"Where can the child be?"
Mr. Marsh glanced around the room in bewilderment as he put the question; then, a smile of intense amusement broke across his countenance as there came in answer a series of sharp knocks from the interior of the clock case. The boys burst out laughing and rushed forward to release the prisoner, who stood revealed, a moment later, with crimson cheeks, and eyes which shone through a mist of tears.
"Why didn't you come before?" she demanded, looking reproachfully at her brother and her cousin. "You should have looked for me till you found me, you cruel, cruel, boys!"
"Oh, I say, Polly, you needn't round on us like that," remonstrated Edgar. "We've done nothing. Couldn't you get out?"
"No. Do you think I should have stayed here so long if I could have helped it? I couldn't open the door from the inside, and—and oh, I thought I should be suffocated! Help me out, one of you, please; I'm so stiff I can scarcely move."
Mr. Marsh put the boys aside and lifted the little girl out of the clock case. He was very kind, brushed the dust from her frock, and said he hoped she had not been very frightened. Polly looked at him somewhat shyly—she had never seen much of her uncle—and her lips quivered. She felt shaky and unnerved; but she was not going to acknowledge how alarmed she had been, so she made answer evasively—
"There was nothing to be frightened at really, only—only I thought there might be spiders and earwigs there, and it seemed such a long, long time to wait."
"Well, I'm glad we've found you at last," remarked Roger, "for it's getting late."
"What time is it?" asked Polly. "I'm afraid I stopped the clock," she said in an apologetic tone to her uncle, "but I don't think it's hurt; there wasn't room for the pendulum to swing when I was in the case."
"Oh, I don't suppose it's hurt," he responded. "I will set it going presently."
He took out his watch and looked at it.
"It's nearly seven," he said.
"Then it's time for us to go home," sighed Polly dolefully, "and—and I haven't had any tea."
"Dear me, no, of course not!" exclaimed her uncle, as, overcome with self-pity, the little girl's tears began to flow. "Edgar, call your mother and tell her Polly's found. How long were you shut up in the clock case, my dear?" he asked commiseratingly as his son went to do his bidding.
"I don't know," she answered, "ages and ages!"
"About three hours," said Roger after some moments' reflection as his uncle looked at him inquiringly.
"So long as that!" exclaimed Mr. Marsh. "Poor child, poor little girl! Never mind, Polly, you'll feel better after you've had tea. Cheer up, my dear."
A few minutes later Mrs. Marsh appeared upon the scene and took possession of her niece. She was very kind and led her upstairs to her own room, where Polly bathed the tear stains from her hot cheeks and brushed her hair, after which she accompanied her aunt downstairs and made an excellent tea. Then Mr. Marsh entered the room followed by the boys, and handed her a beautiful bunch of hot-house flowers to take home with her.
"Oh, thank you, Uncle John!" cried the little girl gratefully. "They are lovely! Oh, how stupid I was to shut myself up in the clock case like that, when I might have had such a nice time!"
"Never mind," said Mr. Marsh good-naturedly; "you shall come again, eh, Janie?" he asked, appealing to his wife.
"Of course," she agreed. "How would you like to spend a day with me when my visitors are gone, Polly?"
"Alone?" questioned the little girl dubiously. Then, as Mrs. Marsh smilingly assented, she inquired impulsively, "Should I go for a drive with you in your carriage, Aunt Janie?"
"Yes, certainly."
"Oh, I should like that! I never drove in a carriage with a pair of horses in my life. But—" she paused for a moment in hesitation, then added, "but I think, if you don't mind, I would rather you invited mother instead."
"Why?" queried Mrs. Marsh, very surprised.
"Because it would be such a treat for mother to have a drive. You know she is not very strong, and she cannot walk far because she so soon gets tired."
"But I thought your mother did not care about going out," Mrs. Marsh observed. "She is always such a home bird. I am sure I have often advised her to go out more."
"Well, you see, she has a good bit of house work to do, and after that she's very tired, and that's why she stays at home," Polly explained in a matter-of-fact tone. "I daresay you would be tired yourself, Aunt Janie, if you had to do all the things mother does."
"I daresay. And now Cousin Becky has taken up her abode with you your poor mother must be busier than ever," Mrs. Marsh remarked with a slight frown, and a note of dissatisfaction in her voice.
"Oh no!" Polly responded quickly. "There you're quite wrong, Aunt Janie. Cousin Becky helps mother a great deal in the house, she doesn't make any extra work."
"I'm glad to hear it. Well, Polly, remember it is understood that you are to come and spend a day with me soon, and I will take you for a nice long drive in the country."
"Thank you, Aunt Janie," the little girl replied earnestly and gratefully, her face alight with a pleased smile.
"Polly, we ought to be going," said Roger. "You know mother said we were not to stay to be in the way about dinner-time, and it's past half-past seven."
"Dinner is not till eight to-night as we have several expected visitors," Mrs. Marsh said as she kissed her little niece and nephew good-bye, preparatory to going upstairs to dress.
"Fancy not having dinner till nearly supper-time!" cried Polly, opening her eyes very wide. "I don't think I should like that!"
"Come, Polly," whispered her brother as she seemed disposed to linger, "Uncle John's going to send us home in the dog-cart, and it's waiting at the front door."
"Oh, how splendid!" exclaimed Polly. "How kind of you, Uncle John!"
Roger was no less delighted than his sister at the prospect of the drive home. He took his place on the back seat of the vehicle, whilst Polly occupied the seat by the groom in front, her bunch of flowers in her lap; and the spirited horse between the shafts set off at a swinging pace. Polly, who had regained her usual spirits by this time, sat bolt upright, feeling herself a person of some importance to be thus driven home in state, and amused herself on the way by bowing gravely and impressively to various pedestrians, many of whom she only knew very slightly. As they turned the corner of Princess Street, the little girl caught sight of her mother and Cousin Becky at the sitting-room window. She waved her hand to them, and smiled and nodded as the dog-cart drew up.
"Wait a minute, missie," advised the groom as Polly made a movement to get down, "and I'll help you."
"Oh, you needn't trouble, thank you," she responded hastily, as she noticed her brother was already on the pavement, "I can manage quite well by myself."
Forthwith she rose from the seat and turned round to descend backwards, holding to the dog-cart with one hand, whilst with the other she grasped her flowers; but her legs proved not quite long enough to reach the step of the carriage, and the horse suddenly moving, she lost her balance and was flung into the gutter. She picked herself up immediately, however, and, declaring herself unhurt, went hurriedly into the house, still grasping her flowers, which she was glad to see were but little injured, and very conscious that her undignified descent from the carriage had been witnessed by several pairs of eyes from neighbouring windows.
"Oh, Polly dear, are you hurt?" cried Mrs. Trent, meeting her little daughter at the front door and drawing her into the sitting-room. She regarded her with some anxiety as she spoke.
"No," Polly answered promptly, "that is, not much. I've knocked my elbow, but it's nothing. The stupid horse moved."
"You should have let the groom help you down, my dear."
"He wanted to but she wouldn't allow him," Roger said, overhearing his mother's remark as he came into the room.
