Chapter Seven.Digby finds that a Bad Adviser is the worst of Friends—More Mischief and its Inconveniences—Serious Consequences Threatened.Julian and Digby would very much have liked to have been sent to Coventry, the morning after their cannon-firing, so that no disagreeable questions might have been asked them. They dressed slowly and tried to look over their lessons in their room, but got very little information out of their books. They felt very foolish when the bell rang, aid they had to make their appearance in the breakfast-room. Morning prayers were over, and they took their seats round the breakfast-table.“Well, Julian, did you not hear the noise last night?” were the first words Marshall spoke.“What noise?” asked Julian; “I sleep very soundly; it must have been a row to awake me.”“Why, the guns of the old castle going off by themselves,” said Power.“Not a sound,” said Julian, hoarsely.Digby looked at him, and wondered if his friend had any conscience. What should he say? there was the difficulty. He had always scorned a lie; if so point blank a question were put to him, how could he answer and not betray their secret?“And did you sleep through it too, Digby?” said his uncle.“No, I heard the noise very clearly,” answered Digby, and he felt happier after he had said this, though Julian gave him a tremendous kick on the shins under the table.“How could you remain quietly in bed after it?” asked Marshall.“I was out,” answered Digby firmly, “but I got back before you, since you must know all about it. I don’t think that you have a right to be asking me questions, which I may not wish to answer. If I speak at all, I wish to speak the truth. More I do not wish to say; and now, if you like, tell me what you thought about it.”Mr Nugent looked surprised at Digby’s firmness and unusual vehemence, but suspecting that Julian had not spoken the truth, and that Digby wished not to betray him, forbore to press the matter further.Of course, both the boys were on tenter-hooks during the whole of breakfast. Digby applied himself sturdily to his food and eat on without speaking, as if he was in a very sulky mood. All day, too, while they were at their lessons, every time there was a ring at the door, they fancied that some one was coming to accuse them of their misdemeanor. Digby thought much less about it than Julian, and it also troubled him much less, because he had made up his mind, if directly accused of the deed, to acknowledge it at once, without the slightest attempt at evasion. His conscience told him, that this was the only right course to pursue; any other would plunge him into a sea of falsehood, from which he shrunk with dread. He intended, if he could avoid so doing, not to inculpate Julian, but to take all the blame on his own shoulders.“Julian says he was not out of bed that night; he is very wrong, but I don’t want to get him into a scrape if he wishes to avoid it,” he thought to himself.Unfortunately, he did not see Julian’s conduct in its true light. That young gentleman was all the time thinking, and plotting, and contriving, how he should himself get out of the scrape. He had already told one falsehood, he must invent others to avoid being found out after all. He could not fix his attention on his lessons, and, of course, he did them very badly.“You must stay in and learn these twelve lines of your Delectus by heart,” said Mr Nugent, who was much displeased with him.Digby, who had done his lessons much in his usual way, which was seldom very first-rate by-the-by, was allowed to go out. Of course all the rest were eager to go to the fort, and Digby was compelled to go with them. This was doubly annoying to Julian, who wanted to have a few minutes’ conversation with him to get him to promise not to betray him, and to induce him, if possible, to tell a long story which he had concocted, to account for his not hearing the noise, and for his not accompanying Digby afterwards to the fort.When Digby and his companions reached the fort, he was astonished at the mischief which had been committed. The old guns lay on the ground with large pieces torn out of them, and their carriages knocked to atoms, while a portion of the parapet round the embrasures had been crumbled into powder.While they were running about, who should walk into the fort but worthy Mr Simson, the grocer. He watched his opportunity when Digby was separated from his companions, and drew him aside.“I hope the other gentleman isn’t hurt,” he said.“No, he hasn’t done his lessons, so he is not allowed to go out,” answered Digby.“I was afraid he might be hurt. Well, you two had a fortunate escape,” observed Mr Simson; “I know all about it; I don’t want to betray you, though; I have boys of my own: but you mustn’t do the same thing again, that is all.”“Thank you,” answered Digby, “I am very much obliged to you, indeed I am.”“That’s what I like, young gentleman, that’s manly and right-spirited,” said Mr Simson, taking his hand and pressing it warmly. “I wouldn’t betray you on any account, that I wouldn’t. Trust to me.”Digby was much happier after this. He felt, however, that he had escaped a great danger of the whole matter being known, and though he couldn’t exactly divine what punishment he might have inflicted on him, he knew that he should at all events have been made to look very foolish.“They wouldn’t hang a fellow for such a thing, and I don’t suppose they would send me to prison. Still, I am really very grateful to kind Mr Simson for not peaching. I’ll always deal with him in future. How did he find out all about it, I wonder?”He heard with much more indifference than at first, the various remarks and conjectures made on the subject, and the feeling that he had acted a manly part about it enabled him to look people boldly in the face, and thus he escaped the suspicion which would otherwise have fallen on him. When he got home he found Julian very dull and sorry for himself. He told him what Mr Simson had said.“Oh, then, he will go and peach upon us, and it will all be found out,” exclaimed Julian, half-crying.“But he promised that he would say nothing about the matter,” urged Digby.“So he might, but one can’t trust to a shopkeeper,” answered Julian, with a scornful turn of his lip.“I don’t see that,” replied Digby; “if he is an honourable man and has good feelings, I think that one may trust to a shopkeeper as well as to the first noble in the land; I know that my uncle often says that one man’s word is as good as that of another, provided both are equally honest and upright.”“All I know is, that old Simson was very impertinent to me when I went to buy the gunpowder,” said Julian; “if I hadn’t wanted more I wouldn’t have gone to him again.”“He cautioned me about it, and not without some reason,” said Digby; “So I’ll maintain that old Simson is a very good fellow, and, what’s more, I’m sure he looks like a gentleman in every way.”Several days passed by, and though inquiries were made and numbers of people were examined, no clue was discovered to the originators of what the county papers called that mysterious circumstance at Osberton. Digby couldn’t help cutting out the paragraph, and sending it to Kate, darkly hinting that he might, perhaps, some day enlighten her about the matter. He was afraid of committing the account to paper, but her very acute perception at once divined that he had taken a prominent part in the affair. How she did long to hear all about it, and how he did long for the holidays that he might tell her. He had an idea that his uncle knew something about it, because after this neither he nor Julian were allowed to go out, except in company with Marshall or Power, or Toby Tubb. One day, however, all the boys had gone together to the beach, and by some means or other, unintentionally, while some were climbing up over the cliffs, Digby got separated from the rest. As he knew his way home, however, perfectly well, he did not care about it, even though it was growing dark. He had not gone far when two men overtook him; they were rough-looking fellows and dressed as seamen; he did not altogether like their appearance. They went on some little way, and then turning back, they looked him in the face, and one of them said—“Are you Squire Heathcote’s son, master?”“Yes,” answered Digby, “I am. Why do you want to know?”“I’ve asked a civil question, and you’ve given a civil answer, master. Good-night,” replied the man who had before spoken; and then they both walked rapidly on.Digby thought it rather odd that men of that sort should wish to know who he was, but troubled himself very little more about the matter.When he got home, his uncle inquired how he came to be later than the rest; and knowing he always spoke the truth, was perfectly satisfied with his explanation.“Your uncle seems to think that he can trust you much more than he can me,” observed Julian one day. “It is very hard upon me, as I am older. He favours you as a relation, that’s it, I’ve no doubt.”Digby made no reply, but he felt indignant, as he could not bear to have his uncle, whom he respected, spoken ill of.By degrees Julian recovered his usual state of mind, and, as he did so, his fertile brain began to devise fresh schemes of mischief. Since his liberty had been curtailed he found them, however, much more difficult to carry out. It may seem strange that, after all the anxiety and inconvenience he had suffered in consequence of his last achievement, he should be eager to do something which was likely to produce the same results; but such is unfortunately too generally the case with evildoers. Unless some severe punishment follows they go on and on, committing the same evil again and again. Indeed, even punishment will not always deter people who have given themselves up to evil ways from continuing in them; and men have frequently been known, the very day after they have been released from prison, to have committed the very crime for which they have been confined. Reformation of heart and character is what is required, and this had not taken place with regard to Julian Langley.“I’ve hit upon a capital idea, Digby,” said he one day when the two were alone; “help me out with it.”“What is it?” asked his companion.“I’ve been thinking what fun it would be to set all the fishing-boats out in the river adrift. How they would knock about each other, and how angry the boatmen would be.”“I should think they would be angry, indeed,” answered Digby, stoutly. “Fun is fun, but it seems to me that a great deal of harm might be done by what you propose. I’d advise you to give up the idea; I’ll have nothing to do with it.”“I thought you were a fellow of spirit, Digby,” sneered Julian. “What great harm can there be in letting a few old fishermen’s boats knock together?”“Why, they might get carried out to sea, and be lost altogether, and have their sides stove in, or holes made in their bottoms, or be sunk, and lose their oars and sails; indeed, I can fancy a great deal of damage might be done,” said Digby. “I think that it would be very wrong and cruel to the poor fishermen.”“Oh, now I see you are going to take a leaf out of your uncle’s book, and to turn saint,” sneered Julian. This was one of his most powerful expressions. He knew that Digby especially disliked being called a saint, and that he often confessed, as do many older people with equal thoughtlessness, that he did not set up for a saint. People seem not to consider, if they do not wish to become saints, what they really do desire to become. Certainly none but saints can inherit the glories of eternity; and unless they trust in the merits of One who can cleanse them from their sins, and make them saints, so that they may be presented spotless to the Father Almighty, from those glories they will be shut out.Poor Digby winced under Julian’s sneer. “A saint; no, I am no saint, I hope, but I don’t want to injure the poor fishermen,” he answered, firmly.“Injure them! Who’s going to injure them?” exclaimed Julian, petulantly. “I’ve made up my mind to have my lark, and have it I will. If any great harm comes I’m ready to bear it. You won’t peach upon me, I suppose?”“No,” answered Digby, indignantly. “I like fun as much as you; and if I saw the fun I’d do it willingly.”Julian thought that Digby was relenting, and still pressed the matter, but in vain. “Well, if you won’t go I must get somebody else. I know a fellow who will help, though none of the sneaks here will join me,” said Julian, walking away.Digby felt satisfied that he had done right, still he did not like to let Julian go away, and have his fun by himself.The latter young gentleman went into the garden, and disappeared in the shrubbery. In spite of the prohibition still existing against his going out alone, he jumped over the wall, and betook himself to the river side. He had scraped acquaintance with a lad of his own age, the son of a small innkeeper, who had been a smuggler, and was still, it was suspected, intimately connected with smugglers.Dick Owlett was certainly not a fit associate for the son of the Honorable Mr Langley; but vice more than anything else creates incongruous companionships. Young Owlett was ready to do anything Julian proposed, because he fancied that he might easily throw all the blame on Julian’s shoulders, or else that, through Julian’s influence, they both might escape punishment. Dick had none of Digby’s scruples, so the whole plan was soon arranged. Both had thoroughly ill-regulated minds, and rejoiced in mischief for mischief’s sake.Julian came back unperceived, and, in high spirits, told Digby that he was going to have his fun in spite of him.The following night Julian awoke Digby about eleven o’clock, and told him that he must help him to get out of the window, and wait his return to let him in again.Digby expostulated, but in vain; he had not yet learned that the only sure way for the young to avoid the contamination of evildoers is to keep out of their society altogether. So Digby agreed to sit up till Julian’s return.The rope was secured, Julian descended by it, and off he ran across the lawn towards the wall, over which he had so often before made his escape from the premises.Digby waited and waited; Julian did not return. He became very anxious about him. He wished that he had taken stronger measures to prevent his carrying out his foolish and mischievous prank. The only effectual way to have prevented him would have been to have told Marshall or his uncle, but such a proceeding was so contrary to all his notions of what ought to be done, that it did not even occur to him. He could not exactly tell how time passed, but he thought that Julian must have been away a very long time. He could bear the suspense no longer. Some boys of his age would have gone to bed, and cried, or sat quaking with fear. To do this was not at all in Digby’s nature. He loved action; he must be up and doing. He knew the road Julian would have taken, and he resolved to go and look for him. It did not occur to him that he should thus run a great risk of being implicated in whatever his companion had done; had he, I do not believe that the fear of that would have weighed with him a moment. He put on all his clothes and his shoes, and, without further consideration, slipped down the rope, gained the wall, and ran on as fast as his legs could carry him towards the river. He got very nearly to the spot where he thought Julian would have embarked, when he met two boys running. “Who’s there?—Julian, is that you?” he exclaimed.“Oh, Digby, how you startled me,” exclaimed one of the boys. It was Julian who spoke.“All right,” cried Digby. “I became very anxious. I was afraid some harm had happened, and so I set off to look for you; but why are you running so fast?”“Because we are afraid somebody is after us,” answered Julian, almost breathless. “We’ve done it, though, and rare fun there will be to-morrow to see what has become of all the boats.”It was not necessary for Julian to tell Digby to turn back; he had at once done so, and they were running on together. They turned their heads for a moment, and Dick Owlett had disappeared. His reason for so doing was very evident. Digby thus, very unintentionally, slipped into his shoes. They soon had to cross a meadow; their own footsteps now making but a slight noise, they were able to hear the sound of another person fast approaching them.“It may be Dick Owlett,” said Julian, in a low voice. “Still, if it is one of the coastguard men we shall catch it. Run, Digby, run.”Digby could have run a great deal faster than he was running, but had he done so he would have left Julian behind. Their pursuer, whoever he was, came on very rapidly. They had scarcely crossed the field when, looking back, they saw him at the other end of it. He must have seen them. It seemed very useless, therefore, to attempt to escape, but their natural impulse was to run on till he put his hand on their shoulder to stop them. Julian wanted to jump into a ditch and hide, as they had before done, but Digby protested against this, and insisted on running on. Across the fields they went—now they thought that they had escaped their pursuer—now they saw him again. Sometimes he got very close to them, and then they distanced him. At last they got up to the garden-wall. The footsteps sounded terribly loud close behind them. They rushed on. Julian, always most anxious to escape from danger, had first sprung to the top of the wall, and Digby was helping him over, when a person leaped forward, and seizing Julian by the leg, and Digby by the shoulder, exclaimed—“Hillo, young gentlemen, is it you, then, who have been about this pretty piece of mischief? What will your master say to you, I should like to know? It’s lucky we found it out, or there’s no saying what damage might have been done; however, that’s no excuse for you—so come along with me to the front door, and I’ll hand you over to Mr Nugent, or I’ll take you to the lock-up house, and let you stay there till the morning.”Julian nudged Digby, to induce him to speak. He took the hint.“I have nothing to do with the mischief of which you are talking,” he exclaimed, boldly. “I don’t know by what right you venture to detain me. I had a good reason for being out, which will, I believe, satisfy Mr Nugent, but I do not see that you, whoever you are, or any other man, has a right to call on me to explain it.”“Tell that to the marines, youngster; you are not going to impose on an old salt,” answered the revenue man, for such he appeared. “Why, I traced you from the time you jumped on shore every inch of the way to this place.”“That you could not,” answered Digby; “I have not been on the water to-night.”“Well, you are a bold young ruffian,” exclaimed the man, fairly exasperated at Digby’s coolness. “I never have heard anybody, man or boy, tell a lie and stick to it as you can do.”“You are very impertinent,” said Digby, who, knowing that he really was speaking the truth, forgot that it was not possible for the man to believe him. It did not occur to him that he very naturally was mistaken for Dick Owlett.“Well, if it comes to that,” said the man, “the sooner we go and talk to Mr Nugent the better. I don’t suppose that he allows his young gentlemen to be running about at nights for their own amusement.” Saying this their captor, who was a strong stout man, carried them off in spite of their struggles to the front door of the house. He rang and knocked for some time without succeeding in awaking any one.The feelings of Digby and Julian may more easily be conceived than described, though, as may be supposed from what I have already mentioned of their characters, they were very different. They did not dare to communicate with each other, and so all they could do was to hold their tongues. At last Mr Nugent was aroused, and supposing that some sick parishioner wanted his attendance, he got up, dressed, and came down stairs. What was his astonishment at seeing two of his pupils in the hands of a revenue officer.