yes, really.”

“To stay—for good?”

“For good—old fellow.”

Percy heaved a sight of mighty content as he slipped his arm into that of his friend. And half an hour later the two were whizzing northwards on their way to Wildtree, with their troubles all behind them.

Chapter Twenty Nine.A Fresh Start.It is supposed to be the duty of every well-conducted author, after the curtain has fallen on the final tableau of his little drama, to lift it, or half lift it, for a momentary last glimpse at the principal actors.I am not quite sure whether this is not an encouragement to laziness on the part of the reader. In most respects he is as well able to picture the future of Jeffreys, and Raby, and Percy, and Tim as I am.I cannot show them to you in all the dignity of an honoured old age, because they are only a year or two older to-day than they were when Percy and Jeffreys took that little run together down to Cumberland. Nor can I show them to you, after the fashion of a fairy tale, “married and living happily ever afterwards,” because when I met Jeffreys in the Strand the other day, he told me that although he had just been appointed to the control of a great public library in the North, it would still be some months, possibly a year, before he would be able to set up house on his own account.However, he seemed contented on the whole to wait a bit; and in a long talk we had as we walked up and down the Embankment I heard a good many scraps of information which made it possible to satisfy the reader on one or two points about which he may still be anxious.Jeffreys and Percy stayed at Wildtree for a month, and the time was one of the happiest both of them ever spent. They did nothing exciting. They read some Aristophanes, and added some new “dodge” to their wonderful automatic bookcase. They went up Wild Pike one bright winter’s day and had a glorious view from the top. And on the ledge coming back they sat and rested awhile on a spot they both remembered well. Julius’s grave was not forgotten when they reached the valley below; and the “J” upon the stone which marks the place to this day was their joint work for an hour that afternoon.As for the books, Jeffreys had sprung towards them on his first arrival as a father springs towards his long-lost family. They were sadly in want of dusting and arranging, as for a month or two no one had been near them. On the floor lay the parcels, just as they had arrived from the sale in Exeter; and altogether Jeffreys had work enough to keep him busy, not for one month only, but for several. He was not sorry to be busy. For amid all the happiness and comforts of his new return to life he had many cares on his mind.There was Forrester. He had imagined that if he could only find him, all would be right, the past would be cancelled and his bad name would never again trouble him. But as he thought of the helpless cripple, lying there unable to move without assistance, with all his prospects blighted and his very life a burden to him, he began to realise that the past was not cancelled, that he had a life’s debt yet to pay, and a life’s wrong for which, as far as possible, to make amends. But he bravely faced his duty. Forrester’s letters, which came frequently, certainly did not much encourage melancholy reflections.“I’m in clover here,” the boy wrote about a week after Jeffreys had gone North. “One would think I’d done something awfully fine. My guardian is a trump—and is ever tired of telling me about my father. Do you know I’m to have a pension from a grateful country? What wouldn’t Black Sal say to get hold of me now? What I value quite as much is his sword, which I keep by my couch like a Knight Templar. So mind what you’re up to when you come back.“Here am I writing about myself, when I know you are longing to hear about (turn over-leaf and hide your blushes)—the babies! They are tip-top. Timothy, ever since I got my sword, has shown great respect for me, and sits on the pillow while I sketch. By the way, do you recognise enclosed portrait? It’s my first attempt at a face—rather a pleasant face too, eh? Oh, about the babies. The young ’un’s cut a tooth. The whole house has been agitated in consequence, and the colonel is as proud as if he’d captured a province. So are we all. They are to go to an orphanage, I believe, in a week or two; but not till you come back and give your parental benediction. My guardian is going to write you all about it. He promises military openings for both when they arrive at the proper age; and Tim is practising already on a drum whichshehas given him.“She, by the way, never mentions you, which is an excellent sign, but rather rough on me when I want to talk about you. She occasionally is drawn out to talk about a certain Mr John at Storr Alley; but, as you know, she only knew about him from hearsay. How’s that boy who has got hold of you down in Cumberland? Are he and I to be friends or enemies? Tell him I’m game for either, and give him choice of weapons if the latter. But as long as he lets me see you now and then and treats you well, we may as well be friends. I’m flourishing and awfully in love. Stay away as long as you can; you’re not wanted here. The lady of Clarges Street came to see me yesterday. She sent you really a kind message; so even in that quarter you may yet look for a friend. Good-bye—remember me to that chap. Tim sends his duty; andshewhen I mentioned I was writing to you and asked if there was any message, did not hear what I said.