"Have you had a pleasant afternoon?" inquired Cousin Becky, after she and Mrs. Trent had admired the bunch of beautiful flowers.
"Polly had a very pleasant afternoon," Roger replied, laughing, "and where do you think she spent it? Why, shut up in a clock!" And he proceeded to tell the tale of his sister's misadventure, which was heard with considerable amusement.
"It's all very fine to laugh," Polly said, somewhat tearfully, "but it was a terribly long while to be shut up in the dark with spiders and earwigs, when I might have been having such a fine time, too! And I did get so hungry! Uncle John was very kind, and Aunt Janie made me eat a big tea, afterwards; I think they were really sorry for me, they didn't laugh at me like the boys."
As the little girl had expected, she was not allowed to forget that afternoon's adventure, for it was far too good a joke to be easily dropped; but she was endowed with a sense of humour, and did not much mind having the laugh turned against herself.
In the course of a few days Roger returned to school and a short while later, Polly learnt that Mrs. Marsh's visitors had left the Rookery, whereupon she began to speculate when she would be invited to spend the day with her aunt which that lady had mentioned. But the looked-for invitation did not arrive, and Polly was, at length, reluctantly obliged to conclude that it was not coming at all.
"Aunt Janie could not have really intended to ask me," she thought bitterly, "she cannot have forgotten what she said. She is very, very unkind."
She did not mention her disappointment to her mother, but she spoke of it to Cousin Becky, who listened and sympathised with her.
"Aunt Janie's a nasty, selfish thing!" cried Polly hotly.
"My dear, my dear—" began Cousin Becky expostulatingly, but the indignant little girl continued in the same vehement tone—
"She is, Cousin Becky. I saw her driving by herself in the town yesterday, and—and if you had a nice carriage with plenty of room in it, wouldn't you want to give drives to people who never hardly have any fun? I know you would, and so would mother, or anyone who wasn't dreadfully selfish!"
"My dear, your aunt does not think. I am sure she never guesses how much you have set your heart on driving with her—"
"No, and she doesn't care!" broke in Polly passionately. "Oh, how I should like to be rich! It's miserable being poor."
"Do you want money so much, Polly?" the old lady questioned. "Tell me what you would do if you had a lot of money."
"Oh, I'd do heaps of things! I'd give some to father, first of all, because he lost all his, you know; and then I'd buy some new gowns for mother—pretty ones, like Aunt Jane's; and Roger should have more pocket-money—he gets so much less than most of the Grammar School boys; and we'd all go away by the sea for a holiday—that would be best of all! Uncle John and Aunt Janie and Edgar go to the sea-side every year, but we never do; and last year, when mother was poorly, the doctor said a thorough change would do her more real good than anything, but she couldn't have it. Father was so sorry about it; and he wanted to tell Aunt Janie what the doctor said, but mother wouldn't let him."
"Polly, can you keep a secret?" asked Cousin Becky.
"Oh yes, I am sure I can, though I never tried," was the confident response.
"Well, then I will tell you one but you must keep it quite to yourself, mind. Will you promise?"
"Yes; I won't tell anyone—not even mother."
"No, not even your mother." There was a slight flush on Cousin Becky's cheeks, and a smile hovered around her lips and shone in her eyes. "A little bird has told me that very likely—most likely, indeed—there will be a holiday for you all this year."
"What!" Polly could scarcely credit that she had heard aright. "You don't—you can't mean it!"
"Yes, I do, my dear. That's my secret. Mind you don't let it go any further. And you mustn't ask me any questions. Well, just one then."
"Are you sure the little bird you spoke of knows?" Polly inquired incredulously.
"Quite sure."
"I don't see how it's going to be managed—a holiday, I mean. But, oh, it would be grand! Oh, Cousin Becky, do tell me!"
"No, I can tell you no more," Cousin Becky interposed, laughing. "Remember to keep my secret, dear."
"Oh, I will," was the earnest assurance; "but it seems too good to be true—too altogether wonderful. I cannot think how you should know, but I am so glad you have told me. I don't in the least mind that Aunt Janie has forgotten to invite me to spend a day with her now—I suppose, after all, she must have forgotten, I don't really think she would mean to be unkind."
Cousin Becky did not think so either. In truth, Mrs. Marsh had allowed the promised invitation to slip her memory; and she would have been considerably surprised, and more than a little sorry, had she known the disappointment she had caused.
"ROGER, come here, I want you a minute."
The scene was the playground at the back of the Beaworthy Grammar School, one fine June morning after school hours, where a few of the day scholars, including Roger Trent and his cousin, lingered talking to the boarders before going home to dinner. Roger had been on the point of leaving when Edgar, who had been holding a conversation with a big boy called Cole, the son of a lawyer in the town, called to him imperatively, and he turned back and inquired:
"Well, what is it?"
"I want you to tell Cole that I haven't been story-telling as he seems to think I have," Edgar said, with a somewhat resentful glance at his companion. His colour was heightened, and he appeared annoyed.
"He's collecting coins," he proceeded to explain, "and he won't believe that I've a lot of valuable ones at home, or that I know anything about them. You've seen my coins, Roger, haven't you?"
"Yes," Roger assented. "It's quite true that my cousin has a very fine collection," he said, addressing the elder boy who still looked incredulous. "I've seen his coins—such a lot of them, gold, silver, and bronze; some are very old."
"Marsh says he has a Calais Noble," Cole remarked doubtfully. "I can hardly believe that, for it's an exceedingly rare coin."
"What is a Calais Noble like?" asked Roger.
"Don't you remember my pointing it out to you?" said Edgar eagerly. "Oh, you must, surely! There's a ship on it—I remember so well your noticing the flag at the stern."
"Oh yes, of course, and you said your father bought it for you for five pounds, which was very cheap!" Roger exclaimed, recalling the coin in question to his recollection.
"I should like to see it," Cole said sceptically. "You might bring it to school and show it to me, Marsh."
"I'm afraid I couldn't do that," was the hesitating reply.
"Why not?" questioned the big boy.
"Because if—if—" Edgar paused, appearing a trifle confused. He had represented to Cole, as he had done to his cousin, that his father's collection of coins was his own, and now he found himself in a difficulty. "Oh, well," he proceeded hurriedly, "perhaps I will bring the Calais Noble for you to see, but it's very valuable and—and—"
"I shan't believe you have it unless I see it," Cole interrupted rather impatiently, "but you can do as you like, of course. I'd give a good bit to own one myself."
"Oh, Edgar has it right enough, Cole," Roger declared. "I remember it quite well now, but I got muddled looking at such a lot of coins."
"Seeing's believing," observed Cole sarcastically as he moved away.
Edgar was irritated by the knowledge that his big school-fellow had not accepted his word, and he went home with the fixed determination of getting possession of the Calais Noble on the first opportunity which presented itself for his doing so, but it was some days before that opportunity came; and as he was certain his father would never give him permission to take the coin to school, he decided not to speak to him upon the matter. At length, however, there arrived an afternoon when he brought the Calais Noble to school and proudly exhibited it to Cole and several other of his school-fellows. Cole, who owned no coin so old and rare in his collection, admired it greatly and was quite apologetic in his manner to Edgar.