“Please, sir, I’ve brought you these two young gentlemen, to tell you that they have been playing no end of mischief down in the harbour, there, to-night—cutting the fishing-boats adrift, and letting them run foul of each other. If you like to take charge of them and have them ready when they are wanted, I’ll leave them; if not, I’ll take them off to the lock-up house, to pass the rest of the night.”Poor Mr Nugent could not believe his senses. He stood staring first at one and then at the other, fully believing that he was dreaming. Then he rubbed his eyes and felt his clothes, to assure himself that he had got up and dressed. “What is it all about?” he at last exclaimed. “Out on the river—in the middle of the night—you, Digby—you, Julian Langley. I cannot comprehend it. Come in, though, I am very much grieved; I beg that you, James Sutton, will explain matters more fully.” Without saying more, Mr Nugent led the way to his study, when lighting the candles he sat down, while the accuser and the two culprits stood before him. “Now, James Sutton, tell me your story, if you please,” he said, calmly.“Why, sir, these young gentlemen have been having what I suppose they call a lark. They went down to the river, shoved off in a boat, and went round, and with their knives cut the cables of a number of the fishermen’s boats and other small craft lying in the harbour. The ebb was just making, and the boats drove one against another; some went on shore, and others would have gone out to sea and been lost, but our boat was just coming in. Of course we boarded them, and finding no one in them, suspected that something was wrong. As our boat is white, and we pulled with muffled oars, and our young gentlemen were very busy, they did not see us. We should have caught them in the act, but that we had to look after some of the boats. We saw them just landing, so our chief boatman put me on shore, and told me to follow them up and see where they went to. I didn’t think, you may be sure, that they were your young gentlemen.”“You acted in every way rightly,” said Mr Nugent. “And now, Julian, what have you to say to this?”“That it is a base fabrication,” answered Julian. “I had no right to be out at night, that I know. I went out for a lark, because I couldn’t sleep, and meeting Digby we came back together; but that I did anything else I defy anybody to prove.”“Oh,” said Mr Nugent. “What do you say to this, Digby?”“That I had not been out of the house twenty minutes when this man caught hold of me,” answered Digby, quietly. “I certainly was not doing any harm, though I ought not to have left the house without leave. I, however, am ready to stand the consequences of doing so.”“Well!” exclaimed Sutton, “he is the lad to swear that black is white, and make another believe it.”“I never knew him tell an untruth, Sutton,” observed Mr Nugent. “There is a mystery about the matter which I cannot yet fathom.”“Well, sir, I will leave the young gentlemen with you, and you will be answerable for their appearance when they are wanted,” said Sutton, laying a strong emphasis on that word wanted, which has so much significance to thieves and vagabonds.Julian and Digby did not quite comprehend it in the way Sutton wished, but they guessed that there was something unpleasant connected with it.“Of course, Sutton, I will take care that they are forthcoming when required to answer for what has occurred,” replied Mr Nugent, in a tone which showed how grieved and annoyed he was. “Come to me, however, at nine o’clock in the morning, and I will inquire further into it.”When Sutton had taken his departure, Mr Nugent, desiring Digby to stay where he was, led Julian upstairs to his bedroom. The window was open, and the knotted rope hung to it. Mr Nugent stood aghast. “Have you often made use of this, young gentleman?” he asked.Julian was really frightened, and burst out crying, in dread that his various misdemeanors would at length be brought to light. “Only once or twice, and merely for a lark, without any harm in it,” he answered, as soon as he could bring out his words. “If you will overlook it this time, sir, Digby and I won’t do it again—that I promise; indeed we won’t, sir.”“I conclude that you will not,” said Mr Nugent, drily. “However, I do not consider it at all a slight thing to have my young gentlemen running about the country at midnight, and laying themselves open to such accusations as have been brought against you to-night. You ran as great a risk of having an accusation brought against you of being concerned in a burglary, or in the robbery of a hen-roost. And listen to me, Julian Langley, I deeply regret that I cannot trust your word, and I am not at all satisfied that you will be proved innocent of the crime of which Sutton says you are guilty. Now, go to bed, and pray that you may have a new heart put into you.”“But Digby, sir, you’ll forgive him, may he not come up and go to bed,” said Julian, making a mighty effort to speak, for he thought that everything would depend on his being able to put Digby up to what he should say.“Certainly not,” answered Mr Nugent, who divined his motive. “I cannot allow you and Digby again to associate till this mystery is cleared up. Pull off your clothes and jump into bed.”Mr Nugent having taken possession of the rope, and shut, the window, took the candle, and walked away, leaving Julian to his meditations, or to sleep if he could. His meditations could not have been of a pleasant character, though it was not so much the folly of his conduct as the fear of the consequences which annoyed him. At last he fell asleep. Meantime Mr Nugent went back to his nephew.“Digby,” he said, looking gravely at him, “you have often been thoughtless and idle, but I have ever found you truthful; I trust that you will be so on this occasion. Tell me what you know about this matter.”“I will tell you about my share in it, uncle, but I hope you will let Julian answer for himself. All the fellows say that there is nothing so bad as one fellow peaching against another, and I don’t want to do it,” answered Digby, firmly.Mr Nugent was too well acquainted with schoolboy notions of honour and morality to be surprised at this speech.“But it is also very bad to shield the guilty, as in that way vice is encouraged and crime escapes its proper punishment,” he remarked. “However, let me hear what you have got to say. One thing is very certain, both you and he were doing what you should not have done, in leaving the house at night. Go on.”“Then, uncle, all I have to say is, that Julian went out and asked me to sit up for him and let him in. I did, but he was longer absent than I expected, and so I got out of the window and took the road I thought he had gone to try and find him, fearing that some accident might have happened to him. I met him coming back, and just as we got near the house that man Sutton caught hold of us.”“I believe you, entirely,” said Mr Nugent. “But I wish to know if you can guess what Julian Langley was about during his absence.”“That is the very point about which I don’t want to say any thing,” said Digby. “Let Julian tell his own story.”“But he does not seem inclined to exculpate you; he leads me to suppose that whatever he was about you were helping him to do. You will have to prove the contrary, or you will be considered as guilty as he is,” observed Mr Nugent.“I cannot help that,” answered Digby, after a little thought. “I have stated the truth; I am ready to be punished for leaving the house, and, as things turned out, I am sorry I did it, but I should have been very miserable if any harm had come to Julian which I could have prevented.”“Then since you refuse to enlighten me, I will not press the matter now,” said his uncle. “I will consider to-morrow what punishment I shall inflict on you. Take this cloak and go to sleep on the sofa. Remember that you are not to communicate by word or writing, or in any way with Julian. Promise me that you in this will obey me.”“I do promise,” said Digby.“Good-night,” said his uncle, not altogether displeased with the boy.Oh, what a blessed thing it is to be able to confide thoroughly in the word of a person, to know that he always, and under all circumstances, speaks the truth—not only that he scorns a falsehood, but that he deeply feels how odious it is in the sight of God, a pure God who is truth itself. In what different estimation are two boys held, who are perhaps in most respects equal. They have equal talents, can play equally well at games, of the same strength, and appearance, and manners, are equally good-natured, and are equally well supplied with pocket-money, and the means of treating their companions. One has been proved never to deviate from the truth, either through fear, or for the sake of telling a good story, or on any other account; the other it is known never scruples to tell a falsehood, if it suits his convenience, or it can afford amusement to himself or others, while if he thinks he can by it avoid detection from any fault he may have committed, he invariably does so. One is looked up to, honoured, and loved, both by boys and masters; the other may find plenty of associates, but no one trusts him, and all in their hearts despise him, and what is strange, even those who will at times prevaricate and deviate as widely from the truth as he does, have a feeling of contempt for him. Remember, that it is not the only sin, vile as it is, which a boy can commit, but it is one with others which should be watchfully guarded against, and earnestly prayed against, and certainly none, even in the eyes of worldly people, is considered more unworthy of the character of an English country gentleman.Sutton, the revenue man, made his appearance the next morning; he said some of the fishermen were so furious at the mischief which had been intended them, that unless they could be appeased the matter must go before a bench of magistrates. If so, Mr Heathcote and Mr Langley would have to try their own sons, and the whole affair would be very disagreeable and painful. Poor Mr Nugent was very much annoyed. He went to Julian’s room; that young gentleman was still asleep. He roused him up, made him put on his clothes rapidly, without allowing him time to reflect. He had previously sent Digby out of the study; he now took Julian to it.“How do you account for yourself from the time you left the house till Digby found you?” he asked.“Another fellow and I were taking a row on the water, and trying to catch some fish,” answered Julian, doggedly.“Who was the other fellow?” asked Mr Nugent.“He’s called Dick Owlett, I believe; he gets bait for us sometimes.”“Then I can fancy how it happened,” said Sutton. “I’ll now get hold of Master Owlett, who is the wildest young scamp in the place; he’ll lie through thick and thin, there’s no doubt of that, but I’ll squeeze the truth out of him before I’ve done with him, depend on that.”Julian when he heard this felt very sure that Dick Owlett, to escape punishment, would throw the entire blame upon his shoulders. Could he have communicated with Dick he thought that he might have bribed him to be silent, but as he had no hopes of so doing he was excessively puzzled to know how to act. He had already denied having had anything to do with the matter. He doubted even whether further falsehoods would assist him; still he could not bring himself to speak the truth, confess his folly, and take the whole blame on himself. However, Sutton had learned quite enough for his purpose. His style of proceeding with Owlett was likely to be very different to that of Mr Nugent’s with his pupils. Julian was sent back to his room to finish his toilet, Mr Nugent telling him that he must breakfast there, and not leave it without his permission. He consequently had to spend a very miserable and solitary day in a cold room; but he did not escape having to do his lessons, which he might possibly have considered a counterbalancing advantage, as Mr Nugent took him his books and went there to hear him. He was left in doubt all the time what steps Sutton had taken with Owlett, and also as to what Digby had said.As may be supposed, Sutton had no great difficulty in getting the whole truth, and perhaps something more even, out of Dick Owlett, who, in the hope of escaping punishment, was ready enough to throw all the blame on his young gentleman companion.Mr Nugent bethought him of calling in the aid of Toby Tubb. The affair had become the conversation of all the seafaring population of the place.Toby was very unhappy to think that Digby was implicated, but, when he heard that he had nothing to do with it, he undertook to arrange matters, observing that somebody would have to pay pretty smartly for the lark, if lark it was, though he thought it a very bad one.Neither Julian nor Digby had an idea that any such negotiations were going forward, and they were left with the impression that they should have to present themselves before a bench of magistrates, and perhaps be sent to the house of correction and receive a sound flogging, or be set to work at the treadmill, or some other dreadful thing to which they had read in the newspapers that juvenile delinquents were subjected.Mr Nugent, of course, was compelled to write to Mr Langley, to explain the whole matter, and, from the tone of that gentleman’s reply, he saw that the only satisfactory course he could pursue was to request him to remove his son to another place of instruction. He from the first, when he discovered how his young gentlemen contrived to leave the house, had suspected that they had been engaged in the cannon-firing affair.Though Mr Simson did not forfeit his word by saying anything, he ascertained enough to satisfy him on the matter from the less scrupulous Mr Jones, whose only bond to keep silence was the hope of getting more out of them.Miserably always are those mistaken who put confidence in dishonest persons. Such are influenced only by interested motives, and invariably betray their dupes if it suits their convenience.The holidays at length arrived. The last few weeks at Osberton, Julian Langley had found very disagreeable. His lather wrote him a scolding letter, for having put him to so much expense, as he had thought it wiser to pay the fishermen their demand for the damage done their boats rather than allow the transaction, so disgraceful to his son, to become public.Mr Nugent kept a strict watch over him. He was not allowed to associate with Digby, while the rest of his fellow-pupils treated him with marked contempt, not so much on account of what he had done, as because he had denied having done it, and because they believed that he would have drawn Digby into the scrape, and, if he could, have thrown the blame on him.Digby did not remain very long out of spirits. His conscience was tolerably at ease. He thought that his uncle had treated him very kindly, and as he wished, therefore, to please him, he set diligently to work to do his lessons each day as well as he could. He had not yet learned to study for the sake of the knowledge he should thus acquire. He did not appreciate the value of knowledge, the use it is of in every way, the delight it affords, the satisfaction it brings. He did his lessons because he knew that all boys were made to do lessons, and he did not expect to avoid the general fate of boyhood. He had a sort of indefinite idea that boys were compelled to do lessons from some tyrannical motive of grown-up people; probably because they, when children, had been made to do them, now, when they were grown up, they retaliated on the next generation for the annoyance they themselves had suffered; much in the same way that boys who have been most bullied and fagged when, they were little fellows, frequently bully most, and make the severest masters, when they get into the upper forms—not always, but frequently, that is the case. Digby now and then wished for the society of his former companion, and thought it rather hard that they were not allowed to speak to each other except at meal-times.Mr Nugent or Marshall used to take Julian out to walk, never allowing him to go out of their sight. This was more galling to him as Digby now enjoyed the same unrestricted liberty as at first. He seldom, however, went out by himself, except, perhaps, to run to the post-office, or to carry a message to some neighbour.Dick Owlett did not escape the consequences of his lark, for the fishermen did not overlook the mischief he had wished to do them, and many a kick and a cuff he got from their hands which he might otherwise have avoided. Soon afterwards, he was taken up before the magistrates for another misdemeanor, and Mr Langley, hearing who he was, told his father that he would receive the most severe punishment which could be inflicted if he did not at once send him off to sea. To sea, therefore, went master Owlett, not at all to his own satisfaction, and very much to his father’s rage, who vowed that he would be revenged on some of the aristocracy for what had happened.The magistrates had lately got the character of being unusually severe. A gang of smugglers had some time before been captured, and a revenue officer having been killed in the affray, two were transported, and others sent for a year or more to gaol—a punishment which, to men of the habits of that class, is peculiarly galling. Although some of the band were taken, others escaped, and the latter, furious at the punishment inflicted on their friends, had sworn, it was said, to take vengeance on the magistrates who had procured their conviction by sending them up for trial, and on Squire Heathcote especially, through whose means they had been captured.One of the transported men was a grandson of old Dame Marlow, and though it was supposed that she loved nothing human, she had certainly always shown an affection for the ill-conditioned youth in question. Ever since, she had been heard, it was said, muttering threats of dire vengeance against those who had caused it. Time, however, passed on, and nothing occurred, and even those who fully believed in the old woman’s power, as well as in the means at the disposal of the smugglers, thought that nothing would come of the threats of one or the other.Mr Heathcote, when told of what was said, laughed the matter to scorn. “Dame Marlow has done nothing else but mutter foolish threats against all the human race for the last twenty years,” he observed; “and as for the smugglers, they know too well to come and burn down my ricks, or anything of that sort; and as to personal violence, they are pretty well aware that they would get as much or more than they gave. The man who is afraid of poachers, smugglers, gipsies, or vagabonds of any sort, had better not attempt to act the part of an English country gentleman; he isn’t fit for his place.”To return to Osberton. Mr Nugent’s pupils took their departure for their different homes. Julian Langley, it was understood, was not to return there again. That Digby would come back was very uncertain. Mr Nugent had heard of a school which he thought might suit him. The head-master was an old college friend of his, a good scholar, and a very excellent as well as gentlemanly man.“He is conscientious and gentle-hearted,” he observed to his sister, to whom he was writing on the subject; “I am therefore certain that he will do his best to instruct his pupils, and will treat them with the greatest kindness. Of course, after the lapse of so many years, I might find the character of my old friend Henry Sanford somewhat changed, but I cannot for a moment suppose that the change will be in any material point for the worse.”“Oh, Mr Sanford’s is exactly the school to which I should wish Digby to go,” exclaimed Mrs Heathcote, after reading her brother’s letter; “he will be well taken care of, and well taught. What more can we wish?”“I would rather send him at once to Eton or Winchester, and he would soon learn to take care of himself,” observed the Squire. “As for the learning, he’ll pick up enough of that, somehow or other, to roll along with, and to enable him to look after his property by and by. Really, I think we had better send him at once to Eton.”Mrs Heathcote pleaded so hard against this, that at last it was settled that Digby should go to Mr Sanford’s for a couple of years, and afterwards be sent to one of the above-mentioned public schools.