—G.F.”There was plenty in this bright letter to give comfort to Jeffreys. He rejoiced humbly in its affectionate tone towards himself. He treasured the portrait. He was gratified at the unenvious references to Percy, and he was relieved at the prospect before his babies.The part that referred to Raby left him less room for jubilation. Forrester evidently thought, as Percy did, that in that quarter everything was plain sailing. They neither of them realised the gulf between the two, and they neither of them knew of that miserable October afternoon in Regent’s Park. Forrester’s jocular reference to Raby’s silence and reserve seemed to Jeffreys but a confirmation of what he believed to be the truth.He was to her what any other friend in distress might be, an object of sweet pity and solicitude. But that was all. He had a bad name, and much as she would brave for him to help him, she did not—how could she?—love him.At the end of a month Mr Rimbolt wrote to say he was coming down to Wildtree, and would be glad if Percy and Jeffreys would meet him with the carriage at Overstone.They did so, and found that he was not alone. Mr Halgrove stepped pleasantly out of the train at the same time and greeted his quondam ward with characteristic ease.“Ah, Jeffreys—here we are again. I’m always meeting you at odd places. How fresh everything looks after the rain!”“Mr Halgrove is my brother-in-law, you know, Jeffreys,” said Mr Rimbolt, in response to his librarian’s blank look of consternation. “I brought him down, as he wanted to see you and have a talk. If you two would like to walk,” added he, “Percy and I will drive on, and have dinner ready by the time you arrive.”“Good-hearted fellow, Rimbolt,” said Mr Halgrove, as they started to walk, “he always was. That’s Wild Pike, I suppose?”“Yes,” said Jeffreys, greatly puzzled at this unexpected meeting.“Yes, Rimbolt’s a good fellow; and doesn’t mind telling bad fellows that they aren’t. You’ll smile, Jeffreys; but he has actually made me uncomfortable sometimes.”“Really?” said Jeffreys, thinking it must have been some very remarkable effort which succeeded in accomplishing, that wonder.“Yes. I told him once casually about an unpleasant ward I once had, whom I rather disliked. I thought he would sympathise with me when I related how delicately I had got rid of him and sent him adrift when it did not suit me to keep him any longer. Would you believe it, Rimbolt wasn’t at all sympathetic, but asked what had become of my ward’s money! Do take warning, Jeffreys, and avoid the bad habit of asking inconvenient questions. You have no idea of the pain they may cause. Mr Rimbolt’s question pained me excessively. Because my ward’s money, like himself, had gone to the bad. That would not have been of much consequence, were it not that I was responsible for its going to the bad. It was most inconvenient altogether, I assure you. It made me feel as if I had behaved not quite well in the matter; and you know how depressing such a feeling would be. Still more inconvenient at the time when I had this talk with Rimbolt about six months ago, I had just come back from America with my finances in not at all a flourishing condition, so that if even I had been disposed to refund my ward, I could not have done it. Happily he was lost. It was an immense relief to me, I can assure you.“Two months ago my finances looked up. I had news that some of my Yankee speculations were turning out well, and I unexpectedly found myself a man of means again. Rimbolt, who certainly has the knack of making ill-timed suggestions, proposed that that would be a good opportunity for making good what properly belonged to my ward. I urged in vain that my ward was lost, and that the money properly belonged to me as a reward for the trouble I had had in the matter. He actually insisted that I should deposit with him, as trustee for my ward, the full amount of what belonged to him, with interest added to date, promising if by any unfortunate accident the fellow should be found, to see it came into his hands. One’s obliged to humour Rimbolt, so I did what he wanted, and that’s how it stands. If ever this unprofitable ward turns up, he’d better keep his eye on Rimbolt.“There, you see, Jeffreys, that’s just a little anecdote to show you how easy it is, by being inconsiderate, for one person to make another uncomfortable. But now tell me how you like Cumberland. You must be quite a mountaineer by this time.”Jeffreys admitted he was pretty good, and had the tact to suit his humour to that of his guardian, and not refer further to the lost ward or his money.Mr Halgrove stayed two days, and then departed for the Great West, where it is possible he may to-day carry a lighter heart about with him for his latest act of reparation.Before the trio at Wildtree returned to London, Jeffreys, greatly to Percy’s terror, asked leave to go for two days to York. The boy seemed still not quite sure that he had got back his friend for good, and highly disapproved now of putting the temptation to “bolt again,” as