"Take care of it, youngster," he advised, as, after a long and careful examination of the coin, he returned it to the little boy. "I don't think you ought to carry it loose in your pocket, you'd never get another if you lost that one. You're a lucky chap to have it."
"Oh, I'll take care of it, never fear!" Edgar replied. "I know it's valuable. I hope you believe now, Cole, that I really do understand something about coins."
"Yes; and I'm sorry I doubted your word when you told me you had a Calais Noble," said Cole deprecatingly. "I thought you were on the brag, and I admit I didn't believe you had the coin to show."
Edgar was walking home from school, a short while later, in a decidedly exultant mood when his cousin overtook him. Roger was looking unusually solemn, and his first words gave the clue to the reason.
"Edgar, why did you deceive me about those coins?" he asked in a tone of deep reproach.
"Deceive you? I don't know what you mean," was the untruthful response.
"Oh yes, you do! You made out to me—as you did to Cole, too—that all those coins you showed me belong to you, and they don't—they belong to your father."
"Well, that's the same thing," declared Edgar, determined to put a bold face on the matter.
"How can it be the same thing? You know it isn't."
"It is. Everything of father's will be mine someday."
"Someday's not now. You deceived me, and you deceived Cole; but I've found you out, and he hasn't."
"Oh, you needn't think I'm going to tell him, for I'm not! Father says you had no right to show me the coins when Uncle John wasn't there. I wouldn't have looked at them if I'd known that. The stamps aren't yours, either. I was foolish to believe they were."
"Look here, Roger, don't you tell Uncle Martin I took that Calais Noble to school; do you hear?"
"Why not?"
"Because he might mention it to father, and there'd be a fuss. You don't want to make mischief, I'm sure. I've done no harm, and I'll put the Noble back in its place, in the cabinet, immediately I get home, and I won't touch any of the coins again without father's permission. Promise you won't tell Uncle Martin."
"Well, I won't. It's nothing to do with me. But why can't you be straight, Edgar? Why did you want to pretend the coins and the stamps were yours? Just to show off, I suppose. It was as bad as telling a lie, you know. That's what I can't understand about you—why you won't keep to the truth—" and Roger regarded his companion with a very puzzled expression in his honest, grey eyes.
"I haven't told a fib for ages," Edgar said in a shamed tone, "not since that Sunday when I said I hadn't been smoking when I had. I don't think there's much harm in pretending."
"Oh, but there is! It's making people believe what isn't true," Roger said earnestly. "I wish you wouldn't do it, because, besides its being wrong, one never knows when to believe you or not."
Edgar thought over all his cousin had said after he had parted from him, and wished he had never pretended the coins were his own. He was growing to like Roger more and more, and was wishful to stand well in his estimation; he admired him for the very qualities he lacked himself—truth and unselfishness. Roger was a great favourite at school with both the masters and the boys, for, though he was certainly hot-tempered, he was not unforgiving, as Edgar had proved, and he was good-natured and obliging; whereas, his cousin—who had plenty of pocket-money and was known to be the son of the richest merchant in Beaworthy—was not nearly so well liked, simply because he always tried to please himself first and had never been known to put himself out of the way for anybody. It was a mark in Edgar's favour, however, that he was not jealous of Roger's popularity. When the cousins had first been thrown together at school, the rich man's son had been inclined to patronise his poor relation, but he never tried to do so now—perhaps because he was beginning to recognise his own inferiority.
Immediately on his arrival at the Rookery, Edgar hastened to the study, but to his disappointment he found his father there writing letters.
"Well, my son, what do you want?" Mr. Marsh inquired, glancing around sharply, for he was undesirous of interruption.
"Nothing, father."
"Well, then, run away. I'm busy."
Edgar needed no second bidding; but he was sorry he could not then replace the Calais Noble in the cabinet, for the fact of its being in his possession weighed upon his mind. After he had had tea he went to the nursery, where he usually prepared his lessons, and set to work to learn them; but whilst in the midst of that task his attention was diverted by voices in the garden, and, going to the window, he saw his father join his mother on a garden seat under a laburnum tree at a short distance from the house. Now was the time to return the Calais Noble, he thought, for Mr. Marsh had no doubt left his keys in the study—he was never very careful of them. Reflecting thus, Edgar thrust his hand into the depths of his trousers pocket where he had put the coin, but, to his astonishment and alarm, he could not feel it.
Hastily he turned out the contents of his pocket—a pen-knife, an end of pencil, a piece of string, and the sticky remains of a packet of caramels—but the Calais Noble was gone.
"I can't have lost it!" he gasped. "Yes, I have—I must have! Oh, what shall I do? It's really, really gone!"
It seemed useless to seek it, but he did so, searching the schoolroom and the dining-room where he had had his tea, in vain.
"I must have lost it on my way home," he groaned, "but I dare not tell father, he would be so dreadfully angry with me. Perhaps I dropped it in the schoolroom but, no, I'm sure I didn't, for I showed it to Cole in the playground, and I didn't take it out of my pocket after that."
Edgar, as may easily be imagined, spent the remainder of the evening in a most miserable frame of mind; and he subsequently passed a restless night, disturbed by distressing dreams. He dared not mention his loss to anyone, and kept it a secret to himself, though he knew full well that he ought to tell his father.
"He set such store on the Calais Noble," he thought unhappily. "I've often heard him say what difficulty he had to get it, and, oh, I can't tell him, I can't! But I do wonder what will happen when he finds it's gone. He mayn't find it out for a long, long time, but sooner or later he will." Conscience prompted him to speak out and confess the truth to his father; but cowardice bade him hold his tongue, and he was so little in the habit of facing any unpleasantness that he allowed cowardice to prevail.
"EDGAR, dear, your father wants you," said Mrs. Marsh, meeting her son at the front door one afternoon on his return from school a few days after he had lost the Calais Noble. "He's in the study, and he's so put out because he's missed some coin or other. He says you showed his coins to Roger, and he's displeased at that—not that he minds Roger having seen the coins, but because you had no right to meddle with his keys as you must have done. I tell him he should not leave his keys where everyone can get at them; but, all the same, you ought not to have touched them, my dear. You'd better go to him at once."
Edgar obeyed in fear and trembling. He found his father seated before the cabinet which held his coins, looking disturbed and perplexed.
"You want me, father?" the little boy said, in a faltering tone.
"Yes. Have you been meddling with my coins?" Mr. Marsh asked sharply.
"I showed them to Roger that time—you know, father, when he and I were here alone. I didn't mean any harm. I found your keys on the writing-table. I didn't think you'd mind Roger's seeing the coins—and the stamps."
Mr. Marsh was pleased with this apparently frank response, and his next question was put in a less irascible manner.
"Did you notice the Calais Noble when you and Roger were looking at the coins?" he inquired.
"Yes, father."
"Ah, then it was safe up to that time! Well, now, I cannot find it anywhere. You are sure it was here?"
"Yes," Edgar answered positively, "I am quite sure, because Roger noticed the flag at the stern of the ship, and he was so surprised when I told him the worth of the coin. He said he would soon sell it if it was his."