Julian and Digby would very much have liked to have been sent to Coventry, the morning after their cannon-firing, so that no disagreeable questions might have been asked them. They dressed slowly and tried to look over their lessons in their room, but got very little information out of their books. They felt very foolish when the bell rang, aid they had to make their appearance in the breakfast-room. Morning prayers were over, and they took their seats round the breakfast-table.
“Well, Julian, did you not hear the noise last night?” were the first words Marshall spoke.
“What noise?” asked Julian; “I sleep very soundly; it must have been a row to awake me.”
“Why, the guns of the old castle going off by themselves,” said Power.
“Not a sound,” said Julian, hoarsely.
Digby looked at him, and wondered if his friend had any conscience. What should he say? there was the difficulty. He had always scorned a lie; if so point blank a question were put to him, how could he answer and not betray their secret?
“And did you sleep through it too, Digby?” said his uncle.
“No, I heard the noise very clearly,” answered Digby, and he felt happier after he had said this, though Julian gave him a tremendous kick on the shins under the table.
“How could you remain quietly in bed after it?” asked Marshall.
“I was out,” answered Digby firmly, “but I got back before you, since you must know all about it. I don’t think that you have a right to be asking me questions, which I may not wish to answer. If I speak at all, I wish to speak the truth. More I do not wish to say; and now, if you like, tell me what you thought about it.”
Mr Nugent looked surprised at Digby’s firmness and unusual vehemence, but suspecting that Julian had not spoken the truth, and that Digby wished not to betray him, forbore to press the matter further.
Of course, both the boys were on tenter-hooks during the whole of breakfast. Digby applied himself sturdily to his food and eat on without speaking, as if he was in a very sulky mood. All day, too, while they were at their lessons, every time there was a ring at the door, they fancied that some one was coming to accuse them of their misdemeanor. Digby thought much less about it than Julian, and it also troubled him much less, because he had made up his mind, if directly accused of the deed, to acknowledge it at once, without the slightest attempt at evasion. His conscience told him, that this was the only right course to pursue; any other would plunge him into a sea of falsehood, from which he shrunk with dread. He intended, if he could avoid so doing, not to inculpate Julian, but to take all the blame on his own shoulders.
“Julian says he was not out of bed that night; he is very wrong, but I don’t want to get him into a scrape if he wishes to avoid it,” he thought to himself.
Unfortunately, he did not see Julian’s conduct in its true light. That young gentleman was all the time thinking, and plotting, and contriving, how he should himself get out of the scrape. He had already told one falsehood, he must invent others to avoid being found out after all. He could not fix his attention on his lessons, and, of course, he did them very badly.
“You must stay in and learn these twelve lines of your Delectus by heart,” said Mr Nugent, who was much displeased with him.
Digby, who had done his lessons much in his usual way, which was seldom very first-rate by-the-by, was allowed to go out. Of course all the rest were eager to go to the fort, and Digby was compelled to go with them. This was doubly annoying to Julian, who wanted to have a few minutes’ conversation with him to get him to promise not to betray him, and to induce him, if possible, to tell a long story which he had concocted, to account for his not hearing the noise, and for his not accompanying Digby afterwards to the fort.
When Digby and his companions reached the fort, he was astonished at the mischief which had been committed. The old guns lay on the ground with large pieces torn out of them, and their carriages knocked to atoms, while a portion of the parapet round the embrasures had been crumbled into powder.
While they were running about, who should walk into the fort but worthy Mr Simson, the grocer. He watched his opportunity when Digby was separated from his companions, and drew him aside.
“I hope the other gentleman isn’t hurt,” he said.
“No, he hasn’t done his lessons, so he is not allowed to go out,” answered Digby.
“I was afraid he might be hurt. Well, you two had a fortunate escape,” observed Mr Simson; “I know all about it; I don’t want to betray you, though; I have boys of my own: but you mustn’t do the same thing again, that is all.”
“Thank you,” answered Digby, “I am very much obliged to you, indeed I am.”
“That’s what I like, young gentleman, that’s manly and right-spirited,” said Mr Simson, taking his hand and pressing it warmly. “I wouldn’t betray you on any account, that I wouldn’t. Trust to me.”
Digby was much happier after this. He felt, however, that he had escaped a great danger of the whole matter being known, and though he couldn’t exactly divine what punishment he might have inflicted on him, he knew that he should at all events have been made to look very foolish.
“They wouldn’t hang a fellow for such a thing, and I don’t suppose they would send me to prison. Still, I am really very grateful to kind Mr Simson for not peaching. I’ll always deal with him in future. How did he find out all about it, I wonder?”
He heard with much more indifference than at first, the various remarks and conjectures made on the subject, and the feeling that he had acted a manly part about it enabled him to look people boldly in the face, and thus he escaped the suspicion which would otherwise have fallen on him. When he got home he found Julian very dull and sorry for himself. He told him what Mr Simson had said.
“Oh, then, he will go and peach upon us, and it will all be found out,” exclaimed Julian, half-crying.
“But he promised that he would say nothing about the matter,” urged Digby.
“So he might, but one can’t trust to a shopkeeper,” answered Julian, with a scornful turn of his lip.
“I don’t see that,” replied Digby; “if he is an honourable man and has good feelings, I think that one may trust to a shopkeeper as well as to the first noble in the land; I know that my uncle often says that one man’s word is as good as that of another, provided both are equally honest and upright.”
“All I know is, that old Simson was very impertinent to me when I went to buy the gunpowder,” said Julian; “if I hadn’t wanted more I wouldn’t have gone to him again.”
“He cautioned me about it, and not without some reason,” said Digby; “So I’ll maintain that old Simson is a very good fellow, and, what’s more, I’m sure he looks like a gentleman in every way.”
Several days passed by, and though inquiries were made and numbers of people were examined, no clue was discovered to the originators of what the county papers called that mysterious circumstance at Osberton. Digby couldn’t help cutting out the paragraph, and sending it to Kate, darkly hinting that he might, perhaps, some day enlighten her about the matter. He was afraid of committing the account to paper, but her very acute perception at once divined that he had taken a prominent part in the affair. How she did long to hear all about it, and how he did long for the holidays that he might tell her. He had an idea that his uncle knew something about it, because after this neither he nor Julian were allowed to go out, except in company with Marshall or Power, or Toby Tubb. One day, however, all the boys had gone together to the beach, and by some means or other, unintentionally, while some were climbing up over the cliffs, Digby got separated from the rest. As he knew his way home, however, perfectly well, he did not care about it, even though it was growing dark. He had not gone far when two men overtook him; they were rough-looking fellows and dressed as seamen; he did not altogether like their appearance. They went on some little way, and then turning back, they looked him in the face, and one of them said—
“Are you Squire Heathcote’s son, master?”
“Yes,” answered Digby, “I am. Why do you want to know?”
“I’ve asked a civil question, and you’ve given a civil answer, master. Good-night,” replied the man who had before spoken; and then they both walked rapidly on.
Digby thought it rather odd that men of that sort should wish to know who he was, but troubled himself very little more about the matter.
When he got home, his uncle inquired how he came to be later than the rest; and knowing he always spoke the truth, was perfectly satisfied with his explanation.
“Your uncle seems to think that he can trust you much more than he can me,” observed Julian one day. “It is very hard upon me, as I am older. He favours you as a relation, that’s it, I’ve no doubt.”
Digby made no reply, but he felt indignant, as he could not bear to have his uncle, whom he respected, spoken ill of.
By degrees Julian recovered his usual state of mind, and, as he did so, his fertile brain began to devise fresh schemes of mischief. Since his liberty had been curtailed he found them, however, much more difficult to carry out. It may seem strange that, after all the anxiety and inconvenience he had suffered in consequence of his last achievement, he should be eager to do something which was likely to produce the same results; but such is unfortunately too generally the case with evildoers. Unless some severe punishment follows they go on and on, committing the same evil again and again. Indeed, even punishment will not always deter people who have given themselves up to evil ways from continuing in them; and men have frequently been known, the very day after they have been released from prison, to have committed the very crime for which they have been confined. Reformation of heart and character is what is required, and this had not taken place with regard to Julian Langley.
“I’ve hit upon a capital idea, Digby,” said he one day when the two were alone; “help me out with it.”
“What is it?” asked his companion.
“I’ve been thinking what fun it would be to set all the fishing-boats out in the river adrift. How they would knock about each other, and how angry the boatmen would be.”
“I should think they would be angry, indeed,” answered Digby, stoutly. “Fun is fun, but it seems to me that a great deal of harm might be done by what you propose. I’d advise you to give up the idea; I’ll have nothing to do with it.”
“I thought you were a fellow of spirit, Digby,” sneered Julian. “What great harm can there be in letting a few old fishermen’s boats knock together?”
“Why, they might get carried out to sea, and be lost altogether, and have their sides stove in, or holes made in their bottoms, or be sunk, and lose their oars and sails; indeed, I can fancy a great deal of damage might be done,” said Digby. “I think that it would be very wrong and cruel to the poor fishermen.”
“Oh, now I see you are going to take a leaf out of your uncle’s book, and to turn saint,” sneered Julian. This was one of his most powerful expressions. He knew that Digby especially disliked being called a saint, and that he often confessed, as do many older people with equal thoughtlessness, that he did not set up for a saint. People seem not to consider, if they do not wish to become saints, what they really do desire to become. Certainly none but saints can inherit the glories of eternity; and unless they trust in the merits of One who can cleanse them from their sins, and make them saints, so that they may be presented spotless to the Father Almighty, from those glories they will be shut out.
Poor Digby winced under Julian’s sneer. “A saint; no, I am no saint, I hope, but I don’t want to injure the poor fishermen,” he answered, firmly.
“Injure them! Who’s going to injure them?” exclaimed Julian, petulantly. “I’ve made up my mind to have my lark, and have it I will. If any great harm comes I’m ready to bear it. You won’t peach upon me, I suppose?”
“No,” answered Digby, indignantly. “I like fun as much as you; and if I saw the fun I’d do it willingly.”
Julian thought that Digby was relenting, and still pressed the matter, but in vain. “Well, if you won’t go I must get somebody else. I know a fellow who will help, though none of the sneaks here will join me,” said Julian, walking away.
Digby felt satisfied that he had done right, still he did not like to let Julian go away, and have his fun by himself.
The latter young gentleman went into the garden, and disappeared in the shrubbery. In spite of the prohibition still existing against his going out alone, he jumped over the wall, and betook himself to the river side. He had scraped acquaintance with a lad of his own age, the son of a small innkeeper, who had been a smuggler, and was still, it was suspected, intimately connected with smugglers.
Dick Owlett was certainly not a fit associate for the son of the Honorable Mr Langley; but vice more than anything else creates incongruous companionships. Young Owlett was ready to do anything Julian proposed, because he fancied that he might easily throw all the blame on Julian’s shoulders, or else that, through Julian’s influence, they both might escape punishment. Dick had none of Digby’s scruples, so the whole plan was soon arranged. Both had thoroughly ill-regulated minds, and rejoiced in mischief for mischief’s sake.
Julian came back unperceived, and, in high spirits, told Digby that he was going to have his fun in spite of him.
The following night Julian awoke Digby about eleven o’clock, and told him that he must help him to get out of the window, and wait his return to let him in again.
Digby expostulated, but in vain; he had not yet learned that the only sure way for the young to avoid the contamination of evildoers is to keep out of their society altogether. So Digby agreed to sit up till Julian’s return.
The rope was secured, Julian descended by it, and off he ran across the lawn towards the wall, over which he had so often before made his escape from the premises.
Digby waited and waited; Julian did not return. He became very anxious about him. He wished that he had taken stronger measures to prevent his carrying out his foolish and mischievous prank. The only effectual way to have prevented him would have been to have told Marshall or his uncle, but such a proceeding was so contrary to all his notions of what ought to be done, that it did not even occur to him. He could not exactly tell how time passed, but he thought that Julian must have been away a very long time. He could bear the suspense no longer. Some boys of his age would have gone to bed, and cried, or sat quaking with fear. To do this was not at all in Digby’s nature. He loved action; he must be up and doing. He knew the road Julian would have taken, and he resolved to go and look for him. It did not occur to him that he should thus run a great risk of being implicated in whatever his companion had done; had he, I do not believe that the fear of that would have weighed with him a moment. He put on all his clothes and his shoes, and, without further consideration, slipped down the rope, gained the wall, and ran on as fast as his legs could carry him towards the river. He got very nearly to the spot where he thought Julian would have embarked, when he met two boys running. “Who’s there?—Julian, is that you?” he exclaimed.