he called it, in his way. However, Jeffreys “entered into recognisances” to come back, and even offered to take Percy with him on his journey. The offer was not accepted, for Percy knew Jeffreys would sooner go alone. But it allayed the boy’s uneasiness.Jeffreys had much trouble to discover Mrs Trimble. Galloway House was still an educational establishment, but its present conductor knew nothing of the lady whose “goodwill and connection” he had purchased so cheaply two years ago.Finally Jeffreys decided to call at Ash Cottage. The walk up that familiar lane recalled many a strange memory. The bank whereon he had sat that eventful early morning was unchanged, and had lost all traces of Jonah’s excavations. The railway embankment he had half thought of helping to construct was already overgrown with grass, and thundered under the weight of trains every few minutes.Ash Cottage had not changed a plank or a tile since he last saw it. There were the same cracks in the wall of the shed, the same bushes on either side of the gate—nay, he was sure those wisps of hay clinging to the branches of the holly had been there two years ago.As he walked somewhat doubtfully towards the house—for he could hardly forget under what circumstances he had last seen Farmer Rosher—he heard a boy’s shout behind him, and looking round, perceived Freddy and Teddy giving chase.“ItisJeff!” shouted Freddy. “I knew him a mile away.”“I saw him first. We knew you’d come back, Jeff; huzzah!”“That tricycle wants looking to awful bad. Our feet touch the ground on it now, Jeff.”“Come on to the shed, I say, and put it right.Howbrickish of you to come back, Jeff!”A long afternoon the happy Jeff spent over that intractable tricycle. It was past all repair; but no feat of engineering was ever applauded as were the one or two touches by which he contrived to make it stand upright and bear the weight of a boy. Before the work was over Farmer Rosher had joined them, well pleased at his boys’ delight.“Thee’s paid oop for thy sin, lad,” said he. “I did thee and the lads more harm than I meant; but thee’s a home here whenever thee likes, to make up for it; and come away and see the missus and have a drop of tea.”From the farmer, who may have had good reason for knowing, Jeffreys learned that Mrs Trimble was comfortably quartered in an almshouse; and there, next morning—for there was do escaping from Ash Cottage that night—he found her, and soothed her with the news he had to tell of her poor prodigal.“Well, well,” she said, “God is merciful; and He will reward you, John, as He had pity on the lad. And now will you be sure and take a mother’s blessing to the sweet lady, and tell her if she ever wants to make an old woman happy, he has only to come here, and let me see her and kiss her for what she has done for me and mine?”That message he delivered a week later as he walked with Raby one afternoon in Regent’s Park. It was not exactly a chance walk. They had both been up to the orphanage at Hampstead with the reluctant Tim and his brother, to leave them there in good motherly hands till the troubles of infancy should be safely passed.It was Tim who had insisted on having the escort of both his natural guardians on the occasion; and at such a time and on such an errand Tim’s word was law. So they had gone all four in a cab, and now Raby and Jeffreys returned, and with a sense of bereavement, through the Park.“I will certainly go and see Mrs Trimble when next I am North,” said Raby, “though I wish I deserved half her gratitude.”“You deserve it all. You were an angel of light to that poor fellow.”They walked on some way in silence. Then she said—“Storr Alley is so different now, Mr Jeffreys. A family of seven is in your garret. You would hardly know the place.”“It would be strange indeed if I did not, for I too saw light there.”“How wonderful it all was!” said Raby.“When Jonah was telling me about his good protector, John, how little I dreamed it was you!”“And when you wrote this little letter,” said he, showing her the precious scrap of paper, “how little you dreamed who would bless you for it!”“The blessing belonged, did it not, to Him Who has been leading us all, in mercy, in His own way?”Again they walked in silence.Was it accident, or what, which brought them, without knowing it, to a spot which to each was full of painful memories?Raby was the first to stop abruptly.“Let us go another way, Mr Jeffreys, if you don’t mind. I don’t like this avenue.”“No more do I,” said Jeffreys, who had stopped too.“Why?” she asked.“Need I say?”“Not if you don’t like.”“I have not walked down here since an afternoon last October. There was a sudden storm of rain—”“What! Were you here then?”“I was. You did not see me.”“You saw me then. I was with Mr Scarfe.”“Yes. You were—”“Miserable and angry,” said she, her face kindling at the recollection.He darted one glance at her, as brief as that he had darted on the afternoon of which they spoke.Then, he had read nothing but despair for himself; now, though her eyes were downcast and her voice angry, he thought he read hope.“Suppose,” said he, in a little while, “instead of running away from the path, we just walk down it together. Would you mind? Are you afraid?”“No,” she said, smiling. And they walked on.The End.