"Oh, indeed!"
Mr. Marsh looked thoughtful, and Edgar regarded him with an anxious scrutiny. There was a brief silence at length the former said: "Well, evidently the coin is gone. I fear it must have been stolen."
"Oh, no, no!" the little boy cried vehemently. "Who would steal it, father?"
"Ah, that's a question that I cannot answer. It's a puzzling business which I do not pretend to understand; but one fact is indisputable, the Calais Noble has disappeared, and someone must have taken it. I have been careless in leaving my keys about, so I cannot hold myself blameless in the matter; but I thought everyone in this house honest. Your uncle told me you had exhibited my collections of coins and stamps to Roger; he mentioned it because it struck him that I was unwise not to keep my valuables in greater security. I am sure I wish heartily I had done so. You had no right meddling with my belongings, Edgar, but I am glad that you did not quibble when I taxed you with having done so; if you had prevaricated you would have made me angry indeed, but you did not, and I am pleased that you at once admitted the truth. By the way, do not mention to anyone that the Calais Noble is missing; your mother knows it, but I shall ask her not to speak of it to outsiders."
"Very well, father," Edgar answered, surprised beyond measure that his father was taking his loss so quietly. He had blushed—Mr. Marsh had thought with pleasure—when he had been commended for admitting the truth. "Perhaps—perhaps the Calais Noble will turn up again," he suggested.
Mr. Marsh shook his head doubtfully, he did not think that very likely. He had his suspicion as to what had become of the coin, but he was not going to confide it to his son. He was feeling very troubled, and the expression of his face was exceedingly grave. One more question he put to Edgar before dismissing him.
"Was Roger interested in my coins?" he asked.
"Oh yes!" Edgar replied. "He didn't think so much of them, though, before I told him what they were worth, then he was simply astounded. You know, father, Roger doesn't get much money to spend—very little indeed, really—and he thinks a great deal of money in a way."
"In a way?" Mr. Marsh echoed inquiringly.
"Yes, he's always saying what he would do if he was rich."
"Oh, is he? Well—you may go now."
The little boy left the study gladly, and went upstairs in a very relieved state of mind. Not until some time afterwards did he reflect how cowardly he had been not to confess he had taken the Calais Noble to school and inadvertently lost it; at present, he congratulated himself that he had got over the interview with his father so successfully. Why, he had not even been asked if he knew what had become of the missing coin! How truly thankful he was for that, for it had saved him the necessity of telling a lie. He did not suppose he would hear anything about the Calais Noble again; but it made him the least bit uneasy to remember that his father considered it had been stolen, and he would have been more uneasy still had he known the suspicion which troubled his father's mind.
Entering his bedroom, he found his mother there, engaged in examining the contents of his wardrobe.
"I'm making up a parcel for your cousins," she explained, "so I'm looking to see if there's anything of yours you can part with. That suit of clothes is a little faded, but there's a lot of wear left in it; it would do for Roger to wear at home during the holidays, I dare say, and you won't want it again. See there's nothing in the pockets, Edgar."
He did so. It was the suit he had worn on the memorable day when he had lost the Calais Noble, and he drew an involuntary sigh as he noticed a rip in the trousers' pocket, which doubtless accounted for the disappearance of the coin.
"What is the matter?" inquired Mrs. Marsh, hearing the sigh, and noticing the serious expression of his face; "your father was not angry with you, was he? I know he was vexed because he had missed one of his coins—he has probably mislaid it, as I told him—but he could not possibly blame you for that, though to be sure, he was annoyed you had meddled with his keys."
"He—he thinks the coin has been stolen, mother."
"What nonsense! Who would steal it? Oh, it will turn up again! By-the-by, I'm going to drive to Princess Street after I've had a cup of tea, and you can come with me if you like."
Edgar brightened on hearing this; and, when an hour later he drove off with his mother in the direction of the town, he had quite recovered his usual spirits—indeed, he was easier in his mind than he had been for days, for he confidently hoped his trouble concerning the Calais Noble was at an end.
The Trents were all at home with the exception of the master of the house, and there was a flutter of excitement in the sitting-room when Mrs. Marsh's carriage stopped at the door. Polly flew to the window and reported the arrival of Aunt Janie and Edgar; and, a few minutes later, Louisa showed them into the room.
Mrs. Marsh kissed her sister-in-law, and shook hands with Cousin Becky, the latter of whom she complimented on her appearance, saying how much better she looked than when she had arrived at Beaworthy; then she turned her attention to the children, and Polly wondered if she would now remember her promise and ask her to the Rookery. Soon the boys withdrew to the window, where they talked together and remarked on the passers-by; but Polly listened to the conversation of her elders, observing her aunt with grave, grey eyes.
"Well, Polly," said Mrs. Marsh presently, with a smile, becoming aware of her little niece's scrutiny, "how are you spending these beautiful summer days?"
"As usual, Aunt Janie," was the response, given in accents of reserve.
"Let me see, I don't think we've met since that afternoon you shut yourself up in the clock case, have we? No. By the way, I thought you were going to spend a day with me at the Rookery; you have not been yet?"
"No," Polly replied coldly; then, her indignation getting the better of her, she added in a distinctly resentful tone: "I haven't been asked."
"Polly!" cried her mother in a shocked voice, whilst Mrs. Marsh flushed slightly, and gave a rather embarrassed laugh.
"That's why I haven't been there," the little girl declared; "Aunt Janie must know I shouldn't go unless she invited me, mother. I suppose she forgot."
"Well, will you come to-morrow?" Mrs. Marsh asked quickly. "It will be Saturday and therefore a holiday for the boys, and Roger will be able to come too. Do let them come, Mary," she said, turning to her sister-in-law, "the dog-cart shall call for them in the morning after it has taken John to the office, and I will send them home safely in the evening."
Mrs. Trent accepted the invitation for her children very gladly, for few pleasures came their way; and, after that, Polly unbent towards her aunt, and her face beamed with smiles.
Mrs. Marsh paid quite a long visit, and, when at length she took her departure with Edgar, the big brown paper parcel she had left in the hall was carried into the sitting-room, and the children began to examine its contents.
"All old clothes, as usual," remarked Polly ungratefully, an expression of disappointment flitting across her countenance. "Why, what's this?" she cried, a moment later, as she came upon a small parcel wrapped in tissue paper.
"Open it and see," said her mother.
She did so, and revealed to sight a pretty, green leather purse, which contained a new half-crown and a slip of paper with "For Polly from Aunt Janie" written across it in Mrs. Marsh's handwriting.
"Oh!" exclaimed the little girl, in mingled amazement and delight, "Oh, it's really for me! How good—how kind of her!"
"I know why she's done it, because Uncle John tipped me a half-crown when he met me with Edgar yesterday," said Roger, looking very pleased. "Edgar must have told her, and she thought you ought to be remembered too."
"Yes, she would not guess that you meant to divide your half-crown with me. Fancy her putting the money in this beautiful purse—quite a new purse too! See what a firm clasp it has! Oh, mother, isn't it a nice present?"
"It is indeed, my dear." Mrs. Trent's face was as bright as her little daughter's. "Aunt Janie is really very kind! I was sorry to hear you speak to her as you did, Polly."