“Oh, Digby, how you startled me,” exclaimed one of the boys. It was Julian who spoke.
“All right,” cried Digby. “I became very anxious. I was afraid some harm had happened, and so I set off to look for you; but why are you running so fast?”
“Because we are afraid somebody is after us,” answered Julian, almost breathless. “We’ve done it, though, and rare fun there will be to-morrow to see what has become of all the boats.”
It was not necessary for Julian to tell Digby to turn back; he had at once done so, and they were running on together. They turned their heads for a moment, and Dick Owlett had disappeared. His reason for so doing was very evident. Digby thus, very unintentionally, slipped into his shoes. They soon had to cross a meadow; their own footsteps now making but a slight noise, they were able to hear the sound of another person fast approaching them.
“It may be Dick Owlett,” said Julian, in a low voice. “Still, if it is one of the coastguard men we shall catch it. Run, Digby, run.”
Digby could have run a great deal faster than he was running, but had he done so he would have left Julian behind. Their pursuer, whoever he was, came on very rapidly. They had scarcely crossed the field when, looking back, they saw him at the other end of it. He must have seen them. It seemed very useless, therefore, to attempt to escape, but their natural impulse was to run on till he put his hand on their shoulder to stop them. Julian wanted to jump into a ditch and hide, as they had before done, but Digby protested against this, and insisted on running on. Across the fields they went—now they thought that they had escaped their pursuer—now they saw him again. Sometimes he got very close to them, and then they distanced him. At last they got up to the garden-wall. The footsteps sounded terribly loud close behind them. They rushed on. Julian, always most anxious to escape from danger, had first sprung to the top of the wall, and Digby was helping him over, when a person leaped forward, and seizing Julian by the leg, and Digby by the shoulder, exclaimed—
“Hillo, young gentlemen, is it you, then, who have been about this pretty piece of mischief? What will your master say to you, I should like to know? It’s lucky we found it out, or there’s no saying what damage might have been done; however, that’s no excuse for you—so come along with me to the front door, and I’ll hand you over to Mr Nugent, or I’ll take you to the lock-up house, and let you stay there till the morning.”
Julian nudged Digby, to induce him to speak. He took the hint.
“I have nothing to do with the mischief of which you are talking,” he exclaimed, boldly. “I don’t know by what right you venture to detain me. I had a good reason for being out, which will, I believe, satisfy Mr Nugent, but I do not see that you, whoever you are, or any other man, has a right to call on me to explain it.”
“Tell that to the marines, youngster; you are not going to impose on an old salt,” answered the revenue man, for such he appeared. “Why, I traced you from the time you jumped on shore every inch of the way to this place.”
“That you could not,” answered Digby; “I have not been on the water to-night.”
“Well, you are a bold young ruffian,” exclaimed the man, fairly exasperated at Digby’s coolness. “I never have heard anybody, man or boy, tell a lie and stick to it as you can do.”
“You are very impertinent,” said Digby, who, knowing that he really was speaking the truth, forgot that it was not possible for the man to believe him. It did not occur to him that he very naturally was mistaken for Dick Owlett.
“Well, if it comes to that,” said the man, “the sooner we go and talk to Mr Nugent the better. I don’t suppose that he allows his young gentlemen to be running about at nights for their own amusement.” Saying this their captor, who was a strong stout man, carried them off in spite of their struggles to the front door of the house. He rang and knocked for some time without succeeding in awaking any one.
The feelings of Digby and Julian may more easily be conceived than described, though, as may be supposed from what I have already mentioned of their characters, they were very different. They did not dare to communicate with each other, and so all they could do was to hold their tongues. At last Mr Nugent was aroused, and supposing that some sick parishioner wanted his attendance, he got up, dressed, and came down stairs. What was his astonishment at seeing two of his pupils in the hands of a revenue officer.
“Please, sir, I’ve brought you these two young gentlemen, to tell you that they have been playing no end of mischief down in the harbour, there, to-night—cutting the fishing-boats adrift, and letting them run foul of each other. If you like to take charge of them and have them ready when they are wanted, I’ll leave them; if not, I’ll take them off to the lock-up house, to pass the rest of the night.”
Poor Mr Nugent could not believe his senses. He stood staring first at one and then at the other, fully believing that he was dreaming. Then he rubbed his eyes and felt his clothes, to assure himself that he had got up and dressed. “What is it all about?” he at last exclaimed. “Out on the river—in the middle of the night—you, Digby—you, Julian Langley. I cannot comprehend it. Come in, though, I am very much grieved; I beg that you, James Sutton, will explain matters more fully.” Without saying more, Mr Nugent led the way to his study, when lighting the candles he sat down, while the accuser and the two culprits stood before him. “Now, James Sutton, tell me your story, if you please,” he said, calmly.
“Why, sir, these young gentlemen have been having what I suppose they call a lark. They went down to the river, shoved off in a boat, and went round, and with their knives cut the cables of a number of the fishermen’s boats and other small craft lying in the harbour. The ebb was just making, and the boats drove one against another; some went on shore, and others would have gone out to sea and been lost, but our boat was just coming in. Of course we boarded them, and finding no one in them, suspected that something was wrong. As our boat is white, and we pulled with muffled oars, and our young gentlemen were very busy, they did not see us. We should have caught them in the act, but that we had to look after some of the boats. We saw them just landing, so our chief boatman put me on shore, and told me to follow them up and see where they went to. I didn’t think, you may be sure, that they were your young gentlemen.”
“You acted in every way rightly,” said Mr Nugent. “And now, Julian, what have you to say to this?”
“That it is a base fabrication,” answered Julian. “I had no right to be out at night, that I know. I went out for a lark, because I couldn’t sleep, and meeting Digby we came back together; but that I did anything else I defy anybody to prove.”
“Oh,” said Mr Nugent. “What do you say to this, Digby?”
“That I had not been out of the house twenty minutes when this man caught hold of me,” answered Digby, quietly. “I certainly was not doing any harm, though I ought not to have left the house without leave. I, however, am ready to stand the consequences of doing so.”
“Well!” exclaimed Sutton, “he is the lad to swear that black is white, and make another believe it.”
“I never knew him tell an untruth, Sutton,” observed Mr Nugent. “There is a mystery about the matter which I cannot yet fathom.”
“Well, sir, I will leave the young gentlemen with you, and you will be answerable for their appearance when they are wanted,” said Sutton, laying a strong emphasis on that word wanted, which has so much significance to thieves and vagabonds.
Julian and Digby did not quite comprehend it in the way Sutton wished, but they guessed that there was something unpleasant connected with it.
“Of course, Sutton, I will take care that they are forthcoming when required to answer for what has occurred,” replied Mr Nugent, in a tone which showed how grieved and annoyed he was. “Come to me, however, at nine o’clock in the morning, and I will inquire further into it.”
When Sutton had taken his departure, Mr Nugent, desiring Digby to stay where he was, led Julian upstairs to his bedroom. The window was open, and the knotted rope hung to it. Mr Nugent stood aghast. “Have you often made use of this, young gentleman?” he asked.
Julian was really frightened, and burst out crying, in dread that his various misdemeanors would at length be brought to light. “Only once or twice, and merely for a lark, without any harm in it,” he answered, as soon as he could bring out his words. “If you will overlook it this time, sir, Digby and I won’t do it again—that I promise; indeed we won’t, sir.”
“I conclude that you will not,” said Mr Nugent, drily. “However, I do not consider it at all a slight thing to have my young gentlemen running about the country at midnight, and laying themselves open to such accusations as have been brought against you to-night. You ran as great a risk of having an accusation brought against you of being concerned in a burglary, or in the robbery of a hen-roost. And listen to me, Julian Langley, I deeply regret that I cannot trust your word, and I am not at all satisfied that you will be proved innocent of the crime of which Sutton says you are guilty. Now, go to bed, and pray that you may have a new heart put into you.”
“But Digby, sir, you’ll forgive him, may he not come up and go to bed,” said Julian, making a mighty effort to speak, for he thought that everything would depend on his being able to put Digby up to what he should say.
“Certainly not,” answered Mr Nugent, who divined his motive. “I cannot allow you and Digby again to associate till this mystery is cleared up. Pull off your clothes and jump into bed.”
Mr Nugent having taken possession of the rope, and shut, the window, took the candle, and walked away, leaving Julian to his meditations, or to sleep if he could. His meditations could not have been of a pleasant character, though it was not so much the folly of his conduct as the fear of the consequences which annoyed him. At last he fell asleep. Meantime Mr Nugent went back to his nephew.
“Digby,” he said, looking gravely at him, “you have often been thoughtless and idle, but I have ever found you truthful; I trust that you will be so on this occasion. Tell me what you know about this matter.”
“I will tell you about my share in it, uncle, but I hope you will let Julian answer for himself. All the fellows say that there is nothing so bad as one fellow peaching against another, and I don’t want to do it,” answered Digby, firmly.
Mr Nugent was too well acquainted with schoolboy notions of honour and morality to be surprised at this speech.
“But it is also very bad to shield the guilty, as in that way vice is encouraged and crime escapes its proper punishment,” he remarked. “However, let me hear what you have got to say. One thing is very certain, both you and he were doing what you should not have done, in leaving the house at night. Go on.”
“Then, uncle, all I have to say is, that Julian went out and asked me to sit up for him and let him in. I did, but he was longer absent than I expected, and so I got out of the window and took the road I thought he had gone to try and find him, fearing that some accident might have happened to him. I met him coming back, and just as we got near the house that man Sutton caught hold of us.”
“I believe you, entirely,” said Mr Nugent. “But I wish to know if you can guess what Julian Langley was about during his absence.”
“That is the very point about which I don’t want to say any thing,” said Digby. “Let Julian tell his own story.”
“But he does not seem inclined to exculpate you; he leads me to suppose that whatever he was about you were helping him to do. You will have to prove the contrary, or you will be considered as guilty as he is,” observed Mr Nugent.
“I cannot help that,” answered Digby, after a little thought. “I have stated the truth; I am ready to be punished for leaving the house, and, as things turned out, I am sorry I did it, but I should have been very miserable if any harm had come to Julian which I could have prevented.”
“Then since you refuse to enlighten me, I will not press the matter now,” said his uncle. “I will consider to-morrow what punishment I shall inflict on you. Take this cloak and go to sleep on the sofa. Remember that you are not to communicate by word or writing, or in any way with Julian. Promise me that you in this will obey me.”
“I do promise,” said Digby.
“Good-night,” said his uncle, not altogether displeased with the boy.
Oh, what a blessed thing it is to be able to confide thoroughly in the word of a person, to know that he always, and under all circumstances, speaks the truth—not only that he scorns a falsehood, but that he deeply feels how odious it is in the sight of God, a pure God who is truth itself. In what different estimation are two boys held, who are perhaps in most respects equal. They have equal talents, can play equally well at games, of the same strength, and appearance, and manners, are equally good-natured, and are equally well supplied with pocket-money, and the means of treating their companions. One has been proved never to deviate from the truth, either through fear, or for the sake of telling a good story, or on any other account; the other it is known never scruples to tell a falsehood, if it suits his convenience, or it can afford amusement to himself or others, while if he thinks he can by it avoid detection from any fault he may have committed, he invariably does so. One is looked up to, honoured, and loved, both by boys and masters; the other may find plenty of associates, but no one trusts him, and all in their hearts despise him, and what is strange, even those who will at times prevaricate and deviate as widely from the truth as he does, have a feeling of contempt for him. Remember, that it is not the only sin, vile as it is, which a boy can commit, but it is one with others which should be watchfully guarded against, and earnestly prayed against, and certainly none, even in the eyes of worldly people, is considered more unworthy of the character of an English country gentleman.
Sutton, the revenue man, made his appearance the next morning; he said some of the fishermen were so furious at the mischief which had been intended them, that unless they could be appeased the matter must go before a bench of magistrates. If so, Mr Heathcote and Mr Langley would have to try their own sons, and the whole affair would be very disagreeable and painful. Poor Mr Nugent was very much annoyed. He went to Julian’s room; that young gentleman was still asleep. He roused him up, made him put on his clothes rapidly, without allowing him time to reflect. He had previously sent Digby out of the study; he now took Julian to it.
“How do you account for yourself from the time you left the house till Digby found you?” he asked.
“Another fellow and I were taking a row on the water, and trying to catch some fish,” answered Julian, doggedly.
“Who was the other fellow?” asked Mr Nugent.
“He’s called Dick Owlett, I believe; he gets bait for us sometimes.”
“Then I can fancy how it happened,” said Sutton. “I’ll now get hold of Master Owlett, who is the wildest young scamp in the place; he’ll lie through thick and thin, there’s no doubt of that, but I’ll squeeze the truth out of him before I’ve done with him, depend on that.”
Julian when he heard this felt very sure that Dick Owlett, to escape punishment, would throw the entire blame upon his shoulders. Could he have communicated with Dick he thought that he might have bribed him to be silent, but as he had no hopes of so doing he was excessively puzzled to know how to act. He had already denied having had anything to do with the matter. He doubted even whether further falsehoods would assist him; still he could not bring himself to speak the truth, confess his folly, and take the whole blame on himself. However, Sutton had learned quite enough for his purpose. His style of proceeding with Owlett was likely to be very different to that of Mr Nugent’s with his pupils. Julian was sent back to his room to finish his toilet, Mr Nugent telling him that he must breakfast there, and not leave it without his permission. He consequently had to spend a very miserable and solitary day in a cold room; but he did not escape having to do his lessons, which he might possibly have considered a counterbalancing advantage, as Mr Nugent took him his books and went there to hear him. He was left in doubt all the time what steps Sutton had taken with Owlett, and also as to what Digby had said.
As may be supposed, Sutton had no great difficulty in getting the whole truth, and perhaps something more even, out of Dick Owlett, who, in the hope of escaping punishment, was ready enough to throw all the blame on his young gentleman companion.
Mr Nugent bethought him of calling in the aid of Toby Tubb. The affair had become the conversation of all the seafaring population of the place.
Toby was very unhappy to think that Digby was implicated, but, when he heard that he had nothing to do with it, he undertook to arrange matters, observing that somebody would have to pay pretty smartly for the lark, if lark it was, though he thought it a very bad one.
Neither Julian nor Digby had an idea that any such negotiations were going forward, and they were left with the impression that they should have to present themselves before a bench of magistrates, and perhaps be sent to the house of correction and receive a sound flogging, or be set to work at the treadmill, or some other dreadful thing to which they had read in the newspapers that juvenile delinquents were subjected.
Mr Nugent, of course, was compelled to write to Mr Langley, to explain the whole matter, and, from the tone of that gentleman’s reply, he saw that the only satisfactory course he could pursue was to request him to remove his son to another place of instruction. He from the first, when he discovered how his young gentlemen contrived to leave the house, had suspected that they had been engaged in the cannon-firing affair.