It is supposed to be the duty of every well-conducted author, after the curtain has fallen on the final tableau of his little drama, to lift it, or half lift it, for a momentary last glimpse at the principal actors.

I am not quite sure whether this is not an encouragement to laziness on the part of the reader. In most respects he is as well able to picture the future of Jeffreys, and Raby, and Percy, and Tim as I am.

I cannot show them to you in all the dignity of an honoured old age, because they are only a year or two older to-day than they were when Percy and Jeffreys took that little run together down to Cumberland. Nor can I show them to you, after the fashion of a fairy tale, “married and living happily ever afterwards,” because when I met Jeffreys in the Strand the other day, he told me that although he had just been appointed to the control of a great public library in the North, it would still be some months, possibly a year, before he would be able to set up house on his own account.

However, he seemed contented on the whole to wait a bit; and in a long talk we had as we walked up and down the Embankment I heard a good many scraps of information which made it possible to satisfy the reader on one or two points about which he may still be anxious.

Jeffreys and Percy stayed at Wildtree for a month, and the time was one of the happiest both of them ever spent. They did nothing exciting. They read some Aristophanes, and added some new “dodge” to their wonderful automatic bookcase. They went up Wild Pike one bright winter’s day and had a glorious view from the top. And on the ledge coming back they sat and rested awhile on a spot they both remembered well. Julius’s grave was not forgotten when they reached the valley below; and the “J” upon the stone which marks the place to this day was their joint work for an hour that afternoon.

As for the books, Jeffreys had sprung towards them on his first arrival as a father springs towards his long-lost family. They were sadly in want of dusting and arranging, as for a month or two no one had been near them. On the floor lay the parcels, just as they had arrived from the sale in Exeter; and altogether Jeffreys had work enough to keep him busy, not for one month only, but for several. He was not sorry to be busy. For amid all the happiness and comforts of his new return to life he had many cares on his mind.

There was Forrester. He had imagined that if he could only find him, all would be right, the past would be cancelled and his bad name would never again trouble him. But as he thought of the helpless cripple, lying there unable to move without assistance, with all his prospects blighted and his very life a burden to him, he began to realise that the past was not cancelled, that he had a life’s debt yet to pay, and a life’s wrong for which, as far as possible, to make amends. But he bravely faced his duty. Forrester’s letters, which came frequently, certainly did not much encourage melancholy reflections.

“I’m in clover here,” the boy wrote about a week after Jeffreys had gone North. “One would think I’d done something awfully fine. My guardian is a trump—and is ever tired of telling me about my father. Do you know I’m to have a pension from a grateful country? What wouldn’t Black Sal say to get hold of me now? What I value quite as much is his sword, which I keep by my couch like a Knight Templar. So mind what you’re up to when you come back.

“Here am I writing about myself, when I know you are longing to hear about (turn over-leaf and hide your blushes)—the babies! They are tip-top. Timothy, ever since I got my sword, has shown great respect for me, and sits on the pillow while I sketch. By the way, do you recognise enclosed portrait? It’s my first attempt at a face—rather a pleasant face too, eh? Oh, about the babies. The young ’un’s cut a tooth. The whole house has been agitated in consequence, and the colonel is as proud as if he’d captured a province. So are we all. They are to go to an orphanage, I believe, in a week or two; but not till you come back and give your parental benediction. My guardian is going to write you all about it. He promises military openings for both when they arrive at the proper age; and Tim is practising already on a drum whichshehas given him.

“She, by the way, never mentions you, which is an excellent sign, but rather rough on me when I want to talk about you. She occasionally is drawn out to talk about a certain Mr John at Storr Alley; but, as you know, she only knew about him from hearsay. How’s that boy who has got hold of you down in Cumberland? Are he and I to be friends or enemies? Tell him I’m game for either, and give him choice of weapons if the latter. But as long as he lets me see you now and then and treats you well, we may as well be friends. I’m flourishing and awfully in love. Stay away as long as you can; you’re not wanted here. The lady of Clarges Street came to see me yesterday. She sent you really a kind message; so even in that quarter you may yet look for a friend. Good-bye—remember me to that chap. Tim sends his duty; andshewhen I mentioned I was writing to you and asked if there was any message, did not hear what I said.—G.F.”

There was plenty in this bright letter to give comfort to Jeffreys. He rejoiced humbly in its affectionate tone towards himself. He treasured the portrait. He was gratified at the unenvious references to Percy, and he was relieved at the prospect before his babies.