"Well, she shouldn't have pretended she expected me at the Rookery without being asked, should she? She promised to invite me, and you know you always say, mother, that a promise should be kept. She said she would take me for a drive, and she ought to have thought I should look forward to that."
"She did not realise, I expect, what a treat a drive would be to you; she would not willingly disappoint you."
"No-o, perhaps not," Polly allowed, "that's what Cousin Becky said, but I cannot imagine how a grown-up person can be so—so ignorant. I think Aunt Janie means well," she admitted as she took another peep at the bright half-crown inside the purse, "and I shall never be able to thank her enough for this beautiful present. I wish, Roger, you had a purse, too."
"Oh, boys don't want purses," her brother replied, "they carry their money loose in their pockets. You needn't think I'm jealous, Polly."
"Jealous!" she cried with a happy laugh. "As though you would be that! Now we shall have half-a-crown each. How shall we spend our money?"
They proceeded to discuss this momentous question in low, confidential tones, whilst Mrs. Trent and Cousin Becky examined the various articles of clothing they had strewn upon the table. Many of the garments were in excellent condition, and Cousin Becky promptly promised her services as a needlewoman to turn them to the best account.
"AUNT JANIE, I should think you must be a very happy person," said Polly, casting a contemplative glance around her.
Mrs. Marsh and her little niece were sitting on the garden seat beneath the laburnum tree at the Rookery, where they had had their tea, an arrangement which had delighted Polly and Roger, who were thoroughly enjoying the day as their aunt's guests. The morning had been spent in the gardens, and the afternoon in a long drive into the country; and now the boys had betaken themselves to the stables, whilst Polly, tired with pleasure and excitement, had gladly fallen in with her aunt's suggestion to rest awhile.
"Why should you think so?" Mrs. Marsh asked curiously.
"Because you've such a beautiful home and plenty of money. It must be nice to have plenty of money to be able to give people presents," Polly replied ingenuously, her hand slipping into her pocket to make certain her purse was safe. "I don't think I was ever so pleased before as I was last night when I came across your present. I can never thank you enough—"
"Why, my dear child," interposed Mrs. Marsh, with an amused laugh, "you've thanked me over and over again already."
"Because I feel so very grateful, Aunt Janie. No one ever gave me a half-crown in my life before. Roger has had several, though, and he has always shared them with me; you know, girls don't get as many tips as boys. That doesn't seem fair, does it?"
"I don't think it does. It has been very generous of Roger to share his money with you; few brothers would do that, I fancy."
"Wouldn't they?" said Polly, rather surprised. "Don't you think Edgar would if he had a sister? No. I don't expect he would, for Roger says he always keeps the best of everything for himself; I suppose that's because he's never had anyone to share with, Aunt Janie? It's a pity, isn't it? Cousin Becky says it is a misfortune to be an only child."
"Cousin Becky knows nothing about it," Mrs. Marsh said coldly, an expression of displeasure clouding her face. "Am I to understand she has been finding fault with Edgar?"
"Oh no, Aunt Janie; she stuck up for him. She said we ought to make allowances for him as he has no brother or sister; she likes him, she does indeed." Polly paused, looking slightly distressed, conscious she had been letting her tongue run away with her. "I'm afraid you don't like Cousin Becky," she proceeded hesitatingly, "but you don't know how kind she is to us."
"I think it is you, or your parents rather, who are kind to her."
"She pays for living with us," said Polly. "Father wouldn't allow her to do that if he was better off—he said so—but you know he is not rich like Uncle John, and—oh, I don't like to think how we should miss her if she went away now! She helps us with our lessons, and she's always doing things for mother; why, she made this frock! Isn't it pretty?" And the little girl arose and turned slowly round in front of her aunt that she might the better view Cousin Becky's handiwork.
"Yes, it is very nicely made," Mrs. Marsh allowed. "I expect Cousin Becky is accustomed to work for young people as she brought up her brother's children. By the way, does she ever hear from them?"
"Oh yes."
"Do they send her money, Polly?"
"I don't know, Aunt Janie, I don't think so. She reads their letters to mother, I've heard her; they write very nice letters."
"And you never heard any mention made of money? No? Dear me, what ingratitude! They ought to be contributing to her support, and so I should like to tell them. Why, she was like a mother to those children of her brother's, and to think that after devoting her life to them and their father, she should fall back upon Martin for a home in her old age—as though he had not enough weight upon his shoulders without burdening himself with an additional care! I have always declared he will live to rue the day when he took the charge of an old woman who never had the least claim upon him. Cousin Becky should have gone abroad to her nephew."
"But, Aunt Janie, she didn't wish to go, and I am sure, now, it would grieve us all dreadfully if she went." There were tears in Polly's eyes as she spoke, for Cousin Becky had won the devotion of her warm, young heart.
"It does not appear that she contemplates leaving you," Mrs. Marsh observed dryly, "so there is no cause for you to be distressed."
"What do you mean by saying father will live to rue the day when he took the charge of an old woman?" Polly asked, after a brief pause in the conversation, during which Mrs. Marsh had had time to regret what she had said. "Do you mean he will be sorry Cousin Becky came to us? I don't believe he will; and Cousin Becky says God will pay her debt to father, she told me she was sure of it, because Jesus said, 'Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these My brethren, ye have done it unto Me.' That's in the Bible, Aunt Janie. Had you forgotten it?"
No, Mrs. Marsh had not forgotten it, but she had not thought of it for a long, long while; it had slumbered in her memory through many years of prosperity, during which she had gone her own way thinking little of those less fortunate than herself; and a look which Polly failed to read crossed her face now—an expression of mingled shame and regret.
"Cousin Becky has found a champion in you, at any rate, my dear," she said at length in a softer tone. "You are evidently very fond of the old lady. I think I must try to see more of her in order to ascertain wherein lies her charm."
At that point in the conversation the boys reappeared upon the scene, and, a short while later, the master of the house arrived at home. The latter seated himself by his wife's side on the garden seat. He made a great deal of Polly, but he took but slight notice of Roger; indeed, so marked was the difference in his manner to the two children, that, after they had gone, his wife took him to task upon the subject.
When Edgar, who had volunteered to accompany his cousins to the entrance of the Rookery grounds on their departure and had said good-bye to them there, returned to his parents, he found them deep in earnest conversation. They did not notice his approach, for, with the mischievous intention of startling them and making them jump, he had crept up behind the seat, meaning to spring forward with a "whoop;" but, chancing to catch a sentence, spoken by his mother, he paused spell-bound.
"I can never believe that Roger is a thief!" she had incredulously exclaimed.
Then came her husband's answer, to which Edgar listened with breathless interest. "My dear, I sincerely trust he is not. You must not repeat a word of what I have said to Edgar, I would not have him know that I suspect his cousin of having taken the Calais Noble for the world. I like Roger, and I thought him straight like his father, certainly he proved to be so over that matter of the cigarettes; but—I know what boys are. My theory is this, that having learnt the value of the coin from Edgar, he gave way to sudden temptation and took it. If I am right, there is a possibility that I may yet get my Calais Noble back, for the boy will not know how to dispose of it."