Though Mr Simson did not forfeit his word by saying anything, he ascertained enough to satisfy him on the matter from the less scrupulous Mr Jones, whose only bond to keep silence was the hope of getting more out of them.
Miserably always are those mistaken who put confidence in dishonest persons. Such are influenced only by interested motives, and invariably betray their dupes if it suits their convenience.
The holidays at length arrived. The last few weeks at Osberton, Julian Langley had found very disagreeable. His lather wrote him a scolding letter, for having put him to so much expense, as he had thought it wiser to pay the fishermen their demand for the damage done their boats rather than allow the transaction, so disgraceful to his son, to become public.
Mr Nugent kept a strict watch over him. He was not allowed to associate with Digby, while the rest of his fellow-pupils treated him with marked contempt, not so much on account of what he had done, as because he had denied having done it, and because they believed that he would have drawn Digby into the scrape, and, if he could, have thrown the blame on him.
Digby did not remain very long out of spirits. His conscience was tolerably at ease. He thought that his uncle had treated him very kindly, and as he wished, therefore, to please him, he set diligently to work to do his lessons each day as well as he could. He had not yet learned to study for the sake of the knowledge he should thus acquire. He did not appreciate the value of knowledge, the use it is of in every way, the delight it affords, the satisfaction it brings. He did his lessons because he knew that all boys were made to do lessons, and he did not expect to avoid the general fate of boyhood. He had a sort of indefinite idea that boys were compelled to do lessons from some tyrannical motive of grown-up people; probably because they, when children, had been made to do them, now, when they were grown up, they retaliated on the next generation for the annoyance they themselves had suffered; much in the same way that boys who have been most bullied and fagged when, they were little fellows, frequently bully most, and make the severest masters, when they get into the upper forms—not always, but frequently, that is the case. Digby now and then wished for the society of his former companion, and thought it rather hard that they were not allowed to speak to each other except at meal-times.
Mr Nugent or Marshall used to take Julian out to walk, never allowing him to go out of their sight. This was more galling to him as Digby now enjoyed the same unrestricted liberty as at first. He seldom, however, went out by himself, except, perhaps, to run to the post-office, or to carry a message to some neighbour.
Dick Owlett did not escape the consequences of his lark, for the fishermen did not overlook the mischief he had wished to do them, and many a kick and a cuff he got from their hands which he might otherwise have avoided. Soon afterwards, he was taken up before the magistrates for another misdemeanor, and Mr Langley, hearing who he was, told his father that he would receive the most severe punishment which could be inflicted if he did not at once send him off to sea. To sea, therefore, went master Owlett, not at all to his own satisfaction, and very much to his father’s rage, who vowed that he would be revenged on some of the aristocracy for what had happened.
The magistrates had lately got the character of being unusually severe. A gang of smugglers had some time before been captured, and a revenue officer having been killed in the affray, two were transported, and others sent for a year or more to gaol—a punishment which, to men of the habits of that class, is peculiarly galling. Although some of the band were taken, others escaped, and the latter, furious at the punishment inflicted on their friends, had sworn, it was said, to take vengeance on the magistrates who had procured their conviction by sending them up for trial, and on Squire Heathcote especially, through whose means they had been captured.
One of the transported men was a grandson of old Dame Marlow, and though it was supposed that she loved nothing human, she had certainly always shown an affection for the ill-conditioned youth in question. Ever since, she had been heard, it was said, muttering threats of dire vengeance against those who had caused it. Time, however, passed on, and nothing occurred, and even those who fully believed in the old woman’s power, as well as in the means at the disposal of the smugglers, thought that nothing would come of the threats of one or the other.
Mr Heathcote, when told of what was said, laughed the matter to scorn. “Dame Marlow has done nothing else but mutter foolish threats against all the human race for the last twenty years,” he observed; “and as for the smugglers, they know too well to come and burn down my ricks, or anything of that sort; and as to personal violence, they are pretty well aware that they would get as much or more than they gave. The man who is afraid of poachers, smugglers, gipsies, or vagabonds of any sort, had better not attempt to act the part of an English country gentleman; he isn’t fit for his place.”
To return to Osberton. Mr Nugent’s pupils took their departure for their different homes. Julian Langley, it was understood, was not to return there again. That Digby would come back was very uncertain. Mr Nugent had heard of a school which he thought might suit him. The head-master was an old college friend of his, a good scholar, and a very excellent as well as gentlemanly man.
“He is conscientious and gentle-hearted,” he observed to his sister, to whom he was writing on the subject; “I am therefore certain that he will do his best to instruct his pupils, and will treat them with the greatest kindness. Of course, after the lapse of so many years, I might find the character of my old friend Henry Sanford somewhat changed, but I cannot for a moment suppose that the change will be in any material point for the worse.”
“Oh, Mr Sanford’s is exactly the school to which I should wish Digby to go,” exclaimed Mrs Heathcote, after reading her brother’s letter; “he will be well taken care of, and well taught. What more can we wish?”
“I would rather send him at once to Eton or Winchester, and he would soon learn to take care of himself,” observed the Squire. “As for the learning, he’ll pick up enough of that, somehow or other, to roll along with, and to enable him to look after his property by and by. Really, I think we had better send him at once to Eton.”
Mrs Heathcote pleaded so hard against this, that at last it was settled that Digby should go to Mr Sanford’s for a couple of years, and afterwards be sent to one of the above-mentioned public schools.
Chapter Eight.Return Home—Christmas Festivities—How they were interrupted—The Heir of Bloxholme missing—Dame Marlow’s Revenge—Arthur Haviland goes in Search of his Friend.There were great rejoicings when just before Christmas time Digby’s jovial, smiling, and sunburnt countenance beamed forth in the hall of Bloxholme. How pleased were his father and mother to see him—how delighted Kate was—how fondly she kissed him, and how eagerly she asked him, as soon as he could, to come and tell her about everything. Gusty shouted and cheered as if some great event had occurred—so it had to him—for one of the most important personages he had ever known, had just returned, after a long absence, to the home of his ancestors. John Pratt came to the door, hat in hand, grinning all over with glee, and eagerly helped the coachman to unstrap Digby’s trunk and play-box. Alesbury, the butler, looked benignly at him—“Glad to see you, Master Digby, very glad, that I am,” he exclaimed, in his usual well-bred undertone; “so grown too, you are. Well, we’ve all sorts of things ready for the holidays—very glad to see you, very.” Mrs Carter hurried out of the housekeeper’s room to welcome him, and after shaking hands and looking at him proudly for a minute, she gave way to the feelings of her heart, and seizing him in her arms, covered his cheeks with kisses. Nurse treated him much in the same way. He was too happy to resent the indignity, though he did rub his cheeks pretty hard afterwards with his handkerchief, when they were not looking. His two elder sisters were out riding when he arrived. When they came back they gave him as hearty a welcome as the rest of the family. Miss Apsley, too, in her quiet ladylike way, expressed her pleasure at seeing him. Her discernment enabled her to discover that he possessed many qualities which, if properly directed, would make him both generally liked, and a useful member of society. She liked him because she thought that he was an honest true-hearted, English boy.Digby had good reason, therefore, to be satisfied with the reception he met with from every member of the family after this his first absence from home. So he was, and he felt that he was a very happy fellow. Still more full of glee was he, when he at length having been sufficiently looked at, and talked to, and cross questioned, and kissed, and hugged, and fed, found himself running through the grounds, with Kate by his side, towards their favourite resort, the summer-house on the mound.It was a bright clear day, and though the air was cold, the sun striking through the glass windows for several hours made the room warm and pleasant. Then looking out together at the view, which, even in winter, was beautiful, Digby told Kate of all that had happened him at Mr Nugent’s. How she did laugh at the idea of firing off the old guns at the Castle, though she very nearly cried with horror when he described how they had burst, and how narrowly he and Julian had escaped being killed.Digby touched very lightly on Julian’s behaviour, but he could not help saying enough to make Kate exclaim—“Oh, I hate him!—mean-spirited, disagreeable boy. I hope papa will not ask him here again. I never liked him—I did not know why—now I guess the reason.”Kate then told Digby that all sorts of preparations had been made for his amusement during the holidays, and that several people, young and old, had been invited to come to the house.“And who do you think is among them?” she asked. “Somebody you will be very glad to see, and whom I never saw. I begged that I might be the first to tell you, because I know that it will give you so much pleasure.”Digby guessed all sorts of people, but gave it up at last. Perhaps he knew how much Kate would like to tell him.“Then I won’t leave you longer in doubt,” she exclaimed, eagerly. “Arthur Haviland is coming.”“You don’t say so,” said Digby, clapping his hands. “How very jolly.”“Yes, he is, though,” cried Kate. “Papa, it seems, knew Mr Haviland, who wrote to him about your having helped to pull Arthur out of the sea, and then they found that they were old friends, and so it was arranged that Arthur should come here for your holidays. Who else do you suppose is coming? I’ll tell you, as you are not in a guessing mood to-day. Cousin Giles. We could not get on this Christmas without him, I’m sure. He’ll manage everything. He’ll direct all our games in the evening, and settle about all the sports in the morning for you boys. We were quite anxious till we knew that he would come; now I am certain that everything will go smoothly.”“Capital! how jolly!” exclaimed Digby.Everything which promised to be pleasant was jolly with him. If he had been asked what was the most jolly thing in existence, he would have answered—his sister Kate.Cousin Giles and Arthur Haviland were to arrive the very next day, and several other people who had sons with them were coming before New-year’s-day, so that the house would be full from the top to the bottom.Kate had another surprise for Digby. After they had had their confabulation, and the sinking sun warned them that it was time to return home, she led him round the back way, under pretence of showing him the dogs and some young pups Juno had produced. By chance, it appeared, as she passed the stables, she threw open the door, and there stood John Pratt, grinning with pleasure, and holding by the head a beautiful little pony, with a new bridle and saddle on.“Oh Kate, how kind, how delightful, how jolly!” exclaimed Digby. “Is that really for me? What a beauty. What grand gallops I’ll have on him, and go out with you on your Tiny. It is of all things just what I should have liked the best, if I had been asked. What is his name? I hope that it is a pretty one.”“Guess,” said Kate, who, although Digby never had guessed anything in his life, always persisted in making him try and do so.“Oh, I can’t! Angel, or Fairy, or Beauty, or something of that sort,” he answered.“You burn, you burn—something very nice,” cried Kate. “Well, then, if you give it up I’ll tell you—Sweetlips. We didn’t give him the name. It was what he was called by the person from whom papa bought him, but as he knows it, and will follow like a dog when he is called, we did not like to change it.”“It’s a funny name for a pony, but as he has got it, we will still call him by it, and I shall like it very much,” answered Digby. “But I say, John Pratt, can’t I have a gallop on him at once across the park? I won’t be ten minutes away, and it would be so delightful.”“I sees no reason again it, Master Digby,” replied John; “I thought as how you’d be liking it, and so I put the new saddle on him, which the Squire sent and made me buy for you.”“Says he, ‘John, our Digby will be coming to cover with me, to see the hounds throw off, and he’ll be by my side I hope when I go a coursing; and I wish him to appear as my son should appear, John.’ This was afore we bought the pony. I heard of it, and I was certain that it would just do, so the Squire told me to go and settle for it at once, and not to stand on price, and right glad I was when I brought back Master Sweetlips; and says the Squire, ‘I never saw a greater beauty in my life, John. He’ll just do for our boy. Now go and buy a new saddle and bridle to fit him. You can judge of what it ought to be just as well as I can.’ Wasn’t I proud; and so, Master Digby, here he is, all your own. And here’s a new whip I bought at the same time. The Squire didn’t tell me to get that, but if you’ll accept it from an old man, you’ll make his heart right glad.”“Oh, thank you, John—thank you, John Pratt,” exclaimed Digby, his heart so swelling with kindly and grateful feelings that the tears almost came into his eyes. “You run in, Kate, and say I’ll be back directly, but I must have a gallop on Sweetlips.”John had been assisting him to mount, and adjusting his stirrups all the time. Away trotted the young heir of Bloxholme, and truly he looked the worthy scion of a sturdy race. John Pratt stood outside the yard gate, watching him with admiration, and Kate remained on the upper step of the hall-door, gazing at him with affectionate interest, till he was lost to sight among the trees, and the sound of his pony’s hoofs died away in the distance.“He is a dear fellow!” she exclaimed, as at length she entered the house, and ran up stairs to prepare for dinner. She was to dine late that day in honour of Digby’s arrival. She anticipated a delightful evening. He would have so much to tell her, so much to talk about—she felt so proud of him. He looked so well—so manly, she thought, and was so much improved in every way. Kate dressed and came down to the drawing-room long before dinner-time, that she might have another talk with Digby. He had not made his appearance, so she sat down and took up a book, thinking that he would come soon. Miss Apsley appeared next. Kate remarked that she thought Digby was a long time dressing for dinner. She ran up to his room, but he was not there. When she came back, expecting to find that he had in the mean time come to the drawing-room, she felt blank at not seeing him.“He probably is with your papa or mamma, dear,” observed the governess; “it is scarcely fair to wish to monopolise his society.”“No, I will not; of course everybody will wish to speak to him,” said Kate, and she resumed her book.In a few minutes, however, she laid it down again.“It is very odd that he does not come,” exclaimed Kate; “I must go and find him.”She ran again to his room. His evening clothes and shoes were put out, the hot-water jug was on his wash-hand stand untouched, and his hair-brushes were in order on the dressing-table. He evidently had not been there to dress. She ran to her father’s room, and then to her mother’s and sisters’, but he was not with them.“Then he must be with Mrs Carter,” she said to herself, and away she ran to the housekeeper’s room, but Mrs Carter had not seen him nor was he in the nursery.She was in hopes that he might have gone to play with Gusty before he went to bed. Coming back she met Alesbury, and begged him to send to the stables to ascertain if Digby was still there. Hoping that her brother might have gone into the drawing-room during her absence, she returned there. Her father was standing before the fire, her mother and sisters were sitting down on sofas and comfortable chairs, attempting to snatch a few minutes light reading in that generally very idle portion of the day.“Kate, where is Digby?” asked her father, as she entered.“I have been looking for him, papa, but I cannot find him,” she answered.“He has forgotten the dinner-hour, and is still renewing his acquaintance with the horses and dogs,” said the Squire, adjusting his cravat.He poked the fire, turned himself about before it once or twice, and then took up the newspaper. While thus occupied, the footman abruptly entered the room with a startled expression:—“Mr Alesbury sent me out to the stable to bring in Master Digby, sir,” he exclaimed in a hurried tone; “I went, sir, but neither John Pratt nor any of the men could I see; and while I was there the new pony came trotting in by himself with the reins hanging over his head.”“What is this, what is this I hear?” cried Mr Heathcote, in a state of great agitation, running to the hall-door.He was going out, he scarcely knew where, when Alesbury came into the hall, and handed him his hat.“You will put on your coat, sir; the evening is cold. We don’t know where Master Digby is,” he said in a tone which showed that he also was much agitated.Meantime Mrs Heathcote, who had not exactly understood the footman’s announcement, was very much alarmed.