The part that referred to Raby left him less room for jubilation. Forrester evidently thought, as Percy did, that in that quarter everything was plain sailing. They neither of them realised the gulf between the two, and they neither of them knew of that miserable October afternoon in Regent’s Park. Forrester’s jocular reference to Raby’s silence and reserve seemed to Jeffreys but a confirmation of what he believed to be the truth.

He was to her what any other friend in distress might be, an object of sweet pity and solicitude. But that was all. He had a bad name, and much as she would brave for him to help him, she did not—how could she?—love him.

At the end of a month Mr Rimbolt wrote to say he was coming down to Wildtree, and would be glad if Percy and Jeffreys would meet him with the carriage at Overstone.

They did so, and found that he was not alone. Mr Halgrove stepped pleasantly out of the train at the same time and greeted his quondam ward with characteristic ease.

“Ah, Jeffreys—here we are again. I’m always meeting you at odd places. How fresh everything looks after the rain!”

“Mr Halgrove is my brother-in-law, you know, Jeffreys,” said Mr Rimbolt, in response to his librarian’s blank look of consternation. “I brought him down, as he wanted to see you and have a talk. If you two would like to walk,” added he, “Percy and I will drive on, and have dinner ready by the time you arrive.”

“Good-hearted fellow, Rimbolt,” said Mr Halgrove, as they started to walk, “he always was. That’s Wild Pike, I suppose?”

“Yes,” said Jeffreys, greatly puzzled at this unexpected meeting.

“Yes, Rimbolt’s a good fellow; and doesn’t mind telling bad fellows that they aren’t. You’ll smile, Jeffreys; but he has actually made me uncomfortable sometimes.”

“Really?” said Jeffreys, thinking it must have been some very remarkable effort which succeeded in accomplishing, that wonder.

“Yes. I told him once casually about an unpleasant ward I once had, whom I rather disliked. I thought he would sympathise with me when I related how delicately I had got rid of him and sent him adrift when it did not suit me to keep him any longer. Would you believe it, Rimbolt wasn’t at all sympathetic, but asked what had become of my ward’s money! Do take warning, Jeffreys, and avoid the bad habit of asking inconvenient questions. You have no idea of the pain they may cause. Mr Rimbolt’s question pained me excessively. Because my ward’s money, like himself, had gone to the bad. That would not have been of much consequence, were it not that I was responsible for its going to the bad. It was most inconvenient altogether, I assure you. It made me feel as if I had behaved not quite well in the matter; and you know how depressing such a feeling would be. Still more inconvenient at the time when I had this talk with Rimbolt about six months ago, I had just come back from America with my finances in not at all a flourishing condition, so that if even I had been disposed to refund my ward, I could not have done it. Happily he was lost. It was an immense relief to me, I can assure you.

“Two months ago my finances looked up. I had news that some of my Yankee speculations were turning out well, and I unexpectedly found myself a man of means again. Rimbolt, who certainly has the knack of making ill-timed suggestions, proposed that that would be a good opportunity for making good what properly belonged to my ward. I urged in vain that my ward was lost, and that the money properly belonged to me as a reward for the trouble I had had in the matter. He actually insisted that I should deposit with him, as trustee for my ward, the full amount of what belonged to him, with interest added to date, promising if by any unfortunate accident the fellow should be found, to see it came into his hands. One’s obliged to humour Rimbolt, so I did what he wanted, and that’s how it stands. If ever this unprofitable ward turns up, he’d better keep his eye on Rimbolt.

“There, you see, Jeffreys, that’s just a little anecdote to show you how easy it is, by being inconsiderate, for one person to make another uncomfortable. But now tell me how you like Cumberland. You must be quite a mountaineer by this time.”

Jeffreys admitted he was pretty good, and had the tact to suit his humour to that of his guardian, and not refer further to the lost ward or his money.

Mr Halgrove stayed two days, and then departed for the Great West, where it is possible he may to-day carry a lighter heart about with him for his latest act of reparation.

Before the trio at Wildtree returned to London, Jeffreys, greatly to Percy’s terror, asked leave to go for two days to York. The boy seemed still not quite sure that he had got back his friend for good, and highly disapproved now of putting the temptation to “bolt again,” as he called it, in his way. However, Jeffreys “entered into recognisances” to come back, and even offered to take Percy with him on his journey. The offer was not accepted, for Percy knew Jeffreys would sooner go alone. But it allayed the boy’s uneasiness.