Edgar waited to hear no more; and, without having made his presence known to his parents, he softly and swiftly hurried away and betook himself indoors, where he ran upstairs and shut himself into his own room, to consider this fresh development in connection with the Calais Noble undisturbed. His father suspected Roger of being a thief! Oh, he had never dreamed of such a contingency as that! What should he do? "Confess the truth," whispered his conscience. "Let the matter slide, you are not supposed to know your father's suspicion," whispered cowardice, "he will never tax your cousin with the theft."
"But, it is dreadful he should think Roger would do such a thing," the little boy thought distressfully, "it is so unjust! Oh, dear, I hoped that I should never be worried about the Calais Noble again—that father would think no more about it. Oh, what shall I do?"
Edgar was in a great state of mental trouble, tormented by feelings of remorse and fear. What would his father say if he found out the truth? Mr. Marsh had been both grieved and indignant when his son had allowed him to misjudge Roger on a much slighter matter than this; Edgar told himself he would never forgive him for exhibiting the same cowardice again, and yet he could not pluck up the courage to acknowledge he had lost the coin.
"I did not know he thought Roger had taken it if I had, I believe I should have told him all about it," he reflected. "But you know it now," conscience reminded him, "it is not too late to set the matter right." That Edgar did not do, however; he acted as though he was in total ignorance of his father's suspicion of Roger, and neither Mr. nor Mrs. Marsh made any mention of the missing coin to him. But, though the little boy kept silence concerning the Calais Noble, it was never out of his mind by day or night, for it was the dread of his waking hours, and it haunted his dreams which were troubled by harrowing scenes, in which Roger figured either in the clutch of a policeman, or in prison enduring punishment for a crime which he had never committed. It was small wonder that he grew pale and languid; but he declared, in answer to his mother's anxious questions, that he was quite well, and there was nothing amiss. He shirked Roger as much as possible, because his conscience worried him most when he was in his cousin's presence; and Roger, as soon as he became aware of the fact that Edgar tried to avoid him, kept out of his way.
Much to Polly's gratification, her aunt took her out driving on several other occasions; and one afternoon—seeing Mrs. Marsh really desired it—Mrs. Trent and Cousin Becky went too. On the latter occasion, the subject of summer holidays was mooted.
"You really ought all to have a nice change to the sea-side this summer, Mary," Mrs. Marsh said to her sister-in-law in her usual inconsiderate fashion. "Surely Martin will be able to manage it?"
"I am afraid not," Mrs. Trent answered, a wistful expression creeping into her eyes.
"You have not had a holiday for years," Mrs. Marsh persisted, "and Martin himself must badly need a change."
"Yes," assented Mrs. Trent; "but I fear there is no greater chance of his getting it this year than last," she added with a faint sigh.
"It is a long lane that has no turning," Cousin Becky quoted cheerfully. She looked at Polly as she spoke, and, though the little girl failed to grasp the meaning of the old proverb, she understood the glance of Cousin Becky's eyes, which smilingly reminded her of their secret.
How wonderful it would be if the little bird Cousin Becky had spoken of had really told true!
THE clay works adjoining Beaworthy extended over many acres of ground, and were a source of great wealth to their owner—Mr. Marsh—who, however, was seen there only occasionally, for he employed an outdoor manager in whom he had implicit confidence. One hot July afternoon he arrived unexpectedly upon the scene of operations, driving in his dog-cart with his little son by his side, and called a man off his work to come and hold the horse.
"I can do that, father," said Edgar eagerly; "Darkie is very quiet, I can manage him all right."
"I daresay you can," Mr. Marsh admitted, for the horse, though spirited, was free from vice, "but I should not be satisfied to leave you in charge alone. I may keep you waiting some time, and if so Darkie will probably grow fidgety."
So the man—a thin, pale-faced man he was—took up his position at the horse's head, and stroked the creature's sleek neck. Darkie was a strong, brown cob, with a mealy nose and a satin-smooth coat. Edgar, who, at his mother's suggestion, was taking a half-holiday from school, thought his father might have trusted him alone with Darkie. The boy was not looking well, and he seemed in very poor spirits. For some minutes after Mr. Marsh had left him he did not speak; but at last he turned his attention to his companion, and inquired his name.
"Caleb Glubb, sir," was the response.
"Why, you are the man who had that bad accident back in the spring, then!" Edgar exclaimed, interested at once. "I've heard all about you from my cousins, and I know where you live. Are you quite well now?"
"Yes, thank you, sir, though not so strong as I was before my accident, perhaps. I was in hospital a long while, and after I came out I wasn't fit for work for weeks. Sickness does pull one down and no mistake. Ah, your cousins were very good to my poor wife in her trouble! There are not many children so kind as they are, but Sarah—that's my wife—says they're brought up to be feeling-hearted."
"What could they do for her?" asked Edgar. "Did they give her money?"
"They did, sir." The man's pale countenance brightened into a smile, and his voice bespoke his gratitude. "Would you believe that they actually saved their pocket-money and gave it to Sarah? Yes, that's what they did, and we're not likely to forget it."
"Was it much?" questioned Edgar; "but no, they get very little money to spend."
"That's what touched me so deeply," said the man. "They'd been rich folks it would have been different. Sarah took the money because they wished it, and—bless their dear hearts!—she said it made them so happy to think they'd been able to help her."
Edgar was silent for many minutes, whilst he reflected that he had never helped anyone in his life. He could not but admire the generous spirit which had prompted his cousins to assist the family in distress, though he would have understood it better if they had had more money to spare. Although he had a plentiful supply of pocket-money, he always spent it on himself; no one had ever had cause to bless him as this man had blessed Polly and Roger who had so little to give.
"I heard about the postal orders which your wife received every week," he said by-and-by. "Did you ever find out who sent them?"
"Never, sir. They came regularly every Saturday morning until I was well enough to earn full wages again, and then they stopped. I'd give a great deal to know who our unknown friend is, but we can't even make a guess as to who it can possibly be. As Sarah says, whoever it is doesn't wish to be thanked, that's certain. I shall never forget the first time Sarah told me she'd had a postal order for a pound sent her! It seemed like a miracle; and when, the next week, the same amount of money came again, and the week after, and so on, I knew God had raised up a friend for us who didn't mean to see my wife and children go short."
By-and-by Edgar grew tired of his position in the dog-cart, and got down. He wandered about watching the men at work in the various pits. In some they were cutting the clay out in squares; in others they were engaged in propping up the sides of the shafts with wooden stays; and from several water was being pumped up. It was a busy scene and one of considerable interest to Edgar, who visited the clay works but seldom, as he had received strict injunctions never to go there alone. Presently he turned his attention to a couple of men who were busily employed in sawing a tree into planks in a saw pit. It was most trying work for a hot summer's day, and when they stopped to indulge in drinks of cold tea from a keg, their faces were covered with perspiration, and they appeared quite done up. One of them good-naturedly offered Edgar a drink, but he declined it, and moved on. The clay which was being raised from one of the shafts was nearly as black as coal, and beside this shaft stood Mr. Marsh in conversation with the manager of the works. He turned to his little son, remarking that he supposed he had grown tired of waiting for him.