“Has Digby been thrown? is he hurt? where is he?” she asked, hurriedly, trying to go out into the hall, but her elder daughters and Miss Apsley held her back, thinking that it was much better to keep her quiet till they could ascertain what had really happened.Kate had followed her father out of the room; she thought that she would at once set off to find Digby; she flew up into her room to put on her walking things.Into the hall speedily hurried Mrs Carter, and nurse, and all the servants. Everybody was asking questions which no one was able to answer. Neither John Pratt nor any of the other men had yet come back.Mr Heathcote, telling Thomas the footman to attend on him, seized a thick stick, and set out in the direction he understood Digby had gone with the pony. He had no definite plan; he forgot that it would have been wiser had he remained at home to have directed the search, and heard the reports of those sent to look for his son.Kate came down prepared for her expedition soon after her father had gone out and disappeared in the darkness. She wanted to follow, but she did not know which way he had gone, and Alesbury, who thought that she ought not to go out, would not tell her.“I will go,” she exclaimed vehemently; “I have as good eyes as anybody, and I am as likely to see him.”Eleanor and Mary came out several times to make inquiries, and then Alesbury and Mrs Carter were summoned into the drawing-room to state all they knew and had heard. All anybody could say was, that Master Digby galloped off on his new pony, and that when John Pratt and the other men found that he did not come back, they set off to look for him. They must have missed his pony, because the pony came back by itself.As soon as Kate saw that she was not watched, she opened the hall-door, and slipping out, closed it behind her unperceived. Then down the steps she went, and away she ran as fast as her light feet could carry her along the path she had seen Digby go. She could not bear to think that any very serious injury had happened to him, but she fancied that he had been thrown from his pony and stunned; or, perhaps, that his ankle might have been sprained or broken, and that he was, in consequence, unable to walk home.The sky had become overcast and the night was very dark. Poor little Kate ran on, looking anxiously on every side and calling out Digby’s name.—Snow, too, began to fall, and came down in large flakes on hat face. For herself she did not care, she did not feel the cold, but she thought of dear Digby, lying on the bare ground; and, perhaps, unable to move or to call out. Perhaps he might have attempted to leap, and got thrown, or his pony might have stumbled. Still it appeared so sure-footed and sagacious a beast, that that could scarcely have happened.“Oh Digby, Digby, where are you?” she every now and then cried out in a piteous tone.Not a ditch nor a recess in the road of any sort, escaped her scrutinising glance. But no Digby replied, no sign of him could she discover. On she went, it appeared that she had got a long way from home. The road, and the country seemed strange to her; she had scarcely ever been out at night during her life; she did not like to turn back, but she began to fear that she might be looking for him in one direction, while he might have gone another. She had just begun to think this, when a snow-flake fell on something shining on the ground, she stooped down, and she found that it was Digby’s whip. She had no doubt about it.“He must be near! he must be near!” she exclaimed. “Digby, Digby, answer, where are you? it is Kate calls you. Digby, dear. Brother, brother, speak to me. Oh do! do speak, Digby, just one word that I may know where to look for you. It is so dark that I cannot see you. Digby, Digby, brother, brother, speak!” she screamed out almost frantically.No answer came to her repeated calls.“He must have dropped his whip as the pony was galloping on,” she thought; “he may have gone further than this before he fell; and yet Digby was not likely to be thrown off; no boy of his age rides better.”So again the brave little girl ran on, crying out his name as before. Oh, what a loving affectionate sister was Kate, well worthy to be cherished. I fully believe that there are many such who would do the same, if occasion required, for their brothers’ sakes. She did not feel faint, or fatigued, or cold; she did not think of herself, all her thoughts were for Digby, as she pictured him lying maimed on the cold ground. The snow fell thickly, the north wind blew keenly, she did not feel it herself, but she thought he did. She would have run on crying out Digby’s name till daylight, or till nature had given way and she had sunk on the ground. She heard footsteps coming along the road.“Oh, can you tell me anything of my brother Digby?” she cried out, “Mr Heathcote’s son, he is lost. He rode away and has not come back.”“Mercy on me, my sweet Miss Kate, is this you?” exclaimed a voice near her. It was that of John Pratt.“Dear, oh dear, we mustn’t be a losing two on you in one day. We cannot find him, Miss Kate; but bear up, dear. It will break my heart, that it will; but that’s no matter. We be a going back to get lanterns and torches, and more people, to help in the search. The Squire will be for sending out all the men and boys from the village to look for him. He must be somewhere, and not far off, that’s my opinion. But come along back, Miss Kate; you’ll be catching your death of cold, and they’ll be wondering what has become of you next at the Hall.”John Pratt spoke so rapidly that Kate had not been able to put in a word. She at last told him that she had found Digby’s whip not far from where they were, and that she should know the spot by some high trees of peculiar form, which were near it. Many people would have picked up the whip, and afterwards would have been unable to tell where they had found it, but her natural sagacity at once showed her the importance of being able to return to the exact spot. John wanted to carry Kate, but she would not hear of it; she consented only to hang on his arm as he hurried along. He tried to keep up her spirits in his somewhat uncouth, though not rough way.“He’ll come back, Miss Kate, no fear. It’s not likely any great harm could have happened to him. Mayhap he has got into some cottage, and the pony ran away. When we gets lights we’ll find him. He’ll be late for dinner. It can’t be that any great harm can have happened to the heir of Bloxholme; it’s impossible, Miss Kate, I am sure it is.”Thus rambling on in his talk, John, with poor Kate, reached the Hall. Everybody there was in a state of consternation. In the first place, Kate had been missed, and it was supposed that she had been spirited away, as had been Digby. Then, not far from the Hall, the Squire and Thomas had been set upon by half a dozen men or more, whose aim seemed to be to inflict a severe injury on them. The Squire cried out who he was, but they only seemed the more eager to conquer him. Fortunately his thick stick stood him in good stead; and Thomas being armed in a similar manner, they had for some time kept their assailants at bay; but the Squire was at length brought on his knees, being very severely handled, and almost overpowered, when some of the men who had gone out to look for Digby, came up, and his assailants fled. He called on his people to pursue, but, much injured as he was, he stumbled and fell before he got far, and the ruffians escaped. His condition was deplorable. He was brought back to the Hall, his mind racked with anxiety at the disappearance of his son, and indignant at the way he himself had been treated. He was puzzled to ascertain whether the two circumstances were in any way connected. As soon as he was a little recovered, and had been able to collect his thoughts, he sent off to the village to demand the services of most of the male population, as John Pratt had suspected he would do. He also sent off in every direction to borrow lanterns, and anything that would serve as torches.John Pratt, on his return with poor little Kate, was heartily welcomed. The Square was too ill to direct the search, so he desired John to make all the arrangements he thought necessary, and to carry them out without delay. He wished to go out again himself, and would have done so had not Mrs Heathcote and his daughters entreated him to remain within.The attack on the Squire had naturally created a new cause for alarm about Digby. It seemed more than probable that the same ruffians who had attacked him had got hold of his son. Still it was not supposed that they had killed him; the very idea was too dreadful.Through the active measures taken by John Pratt, the inhabitants of every cottage and house for miles round were aware of what had occurred; but John’s hopes that he might have got into some cottage were disappointed; not a trace of him could be found.A sleepless night was passed by all the inmates of the Hall; no one thought even of going to bed. Everybody sat up expecting to receive information about Digby; but though people continued constantly to return, no satisfactory information was brought. The place where Kate had found her brother’s whip was carefully searched by men with torches and lanterns, but nothing else belonging to him could be discovered in the neighbourhood. It became evident, at last, that they must wait for daylight to make a more satisfactory search.Never had the inmates of Bloxholme Hall passed a more anxious and miserable night. The morning brought no news of the lost one; not a trace of him could be discovered. The snow lay thickly on the ground, and must completely have covered up all marks of every description, if any had been left.Poor Kate wandered about the house more like a ghost than a thing of this world, watching anxiously for every person who came in, and trembling at every footstep she heard.Early in the day, cousin Giles—or rather Mr Woodcock, for that was his proper designation—arrived with Arthur Haviland. They, of course, were very much shocked at what had occurred. Arthur was eager to go out at once to assist in the search.Mr Giles Woodcock had seen a great deal of the world, and had profited by what he had seen. He was an acute, sensible, energetic man, full of life and spirits, and fun too, which he was always ready to exercise in its proper time and place. He was more, also, than all that—he was a devout, serious-minded Christian, and never ashamed of acknowledging the motives of his conduct. His arrival at the moment was most opportune.The Squire, although up and dressed, was, both in mind and body, so prostrate that he could not take that active superintendence of all the arrangements which were necessary.Cousin Giles saw the state of things, and at once set to work. He called everybody in, and made them give their reports, of which he made notes. He called for a map of the district; he inquired whether anybody in the neighbourhood could have a motive for attacking Digby and the Squire. He strongly suspected that the men who had assaulted Mr Heathcote were in some way concerned in the disappearance of his son. How to find out who they were, and to get hold of them, was the difficulty. Although, however, he suspected one thing, he did not, as is often the case, exert himself to prove his suspicions correct to the neglect of all other points, but he directed the search to be continued and inquiries to be made in every possible direction and way.At last John Pratt returned after another prolonged search over the country.“Well, John,” said cousin Giles, “this is a sad matter. We won’t waste words, though. Have you a suspicion who has got hold of the lad? Had anybody any reason for attacking the Squire? Can you suggest any means of finding this out?”John thought a little. “Old Dame Marlow may tell us something about it, zur,” he said, after scratching his head vehemently. “She knows zomething of everything; and if she don’t know, nobody does.”Cousin Giles, having made further inquiries as to the dame’s character, was about to dispatch John to bring her to the Hall, when Mr Bowdler arrived.He had been absent from home, and immediately on his return, hearing what had occurred, set off for the Hall.Cousin Giles told him what he was about to do.“She may know something about the matter, but not by supernatural means, as these poor ignorant people suppose,” he remarked. “A magistrate’s warrant, in the hands of a constable, will have the best effect in eliciting the truth from her. The Squire can issue it; a constable is in attendance; we will send it off at once. A grandson of her’s was lately apprehended and transported through the Squire’s means, and it is probable that she has instigated some of her friends to this act, to revenge herself.”In less than an hour the wretched old woman was brought up to the Hall.Mr Bowdler first endeavoured by gentle persuasion to induce her to confess all she knew; but she was deaf to all his exhortations. Though she put on a stolid, dull look, and answered only in monosyllables, there was a cunning twinkle in her eye, which showed that she fully understood what was said to her, and was evidently not ignorant of the matter.Cousin Giles next tried to draw some information out of her by threats. She looked up several times with an inquiring look to ascertain whether he had the power of doing what he threatened. When brought before the Squire, she scowled fiercely at him, and not a word could be drawn from her. She was sent under charge of the constable to remain in the servants’ hall.“Give her food and treat her kindly,” said the Squire; “she is an old woman, and feels the loss of her grandson.”The old woman heard what was said, but made no remark.“At all events I am convinced she can, if she will, give us some of the information we require,” remarked cousin Giles; “she completely betrayed herself by her looks and gestures. I remarked particularly her fear of me, not knowing who I was, and her hatred of the Squire, while she had made up her mind to turn a deaf ear to your exhortations, Mr Bowdler.”“What do you advise, then?” asked the clergyman.“Keep her here, and work upon her fears. Then show her that it is her interest to tell us what we want to know,” answered cousin Giles; “force will not do. I doubt if even the judges of the Inquisition would get much out of her.”The whole day passed by and no clue as to what had become of Digby was obtained. Even John Pratt was knocked up, and was obliged to go to bed to recover strength, that he might continue the search.When it was known that Dame Marlow was had up to the Hall, two men came in and stated that they had heard her threaten both the Squire and his heir with her vengeance, though they supposed that she intended to carry it out by means of her incantations. Their evidence, however, was sufficient to enable the Squire to detain her at the Hall. A bed was made up for her in a little room where people, who came to speak to him on magisterial business, were put till their turn arrived to see him. She much wanted to be left alone.“No, no, old lady,” answered the constable, laughing; “you’d be flying up the chimney, or burning the house down, or playing some prank or other. That would never do.”Arthur Haviland felt very sorry. He was very anxious to be doing something, but did not know what to do. Kate very naturally took him into her confidence.“Oh, I wish that I was a boy,” she exclaimed. “I would roam the country round till I found Digby, or cross the seas, and search for him through every land, if I thought he had been carried there. But they will not let me go. Mamma says I must not, and Miss Apsley made me promise to obey, and so I must submit; but it is very cruel.”“Fortunately I am a boy, and I will go,” cried Arthur, enthusiastically. “He saved my life, and I am sure that my father would not disapprove of my going.”“Thank you, Arthur, thank you,” she answered. “I am sure that he is alive. I should have felt very differently had he been dead. I could not have borne that thought. You will find him; I feel that you must find him, remember that. Poor mamma and my sisters think that he has been killed by those dreadful men who attacked papa.”This sad event made Arthur at once feel himself at home, and one of the family. He was prompt in all he did. He went at once to Mr Woodcock, and asked him to obtain a man to accompany him, saying that he would set off the next morning at daybreak, and prosecute his inquiries through the neighbouring districts.“Perhaps I may find out something which has escaped the notice of the people here,” he remarked.“I like your zeal and spirit, and will gladly aid your plan,” answered cousin Giles.Arthur was ready at the hour he had arranged; and he found a lad of about eighteen prepared to be his companion. Adam Hodder seemed a very intelligent fellow; and Arthur felt that he would rather have him than an older person.Both Arthur and his companion were warmly clad and well prepared to brave the cold. Arthur had put on his roughest clothing, but still he looked the gentleman. They carried some provisions in a bag that they might not have to go out of their way to obtain them: but they had taken a good breakfast in the dark, that no time might be lost of the short day of that season. The air smelt pure and fresh as they stepped out in the grey light of the early dawn; and as they walked on briskly Arthur found his spirits rising, and he felt sure that he should again see his friend.“Well, Adam Hodder, what do you think can have become of Master Heathcote?” he asked.“That’s more than I can say, sir,” answered Adam. “But I don’t think with some of the people about here, that old Dame Marlow has spirited him away. It’s more than likely that some of her people may have got hold of him, and will either carry him away out of the country, or make the Squire pay pretty largely before they give him back.”This was a new idea to Arthur, and it served to help him in his inquiries. He told Adam also to make his own observations, and to gain certain information at every cottage they visited. He learned that some men in the dress of seamen had been seen in the parish. They had not spoken to any one, and no one knew where they were going. Then, again, these were the men probably who had attacked the Squire, and they might possibly have had nothing to do with Digby’s disappearance. Still, from their being dressed as seamen, Arthur resolved to prosecute his inquiries towards the coast. He accordingly sent a messenger back to the Hall to say what he had heard, and what he proposed doing. He hoped to get as far as Osberton that night. He had gone some way when he heard some horses’ hoofs clattering along the hard road. He looked round, and, as the riders approached, he saw that it was John Pratt and another man.