Jeffreys had much trouble to discover Mrs Trimble. Galloway House was still an educational establishment, but its present conductor knew nothing of the lady whose “goodwill and connection” he had purchased so cheaply two years ago.

Finally Jeffreys decided to call at Ash Cottage. The walk up that familiar lane recalled many a strange memory. The bank whereon he had sat that eventful early morning was unchanged, and had lost all traces of Jonah’s excavations. The railway embankment he had half thought of helping to construct was already overgrown with grass, and thundered under the weight of trains every few minutes.

Ash Cottage had not changed a plank or a tile since he last saw it. There were the same cracks in the wall of the shed, the same bushes on either side of the gate—nay, he was sure those wisps of hay clinging to the branches of the holly had been there two years ago.

As he walked somewhat doubtfully towards the house—for he could hardly forget under what circumstances he had last seen Farmer Rosher—he heard a boy’s shout behind him, and looking round, perceived Freddy and Teddy giving chase.

“ItisJeff!” shouted Freddy. “I knew him a mile away.”

“I saw him first. We knew you’d come back, Jeff; huzzah!”

“That tricycle wants looking to awful bad. Our feet touch the ground on it now, Jeff.”

“Come on to the shed, I say, and put it right.Howbrickish of you to come back, Jeff!”

A long afternoon the happy Jeff spent over that intractable tricycle. It was past all repair; but no feat of engineering was ever applauded as were the one or two touches by which he contrived to make it stand upright and bear the weight of a boy. Before the work was over Farmer Rosher had joined them, well pleased at his boys’ delight.

“Thee’s paid oop for thy sin, lad,” said he. “I did thee and the lads more harm than I meant; but thee’s a home here whenever thee likes, to make up for it; and come away and see the missus and have a drop of tea.”

From the farmer, who may have had good reason for knowing, Jeffreys learned that Mrs Trimble was comfortably quartered in an almshouse; and there, next morning—for there was do escaping from Ash Cottage that night—he found her, and soothed her with the news he had to tell of her poor prodigal.

“Well, well,” she said, “God is merciful; and He will reward you, John, as He had pity on the lad. And now will you be sure and take a mother’s blessing to the sweet lady, and tell her if she ever wants to make an old woman happy, he has only to come here, and let me see her and kiss her for what she has done for me and mine?”

That message he delivered a week later as he walked with Raby one afternoon in Regent’s Park. It was not exactly a chance walk. They had both been up to the orphanage at Hampstead with the reluctant Tim and his brother, to leave them there in good motherly hands till the troubles of infancy should be safely passed.

It was Tim who had insisted on having the escort of both his natural guardians on the occasion; and at such a time and on such an errand Tim’s word was law. So they had gone all four in a cab, and now Raby and Jeffreys returned, and with a sense of bereavement, through the Park.

“I will certainly go and see Mrs Trimble when next I am North,” said Raby, “though I wish I deserved half her gratitude.”

“You deserve it all. You were an angel of light to that poor fellow.”

They walked on some way in silence. Then she said—

“Storr Alley is so different now, Mr Jeffreys. A family of seven is in your garret. You would hardly know the place.”

“It would be strange indeed if I did not, for I too saw light there.”

“How wonderful it all was!” said Raby.

“When Jonah was telling me about his good protector, John, how little I dreamed it was you!”

“And when you wrote this little letter,” said he, showing her the precious scrap of paper, “how little you dreamed who would bless you for it!”

“The blessing belonged, did it not, to Him Who has been leading us all, in mercy, in His own way?”

Again they walked in silence.

Was it accident, or what, which brought them, without knowing it, to a spot which to each was full of painful memories?

Raby was the first to stop abruptly.

“Let us go another way, Mr Jeffreys, if you don’t mind. I don’t like this avenue.”

“No more do I,” said Jeffreys, who had stopped too.

“Why?” she asked.

“Need I say?”

“Not if you don’t like.”

“I have not walked down here since an afternoon last October. There was a sudden storm of rain—”

“What! Were you here then?”

“I was. You did not see me.”

“You saw me then. I was with Mr Scarfe.”

“Yes. You were—”

“Miserable and angry,” said she, her face kindling at the recollection.

He darted one glance at her, as brief as that he had darted on the afternoon of which they spoke.

Then, he had read nothing but despair for himself; now, though her eyes were downcast and her voice angry, he thought he read hope.

“Suppose,” said he, in a little while, “instead of running away from the path, we just walk down it together. Would you mind? Are you afraid?”

“No,” she said, smiling. And they walked on.

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