"Yes," Edgar assented, "so I have been having a look around. What dirty looking clay, father! Is it any good?"
"It is, indeed," Mr. Marsh answered, exchanging an amused glance with the manager. "In fact, it is of far greater value than the white clay, and we hope there is a big vein of it."
"I thought it was poor stuff," Edgar said, much surprised.
"On the contrary," his father assured him. "This dark clay will burn whitest of all and make the best quality china."
"Fancy that!" the little boy exclaimed, approaching nearer the edge of the shaft and peering down.
"Don't go too close," advised the manager hastily. "One false step and you'd have a dreadful fall—be killed, perhaps."
"I'll be careful," Edgar answered as he stood leaning forward, looking into the black depths below.
His father caught him by the arm and pulled him sharply back with a stern rebuke for his foolhardiness.
"There was no chance of my falling," Edgar declared, rather disconcerted. "I never get giddy."
"You cannot be certain you would not," Mr. Marsh said somewhat sternly. "You had better keep by my side, and then I shall know you are safe. I see you are not to be trusted by yourself."
"Very well, father," his son agreed. "I won't go away."
Subsequent to a little further conversation with the manager, Mr. Marsh retraced his footsteps to the dog-cart and Edgar followed him. They took their seats in the vehicle; and Caleb Glubb, after putting the reins into his master's hand, touched his cap and returned to his work, whilst Darkie started homewards at a good rate.
"Do you know who that man is?" Edgar inquired as soon as they were in the high road and passing the long rows of labour-men's cottages. "He lives there in that little house with the flowers in the garden."
"Does he?" Mr. Marsh said carelessly. "He is the poor fellow who met with a serious accident in the spring. But how did you come to know of him? I suppose you've been talking to him, eh?"
Edgar explained all he had heard concerning Caleb Glubb and his family from his cousins, winding up by repeating his conversation with the man that afternoon. Mr. Marsh listened at first with little interest; but he grew more alert towards the conclusion of his son's tale.
"I believe your cousins are good-natured children," he said when Edgar had ceased speaking. "Polly is a nice little girl, open as the day; and Roger—by the way, you have not seen much of him these last few weeks, have you?"
"No, father."
"How is that?"
"He—he avoids me," Edgar admitted, not explaining that that was his fault.
"Avoids you, eh? Why?"
"I don't know."
"I thought you were going to be friends." There was a decidedly troubled expression on Mr. Marsh's face, and he was so taken up with his own thoughts that he did not notice how guilty Edgar was looking.
By this time they had reached the town, and, shortly after passing the Grammar School, they overtook Roger himself on his way home. The little boy lifted his cap to his uncle, whilst a smile lit up his face; and Mr. Marsh asked himself if the owner of such a bright, frank countenance could possibly have robbed him of the missing coin. It seemed incredible, and yet his suspicion of his nephew was very strong.
"Roger is generally liked at school, is he not?" he asked. "He holds a good character, eh?"
"Oh yes," Edgar responded earnestly. "All the masters like him, and so do the boys."
"I hope he deserves their good opinion."
"I am sure he does, father."
Edgar was not sorry when the drive was at an end, for the doubtful way in which his father had spoken of his cousin had made him utterly miserable. He sometimes felt that he never would be happy again, for the sight of Roger was a constant reproach to him; and they might have been such good friends. He knew how true-hearted Roger was, and that he would scorn to act in any way that was not strictly honourable. What would his feelings be if he ever found out his uncle's suspicions of him? But he was not in the least likely to find it out. Edgar tried to obtain consolation in that thought, and then another would occur to his troubled mind. Supposing Roger discovered that the Calais Noble was lost, would he tell that his cousin had exhibited it at school? No, he had promised he would not, and he could be trusted to keep his word, at all costs.
Poor Edgar! He tried to think his guilty secret was safe with himself; but he was always in terror, lest by some unforeseen means it should be found out. The summer term, which should have passed so pleasantly, was completely spoilt for him; he had no heart to play cricket, but moped about the grounds at home on the weekly holiday, whilst it puzzled his mother why he did not care to join his school-fellows in their various pursuits. Why should her boy be different to others, she wondered? She was not unsociable herself, and she could not understand why Edgar should prefer to keep himself to himself. She had hoped he would have made friends at school.
"WHAT a lot of letters you get, Cousin Becky!"
It was Polly who made this remark, one morning, as on taking her seat at the breakfast table she noticed several envelopes by Miss Trent's plate. It was very innocently said, not instigated by curiosity, and the little girl was quite unprepared for the look of confusion and the deepening colour with which it was greeted by Cousin Becky, who, however, merely replied that she had a large circle of correspondents.
"Attend to the business in hand, Polly, and eat your breakfast," said Mr. Trent, a trifle sharply. "You talk too much, my dear."
"That's what I am always telling her; she's a regular Poll parrot," laughed Roger, who, boy-like, was ever ready to tease his sister.
Polly deigned no answer, and during the meal she kept a dignified silence; but when she and her mother were alone, at lesson time, she reverted to the subject of Cousin Becky's letters.
"I did not know it was rude to speak of them," she said in a slightly injured tone. "Do you think it was, mother?"
"Not rude, exactly," Mrs. Trent answered, "but it was scarcely good manners. You would not like Cousin Becky to consider you inquisitive about her correspondence, would you?"
"No, indeed; but I am sure she would not think that. Perhaps I had better apologise to her?"
"No, dear, that would be making a great deal too much of a slight matter; but, in future, do not be so quick to remark upon another person's business."
"I am afraid Cousin Becky did not like my mentioning her letters," sighed Polly, "but she must know I did not mean to be rude. I think she is very fond of writing letters, mother, she writes so many in her own room."
"No doubt she is," Mrs. Trent responded carelessly; but she looked a trifle puzzled, for, like her little daughter, she had on several occasions been struck by the number of Miss Trent's correspondents.
It was the second week in July by this time, and the weather was intensely hot by day. The evenings were delightful, however, and often Miss Trent, who was a capital walker for a woman of her age, took her young cousins, after they had learnt their lessons, for pleasant rambles in the country. On one of these occasions they were passing the Rookery when they saw Edgar looking disconsolately through the bars of the big entrance gate, and Cousin Becky asked him to join them in their walk. His face brightened perceptibly at her invitation, but it clouded again as he caught sight of Roger's expression, which was anything but pleased.
"No, thank you," he answered with a little choke in his voice. "Roger doesn't want me, I see."
"Nonsense!" exclaimed Cousin Becky. "You would like to come with us, would you not?" She looked from one boy to the other in bewilderment as she spoke. "What is amiss?" she questioned in accents of growing concern. "Have you fallen out?"
"Oh no, it's not that," Polly responded, seeing neither her brother nor her cousin had an answer ready; "but Edgar's much too high and mighty for Roger—"
"I'm not, Polly, you know I'm not!' Edgar broke in passionately, amazed at her words, and stung by the sarcasm of her tone.