“I’ve come after you, sir, to tell you that we’ve got hold of some information that may lead us on the right scent,” said John, jumping from his horse. “I am to go along with you, sir. If you like to ride there’s a horse, if not, I’ll send him back.”“I infinitely prefer walking such weather as this,” answered Arthur. “Send the horse back, and now tell me the news.”“Why, sir, first, Mr Woodcock sent off to London for what they call a detective, a sort of ferrety-like fellow, who pokes his head in everywhere, and finds out everything. When Dame Marlow heard of it she was in a great taking, and asked what reward she would have if she tried to find out where the young Squire is?“‘I’ll tell ye what, Dame,’ says Mr Woodcock to her, ‘if he isn’t soon found, you’ll have very much the contrary to a reward, let me tell you. When the detective comes down, you’ll find that tricks like these can’t be played, and you go unpunished. However, I’ll tell you what, Dame, we don’t want to be hard upon you, and if you help in any way to find the young master, depend on it the Squire will be liberal to you, and you’ll be a richer woman than you have been for many a day.’“She made no answer, but sat smoking a pipe they had given her over the fire, for a long time; she smoked and smoked away. At last, says she, ‘I want to speak to that strange gentleman. He can see better with half an eye than all you people can with two; and I have a respect for him.’“When Mr Woodcock went to her, says she—“‘I may put you in the way of finding the young Squire, but send at once; there’s no time to be lost. Look out an honest man, if you can find such. It won’t do to be sending a beak, remember that. Send a lad with him; he may want somebody to help him.’“Mr Woodcock at once thought of me, as he knows that no one loves the young Squire better; and so he sent for me, and told the old dame that I was the man he would send, and that he was sure you, Master Haviland, would wish to go also. She seemed well satisfied at this, and then went on to tell me what to do.“‘A mile to the west of Osberton, in Luccombe Cove, there’s a fisherman’s cottage, close down to the beach,’ said she; ‘there’s no other near. You’ll find an old man there. Ask for Jem the Spotsman. Say that I sent you to him. Tell him that if he shows you where the young Squire is you’ll give him five golden guineas. He’ll not do it for less. If he says he knows nothing about the matter, tell him that the beaks will be on him, and that he’d better do as I bid him. If you can get another fearless man to go with you it may be better. Jem will lead you to a strange place, where you’ll meet strange people. Speak them fair; you’ll not do much by force. Tell them that you’ve plenty of friends at your back, who know where you are, and will come and look for you if you don’t soon return to them. I tell you this because I don’t want any more mischief to come out of the matter. Again I say, you mustn’t lose time. It’s just possible that, even now, you may be too late, and that the lad is on his way to far distant lands. That’s no fault of mine, remember. Those who have got him may be thinking of taking him, or they may not. It is not very likely that they will be wishing to send him back after they have shown him their hiding-place, and let him into other of their secrets.’“I didn’t stop to hear more, but I just got a couple of brace of pistols, and came away at once to overtake you. We might have ridden all the way into Osberton, but Mr Woodcock cautioned me to go in quietly, lest the smugglers or the people, whoever they are, who have got Master Digby, should hear of our coming, and suspecting treachery, should carry him off elsewhere.”“I am rejoiced to hear what you tell me,” exclaimed Arthur, when John Pratt had finished his account. It is impossible, by the by, to do justice to the quaint and thoroughly provincial way in which he expressed himself; so that Arthur at times could scarcely understand him. “There can be but little doubt, from what you tell me, that he is alive, and that we are in a fair way of recovering him. We must proceed, I see, with caution and courage; and as we may employ another man, I know one who will gladly aid us. He is a friend, too, of Digby’s—Toby Tubb is his name. If we want help, he can help us better than anybody.”“He may be a friend of Master Digby’s, and I hope he has many friends, but he can’t be a greater, nor one who would give every day he has to live for him,” exclaimed John, with a very natural burst of feeling.They were walking on all this time rapidly towards Osberton. On arriving there, they first went to Mr Nugent’s house. He had been made aware of what had occurred, and had already consulted with Toby Tubb on the subject. While Arthur took some tea, and rested, he sent off for Toby.When Toby, who had been thinking the matter over, as he said, arrived, and was told Arthur’s errand, he slapped his thigh, and exclaimed, “I thought it was so. I know the gang; a set of daring ruffians as ever lived. Poor Master Digby; it was hard for him to fall into their power. But we will get him out again as soon as we can, if they haven’t spirited him away.” Toby had come prepared for an expedition. He begged Mr Nugent to lend him a brace of pistols. Arthur and John Pratt were already armed. Adam Hodder had gone back with the horses. Arthur, with his two attendants, therefore, John and Toby, immediately set forth on their undertaking. As Toby Tubb knew every inch of the way, they soon reached the high ground above Luccombe Cove.“There’s the cottage,” he observed, pointing to a hut low down on the beach. “I know Jem the Spotsman well—a terrible old ruffian he is. Do you, Master Haviland and John Pratt, go in and give him your message. If he refuses to help you, call me, and I’ll see what I can do.”Arthur, followed by John Pratt, stepped boldly in. The expedition, independent of the object, had peculiar charms for him; there was so much romance and excitement in it. He did not stop to knock, but flung open the door of the hut, and unhesitatingly entered. An old man, in a blue Guernsey frock, sat bending over a drift-wood fire, which spluttered and smoked as he kept piling on the yet damp chips. He looked round at the noise, and, seeing strangers, rose with considerable activity to his feet. He scowled at them beneath his white shaggy eyebrows.Arthur had begged that he might be the spokesman; he felt fully up to the emergency. At an early age, indeed, he had learned much to rely on himself. “Jem the Spotsman, I have a message for you,” he began.“Who told you that was my name?” asked the old man, with a growl.“Never mind, if it is your name,” said Arthur. “We’ve come to do you good, and show you how to gain five golden guineas.”“Time was when I could gain fifty without much trouble,” interrupted the old man.“You cannot now, though; and five guineas is a good sum,” observed Arthur. “You’ll get that, but not more. Dame Marlow bids me tell you that the beaks will be on you; that you know where the young Squire of Bloxholme is hid away, and that if you would keep your neck out of a noose, you will show us where he is to be found.”The old man sat down and began to rake the ashes of the fire with a stick. He did not ask his visitors to take seats, though, but he kept watching them warily out of the corners of his eyes. “Five golden guineas, five golden guineas,” he kept muttering. “Who are you who make the promise?”“A friend of Mr Heathcote’s,” answered Arthur. “It will be faithfully kept with you, depend on that.”“Who’s that man with you?”Arthur told him.“Ay, he looks as if he had the hay-seed in his hair,” observed old Jem. “I’d rather trust a seaman.”“If I bring a seaman, one, perhaps, whom you know, will you trust him?” asked Arthur.“Yes,” answered the old man, after a little thought.Arthur made a sign to John Pratt to go and fetch Toby; but he seemed unwilling to leave Arthur alone.“Go, go. What have I to fear?” said Arthur, firmly.The old man looked up at him. “Some who have been here have been afraid, though,” he muttered. “Take a seat, young gentleman. I like your spirit.”Arthur thanked him, and sat down on a three-legged stool, near a table, which, from its appearance, he knew had formed part of the furniture of the cabin of a ship, probably wrecked on the coast. Every portion of the hut, indeed, was evidently composed of wreck-wood—the roof, the sides, and floor.John Pratt soon returned with Toby.“Ho, ho, old shipmate,” said Toby, as he entered, “so you won’t believe what the young gentleman promises; but you’ll believe me. Five golden guineas or a rope’s-end, remember that.”“The guineas,” answered old Jem, who at once recognised Toby as an acquaintance. “But I was placed here to receive a message; when they come who will they give it to?”“Never you mind that; we’ll be be back in time, I dare say,” answered Toby.“Then come along,” said the old man, whose weak mind was evidently powerfully influenced by the prospect of receiving the five golden guineas to the exclusion of every other consideration. “It will be rough work for the young gentleman, but he looks as if he wouldn’t fear it.”Getting up, and walking with wonderfully firm steps, the old man led the way to a little inlet of the sea, into which a stream fell. It was large enough to allow four or five boats to float in it at once. One only was seen, and she was drawn up on the beach. A pair of oars and a rudder, and a mast and sails were in her. The old man called to Toby to help him launch her.“What, be’es we going by the sea?” asked John Pratt, who had a thorough dread of the ocean.“It’s better than going by the land, seeing that we could not get there at all, if I guess the place we are bound for,” observed Toby. “Now step in, young gentleman—step in, master.”“Can you steer?” old Jem asked of Arthur.“Yes, I am well accustomed to it,” he answered.“Then take the helm, and do as I bid you,” said the old man, taking the after oar.Toby took the other, and they pulled away from the land. The cove was sheltered by a high reef of rocks, so the water was perfectly smooth—so smooth, that a thin coating of ice had been formed at the margin, through which the boat easily forced her way. The stars shone brightly forth from the dark sky, and enabled Arthur to discern the whole outline of the wild, and fantastically-shaped cliffs, which formed the coast, as they towered high above his head on the right. The boat had gone out to clear a reef of rocks which ran out from the shore, and having got to the end of it, old Jem told Arthur to port his helm, and thus doubling it, he steered close in under the cliffs. In many places there was no beach, the water coming close up to their bases; and so close was the boat that frequently the oars touched their rugged fronts. Often, too, the sea-fowl, roosting low down on ledges of rocks, were disturbed from their perches, and flew up with loud screams, circling round and round their heads, till they had passed their resting-places.John Pratt looked about him with considerable awe, if not dread; all was strange and new to him.Arthur had witnessed similar scenes. The boat made but slow progress, for she was kept all the way in and out, through all the little bays, and bends, and inlets of the shore. Many thoughts passed through Arthur’s mind during the long pull. He hoped to recover his friend, and to enjoy the delight of restoring him to his family. At the same time, he could not help recollecting what Dame Marlow had said to John Pratt, and also the remarks of old Jem, and often he feared that they might arrive too late at the cavern where they expected to find him; that he might already be carried off to the distant lands of which the old woman spoke. Such things had occurred before, and might occur again; yet he was puzzled to know what motives the smugglers could have in such a mode of proceeding. He thought and thought over the matter without coming to any satisfactory conclusion. No one spoke above a whisper.“We might be seen or heard by some passing coastguard man,” observed old Jem.Now a lofty, dark, and beetling headland was seen before them.“It’s on t’other side of St. Niven’s Head. We’ll have to go round it,” said old Jem.Arthur did not object to the long pull, but he was eager to discover Digby, and to relieve him from all the anxiety he must be feeling.On pulling out towards the end of the promontory, a swell was felt which, as it rolled in, broke on the cliffs, and compelled them to keep at a somewhat greater distance. On they went. As Arthur looked up it appeared as if the cliffs rose to a prodigious height above his head, almost reaching the sky. In several places, indeed, they appeared to be completely overhanging the water; and he could scarcely divest himself of the feeling that they were about to fall down and overwhelm the boat. The boat now rose and fell more rapidly to the heaving wave, and nothing but John Pratt’s earnest desire to find his young master, prevented him from bitterly repenting that he had trusted himself on the treacherous ocean.“Starboard your helm!” suddenly exclaimed Jem, with an energy which he did not seem capable of exerting.A loud splashing, washing sound, was heard, and Arthur saw the sea breaking wildly over a rock, on which, in another instant, the boat would have struck. The danger passed, they pulled on till they rounded the headland. Wilder than ever was the scene. On one side the lofty cliffs, with their steep front, on which there appeared scarcely a ledge on which a sea-fowl might set its foot; while on the other was the broad boundless expanse of ocean. Arthur thought what would have been their fate if the boat had struck on the rock, and sunk.“The cave where we may find him is not many hundred fathoms off,” said old Jem.Arthur’s heart beat eagerly at the information; and John Pratt forgot all his fears.“Remember, you have to deal with men who care not for law of any sort. You must speak them fair, or you will gain nothing,” said the old man. “Now steer in for that white spot. You’ll find some steps and a path cut in the face of the rock. Take care you don’t slip, or you’ll chance to break your neck. Enter the cave as boldly as you entered my nephew’s cottage; say your say, and wait for the answer. If they threaten you, call for me. I want my five golden guineas.”Arthur sprang out of the boat, followed by Toby and John Pratt.Toby whispered that he had no idea of the place they were going to.Arthur carefully groped his way up the cliff, but had great difficulty in finding the path. He could not help allowing it to occur to him how completely they were in the power of the ruffians they had come to seek. A few stones rolled down would have precipitated them all into the sea. Still the idea was far from making him repent that he had come on the expedition. His chief thought and earnest wish was to rescue Digby.Toby Tubb puffed up after him, but John Pratt, once on dry land, was himself again, and came along with easy strides. Lichens and salt-loving plants grew on the face of the cliff, and served Arthur as handles to assist him to mount, though he trusted chiefly to his feet and the ledges and excrescences in the rock. Up he went—on, on, on. He thought that he must have got into the wrong path; not a sight of a cave appeared. Then he thought that perhaps old Jem had played them a trick, and having placed them on the wild rock had pulled away. The old man had charged him not to speak, so he was afraid of stopping and consulting with Toby and John Pratt. He was beginning to despair, when suddenly he found that he had reached a broad ledge. The party collected on it. A dark spot on the face of the cliff was before them; that was evidently the entrance to the cavern. He drew his breath faster; who would not on such an occasion? Then he and his two attendants walked rapidly forward, till they found themselves under the arched roof of the cave. There was no light, or signs of any one being there. Toby had brought a lantern; he lighted it. As he did so, he whispered to Arthur—“There may be pitfalls in the way; it’s as well not to tumble into them.”The cave did not run directly into the cliff, but turned sharply round to the left. Toby holding up his lantern, they boldly advanced. Still no voices were heard.“The fellows are asleep,” whispered Toby.They soon reached a narrower part of the cave, with a screen of rough planks running across it. At one end of the screen was a low door; Arthur pushed it open, and entered, fully believing that, in another instant, he should grasp Digby’s hand. Arthur saw before him a large vaulted cavern. In the centre was a fire, over which an old man and a boy were sitting toasting some slices of fish at the points of their knives. So eager were they in their occupation that they did not perceive his approach. Could the boy be Digby? The idiotic expression of wonder and fear with which the lad looked up at him showed him that he was not. The few inarticulate words uttered by the lad made the man turn round, when, starting up, he drew a pistol, and presented it at Arthur.“We come in peace, and have no wish to hurt you,” said Arthur. “Tell me where is Squire Heathcote’s son. We come to seek him.”While the man stood irresolute, without replying, Arthur’s eye fell on some clothes on the top of a cask. He took them up: there was a cap, and jacket, and waistcoat, such as Digby was accustomed to wear. He had little doubt that they were Digby’s. His heart sunk within him.“Where is Squire Heathcote’s son?” he repeated.The man stretched out his hand. “They have carried him off; he is far down Channel by this time.”All Arthur’s worst apprehensions were realised; he was too late to save his friend.