"No, you're not," she agreed, "but you think you are! You consider yourself above us because you're richer than we are—because your father's richer than our father, I mean. Roger's told me everything—how you've been keeping him at a distance, hardly ever speaking to him, and never walking home from school with him as you used to do. Don't think we want you to come with us, pray." The little girl paused and looked indignantly at her cousin. To her surprise there were tears in Edgar's blue eyes, and instead of showing resentment he seemed greatly abashed. "You're no better than Roger," she added, "and if you think he wants to have anything to do with you, you're much mistaken."
"Hush, hush, my dear," admonished Cousin Becky, "you give that sharp tongue of yours too much licence. I did not know you could be such a little shrew."
"Indeed, Polly, you're wrong; I don't think myself better than Roger," Edgar said tremulously, and there was a ring of sincerity in his tone which his hearers could not fail to note. "You don't understand—I—I think you're very unkind, and I—oh, dear, you can't imagine how wretched I am! I'm so lonely."
"Lonely?" exclaimed Cousin Becky. "Then why not come with us?"
"But they don't want me," Edgar demurred, looking dubiously from one cousin to the other. "I—I don't wish to spoil their walk."
"You won't do that," Cousin Becky assured him. "Come, children," she continued persuasively, "have done with misunderstandings, and let us all be friends. Roger, won't you speak to your cousin, my dear?"
Roger hesitated; but, meeting an appealing glance from Edgar, his heart relented towards him, and he said simply:
"I don't want to be unfriendly with you, Edgar; but, really, you're the oddest boy I know. I never know how to take you, you're so changeable; you've been keeping out of my way for weeks, I cannot imagine why."
"And I can't explain," Edgar replied; "if I did you'd understand the reason quick enough, and you'd hate and despise me."
This sounded very mysterious; but knowing how prone children are to exaggeration, Cousin Becky was not so impressed as might have been expected. Polly and Roger exchanged questioning glances, but they refrained from putting any questions. Edgar was outside the gate by this time, and he raised no further objections to joining in the walk. At first he appeared in a very depressed state of mind; but by-and-by he grew more cheerful, and began to enjoy the company of his cousins. His manner was so unusually subdued and humble that even Polly relented towards him after a while, and when, on their way homewards, they said good-bye to him at the Rookery gate, she remarked in a tone, which though condescending was not unkind:
"I think it's a great pity you're not always so nice as you've been to-night."
After that evening Edgar frequently joined his cousins in their walks, and the cloud which had overshadowed him certainly lifted a little. His conscience still continued to prick him when he was in Roger's society, but not so sorely as it had done; for he was growing more and more hopeful that his cousin would never find out the Calais Noble was lost, and his fear of being questioned by him about it was passing away.
Meanwhile, it was drawing near the end of the term, and there was much talk amongst the Grammar School boys about the coming holidays. Mr. Trent was to get a holiday of three weeks in August, too; but he had not suggested spending it away from Beaworthy, so that when, one evening, Cousin Becky asked him if he proposed going to the sea-side, he glanced at her in surprise as he answered promptly:
"Oh no! It's quite out of the question."
"But, Martin, you want a change badly," his wife reminded him. "Don't you think it would do him good if he would go away by himself for a fortnight," she continued, appealing to Cousin Becky, "to some place where he could get good boating and fishing?"
"No, I do not," Cousin Becky replied with a ring of decision in her voice. "I don't think he would enjoy a holiday without his wife and family. You ought all to go."
"I thought you realised the impossibility of such a plan," Mrs. Trent said, almost reproachfully, astonished that Cousin Becky, who had proved herself quick-witted on more than one occasion, should be so uncommonly dense now.
"But is it impossible?" Cousin Becky queried; "I don't think so. I know a charming village called Lynn on the coast of Norfolk, which would be the very place for you to go to, for it is most remarkably healthy and bracing. I stayed there myself with my dear brother on various occasions, at a house belonging to a lady—a great friend of ours. She—this lady—wants me to go there again this summer; but I am determined I will not unless you all accompany me. There is the house, furnished, and waiting for us to occupy it, and all we have to do is to pack up here and take possession of it."
"But I don't understand," said Mrs. Trent, her face a picture of bewilderment. "Does your friend let her house furnished?"
"No, she never lets it, though she rarely occupies it herself; she only lends it to her friends. What do you say to closing the house here at the beginning of next month? Should you object?"
"Object?" Mrs. Trent echoed. "No, indeed, on the contrary—"
"Then let us all go together for a few weeks' holiday to the Mill House at Lynn. You will have no rent to pay there, and it will be a most pleasant change at very little expense. Shall we say it is decided?" And the old lady looked from one to the other of her cousins with a smile which hid the anxiety with which she anticipated an answer.
"Oh, how splendid it would be!" cried Polly, who, with her brother, had been listening to the conversation in silence hitherto. "Oh, dear, dear Cousin Becky, I do believe that little bird told you the truth, and that we are really going to have a summer holiday!" And the child danced wildly round the room in her excitement.
"And it's near the sea?" questioned Roger eagerly. "Oh, that's grand! We shall be able to bathe, and father will teach me to swim—won't you, father?"
"Not so fast, my son," admonished Mr. Trent, "you speak as though everything was settled. Cousin Becky," he proceeded, turning to the old lady who was regarding him appealingly, "you have planned a most alluring programme for us, but it seems to me we ought not to accept so great a favour as the loan of a house would be from a complete stranger."
"But I know her very well," Cousin Becky broke in eagerly, "and I am at liberty to entertain who I like at the Mill House during August; you will be my guests. You do not suggest, I suppose, that I should go to the Mill House alone? Oh, Martin, I have set my heart on our all having a nice holiday together; please do not disappoint me! Think how much good a thorough change of air will do you all. I want to see some roses in your wife's white cheeks, and Polly is looking a great deal too pale. Do not go against me in this matter, pray."
Mr. Trent hesitated, whilst he glanced inquiringly at his wife. "What do you think about it, my dear?" he asked. "Do you wish to accede to this plan which Cousin Becky has made for our benefit?"
"So much, Martin," she confessed. "It has taken me by surprise, but it would be so very nice if we could all have a holiday together. We have not had one for so long."
There was a ring of unconscious pathos in Mrs. Trent's voice, which settled the question as far as her husband was concerned, for he turned immediately to Cousin Becky, and said:
"It shall be as you will, but we shall be under a great obligation to your friend; I hope you will make her understand how grateful we feel. Is she at Lynn at present?"
"No, she is very rarely there, and if we do not occupy the Mill House next month, no one else will, so you need not burden yourself with any sense of obligation. It is a comfortable house, old, and plainly furnished; but I am sure you will like it. I think, by the way, it would be a good plan to take Louisa with us instead of getting help from the village."
Mrs. Trent agreed. She was only a little less excited than the children at the prospect of a holiday, and Cousin Becky was plainly delighted at having gained her own way, and confessed that she had been planning this treat for them in her mind several weeks, and had been awaiting a favourable opportunity to broach the subject. Mr. Trent, too, seemed very pleased; but at the same time he was rather puzzled. He wondered who Cousin Becky's friend could be and why she had not mentioned her by name; he had remarked that she had carefully abstained from doing so.