There were great rejoicings when just before Christmas time Digby’s jovial, smiling, and sunburnt countenance beamed forth in the hall of Bloxholme. How pleased were his father and mother to see him—how delighted Kate was—how fondly she kissed him, and how eagerly she asked him, as soon as he could, to come and tell her about everything. Gusty shouted and cheered as if some great event had occurred—so it had to him—for one of the most important personages he had ever known, had just returned, after a long absence, to the home of his ancestors. John Pratt came to the door, hat in hand, grinning all over with glee, and eagerly helped the coachman to unstrap Digby’s trunk and play-box. Alesbury, the butler, looked benignly at him—“Glad to see you, Master Digby, very glad, that I am,” he exclaimed, in his usual well-bred undertone; “so grown too, you are. Well, we’ve all sorts of things ready for the holidays—very glad to see you, very.” Mrs Carter hurried out of the housekeeper’s room to welcome him, and after shaking hands and looking at him proudly for a minute, she gave way to the feelings of her heart, and seizing him in her arms, covered his cheeks with kisses. Nurse treated him much in the same way. He was too happy to resent the indignity, though he did rub his cheeks pretty hard afterwards with his handkerchief, when they were not looking. His two elder sisters were out riding when he arrived. When they came back they gave him as hearty a welcome as the rest of the family. Miss Apsley, too, in her quiet ladylike way, expressed her pleasure at seeing him. Her discernment enabled her to discover that he possessed many qualities which, if properly directed, would make him both generally liked, and a useful member of society. She liked him because she thought that he was an honest true-hearted, English boy.
Digby had good reason, therefore, to be satisfied with the reception he met with from every member of the family after this his first absence from home. So he was, and he felt that he was a very happy fellow. Still more full of glee was he, when he at length having been sufficiently looked at, and talked to, and cross questioned, and kissed, and hugged, and fed, found himself running through the grounds, with Kate by his side, towards their favourite resort, the summer-house on the mound.
It was a bright clear day, and though the air was cold, the sun striking through the glass windows for several hours made the room warm and pleasant. Then looking out together at the view, which, even in winter, was beautiful, Digby told Kate of all that had happened him at Mr Nugent’s. How she did laugh at the idea of firing off the old guns at the Castle, though she very nearly cried with horror when he described how they had burst, and how narrowly he and Julian had escaped being killed.
Digby touched very lightly on Julian’s behaviour, but he could not help saying enough to make Kate exclaim—
“Oh, I hate him!—mean-spirited, disagreeable boy. I hope papa will not ask him here again. I never liked him—I did not know why—now I guess the reason.”
Kate then told Digby that all sorts of preparations had been made for his amusement during the holidays, and that several people, young and old, had been invited to come to the house.
“And who do you think is among them?” she asked. “Somebody you will be very glad to see, and whom I never saw. I begged that I might be the first to tell you, because I know that it will give you so much pleasure.”
Digby guessed all sorts of people, but gave it up at last. Perhaps he knew how much Kate would like to tell him.
“Then I won’t leave you longer in doubt,” she exclaimed, eagerly. “Arthur Haviland is coming.”
“You don’t say so,” said Digby, clapping his hands. “How very jolly.”
“Yes, he is, though,” cried Kate. “Papa, it seems, knew Mr Haviland, who wrote to him about your having helped to pull Arthur out of the sea, and then they found that they were old friends, and so it was arranged that Arthur should come here for your holidays. Who else do you suppose is coming? I’ll tell you, as you are not in a guessing mood to-day. Cousin Giles. We could not get on this Christmas without him, I’m sure. He’ll manage everything. He’ll direct all our games in the evening, and settle about all the sports in the morning for you boys. We were quite anxious till we knew that he would come; now I am certain that everything will go smoothly.”
“Capital! how jolly!” exclaimed Digby.
Everything which promised to be pleasant was jolly with him. If he had been asked what was the most jolly thing in existence, he would have answered—his sister Kate.
Cousin Giles and Arthur Haviland were to arrive the very next day, and several other people who had sons with them were coming before New-year’s-day, so that the house would be full from the top to the bottom.
Kate had another surprise for Digby. After they had had their confabulation, and the sinking sun warned them that it was time to return home, she led him round the back way, under pretence of showing him the dogs and some young pups Juno had produced. By chance, it appeared, as she passed the stables, she threw open the door, and there stood John Pratt, grinning with pleasure, and holding by the head a beautiful little pony, with a new bridle and saddle on.
“Oh Kate, how kind, how delightful, how jolly!” exclaimed Digby. “Is that really for me? What a beauty. What grand gallops I’ll have on him, and go out with you on your Tiny. It is of all things just what I should have liked the best, if I had been asked. What is his name? I hope that it is a pretty one.”
“Guess,” said Kate, who, although Digby never had guessed anything in his life, always persisted in making him try and do so.
“Oh, I can’t! Angel, or Fairy, or Beauty, or something of that sort,” he answered.
“You burn, you burn—something very nice,” cried Kate. “Well, then, if you give it up I’ll tell you—Sweetlips. We didn’t give him the name. It was what he was called by the person from whom papa bought him, but as he knows it, and will follow like a dog when he is called, we did not like to change it.”
“It’s a funny name for a pony, but as he has got it, we will still call him by it, and I shall like it very much,” answered Digby. “But I say, John Pratt, can’t I have a gallop on him at once across the park? I won’t be ten minutes away, and it would be so delightful.”
“I sees no reason again it, Master Digby,” replied John; “I thought as how you’d be liking it, and so I put the new saddle on him, which the Squire sent and made me buy for you.”
“Says he, ‘John, our Digby will be coming to cover with me, to see the hounds throw off, and he’ll be by my side I hope when I go a coursing; and I wish him to appear as my son should appear, John.’ This was afore we bought the pony. I heard of it, and I was certain that it would just do, so the Squire told me to go and settle for it at once, and not to stand on price, and right glad I was when I brought back Master Sweetlips; and says the Squire, ‘I never saw a greater beauty in my life, John. He’ll just do for our boy. Now go and buy a new saddle and bridle to fit him. You can judge of what it ought to be just as well as I can.’ Wasn’t I proud; and so, Master Digby, here he is, all your own. And here’s a new whip I bought at the same time. The Squire didn’t tell me to get that, but if you’ll accept it from an old man, you’ll make his heart right glad.”
“Oh, thank you, John—thank you, John Pratt,” exclaimed Digby, his heart so swelling with kindly and grateful feelings that the tears almost came into his eyes. “You run in, Kate, and say I’ll be back directly, but I must have a gallop on Sweetlips.”
John had been assisting him to mount, and adjusting his stirrups all the time. Away trotted the young heir of Bloxholme, and truly he looked the worthy scion of a sturdy race. John Pratt stood outside the yard gate, watching him with admiration, and Kate remained on the upper step of the hall-door, gazing at him with affectionate interest, till he was lost to sight among the trees, and the sound of his pony’s hoofs died away in the distance.
“He is a dear fellow!” she exclaimed, as at length she entered the house, and ran up stairs to prepare for dinner. She was to dine late that day in honour of Digby’s arrival. She anticipated a delightful evening. He would have so much to tell her, so much to talk about—she felt so proud of him. He looked so well—so manly, she thought, and was so much improved in every way. Kate dressed and came down to the drawing-room long before dinner-time, that she might have another talk with Digby. He had not made his appearance, so she sat down and took up a book, thinking that he would come soon. Miss Apsley appeared next. Kate remarked that she thought Digby was a long time dressing for dinner. She ran up to his room, but he was not there. When she came back, expecting to find that he had in the mean time come to the drawing-room, she felt blank at not seeing him.
“He probably is with your papa or mamma, dear,” observed the governess; “it is scarcely fair to wish to monopolise his society.”
“No, I will not; of course everybody will wish to speak to him,” said Kate, and she resumed her book.
In a few minutes, however, she laid it down again.
“It is very odd that he does not come,” exclaimed Kate; “I must go and find him.”
She ran again to his room. His evening clothes and shoes were put out, the hot-water jug was on his wash-hand stand untouched, and his hair-brushes were in order on the dressing-table. He evidently had not been there to dress. She ran to her father’s room, and then to her mother’s and sisters’, but he was not with them.
“Then he must be with Mrs Carter,” she said to herself, and away she ran to the housekeeper’s room, but Mrs Carter had not seen him nor was he in the nursery.
She was in hopes that he might have gone to play with Gusty before he went to bed. Coming back she met Alesbury, and begged him to send to the stables to ascertain if Digby was still there. Hoping that her brother might have gone into the drawing-room during her absence, she returned there. Her father was standing before the fire, her mother and sisters were sitting down on sofas and comfortable chairs, attempting to snatch a few minutes light reading in that generally very idle portion of the day.
“Kate, where is Digby?” asked her father, as she entered.
“I have been looking for him, papa, but I cannot find him,” she answered.
“He has forgotten the dinner-hour, and is still renewing his acquaintance with the horses and dogs,” said the Squire, adjusting his cravat.
He poked the fire, turned himself about before it once or twice, and then took up the newspaper. While thus occupied, the footman abruptly entered the room with a startled expression:—
“Mr Alesbury sent me out to the stable to bring in Master Digby, sir,” he exclaimed in a hurried tone; “I went, sir, but neither John Pratt nor any of the men could I see; and while I was there the new pony came trotting in by himself with the reins hanging over his head.”
“What is this, what is this I hear?” cried Mr Heathcote, in a state of great agitation, running to the hall-door.
He was going out, he scarcely knew where, when Alesbury came into the hall, and handed him his hat.
“You will put on your coat, sir; the evening is cold. We don’t know where Master Digby is,” he said in a tone which showed that he also was much agitated.
Meantime Mrs Heathcote, who had not exactly understood the footman’s announcement, was very much alarmed.
“Has Digby been thrown? is he hurt? where is he?” she asked, hurriedly, trying to go out into the hall, but her elder daughters and Miss Apsley held her back, thinking that it was much better to keep her quiet till they could ascertain what had really happened.
Kate had followed her father out of the room; she thought that she would at once set off to find Digby; she flew up into her room to put on her walking things.
Into the hall speedily hurried Mrs Carter, and nurse, and all the servants. Everybody was asking questions which no one was able to answer. Neither John Pratt nor any of the other men had yet come back.
Mr Heathcote, telling Thomas the footman to attend on him, seized a thick stick, and set out in the direction he understood Digby had gone with the pony. He had no definite plan; he forgot that it would have been wiser had he remained at home to have directed the search, and heard the reports of those sent to look for his son.
Kate came down prepared for her expedition soon after her father had gone out and disappeared in the darkness. She wanted to follow, but she did not know which way he had gone, and Alesbury, who thought that she ought not to go out, would not tell her.
“I will go,” she exclaimed vehemently; “I have as good eyes as anybody, and I am as likely to see him.”
Eleanor and Mary came out several times to make inquiries, and then Alesbury and Mrs Carter were summoned into the drawing-room to state all they knew and had heard. All anybody could say was, that Master Digby galloped off on his new pony, and that when John Pratt and the other men found that he did not come back, they set off to look for him. They must have missed his pony, because the pony came back by itself.
As soon as Kate saw that she was not watched, she opened the hall-door, and slipping out, closed it behind her unperceived. Then down the steps she went, and away she ran as fast as her light feet could carry her along the path she had seen Digby go. She could not bear to think that any very serious injury had happened to him, but she fancied that he had been thrown from his pony and stunned; or, perhaps, that his ankle might have been sprained or broken, and that he was, in consequence, unable to walk home.
The sky had become overcast and the night was very dark. Poor little Kate ran on, looking anxiously on every side and calling out Digby’s name.—Snow, too, began to fall, and came down in large flakes on hat face. For herself she did not care, she did not feel the cold, but she thought of dear Digby, lying on the bare ground; and, perhaps, unable to move or to call out. Perhaps he might have attempted to leap, and got thrown, or his pony might have stumbled. Still it appeared so sure-footed and sagacious a beast, that that could scarcely have happened.
“Oh Digby, Digby, where are you?” she every now and then cried out in a piteous tone.
Not a ditch nor a recess in the road of any sort, escaped her scrutinising glance. But no Digby replied, no sign of him could she discover. On she went, it appeared that she had got a long way from home. The road, and the country seemed strange to her; she had scarcely ever been out at night during her life; she did not like to turn back, but she began to fear that she might be looking for him in one direction, while he might have gone another. She had just begun to think this, when a snow-flake fell on something shining on the ground, she stooped down, and she found that it was Digby’s whip. She had no doubt about it.
“He must be near! he must be near!” she exclaimed. “Digby, Digby, answer, where are you? it is Kate calls you. Digby, dear. Brother, brother, speak to me. Oh do! do speak, Digby, just one word that I may know where to look for you. It is so dark that I cannot see you. Digby, Digby, brother, brother, speak!” she screamed out almost frantically.
No answer came to her repeated calls.
“He must have dropped his whip as the pony was galloping on,” she thought; “he may have gone further than this before he fell; and yet Digby was not likely to be thrown off; no boy of his age rides better.”
So again the brave little girl ran on, crying out his name as before. Oh, what a loving affectionate sister was Kate, well worthy to be cherished. I fully believe that there are many such who would do the same, if occasion required, for their brothers’ sakes. She did not feel faint, or fatigued, or cold; she did not think of herself, all her thoughts were for Digby, as she pictured him lying maimed on the cold ground. The snow fell thickly, the north wind blew keenly, she did not feel it herself, but she thought he did. She would have run on crying out Digby’s name till daylight, or till nature had given way and she had sunk on the ground. She heard footsteps coming along the road.
“Oh, can you tell me anything of my brother Digby?” she cried out, “Mr Heathcote’s son, he is lost. He rode away and has not come back.”
“Mercy on me, my sweet Miss Kate, is this you?” exclaimed a voice near her. It was that of John Pratt.
“Dear, oh dear, we mustn’t be a losing two on you in one day. We cannot find him, Miss Kate; but bear up, dear. It will break my heart, that it will; but that’s no matter. We be a going back to get lanterns and torches, and more people, to help in the search. The Squire will be for sending out all the men and boys from the village to look for him. He must be somewhere, and not far off, that’s my opinion. But come along back, Miss Kate; you’ll be catching your death of cold, and they’ll be wondering what has become of you next at the Hall.”
John Pratt spoke so rapidly that Kate had not been able to put in a word. She at last told him that she had found Digby’s whip not far from where they were, and that she should know the spot by some high trees of peculiar form, which were near it. Many people would have picked up the whip, and afterwards would have been unable to tell where they had found it, but her natural sagacity at once showed her the importance of being able to return to the exact spot. John wanted to carry Kate, but she would not hear of it; she consented only to hang on his arm as he hurried along. He tried to keep up her spirits in his somewhat uncouth, though not rough way.
“He’ll come back, Miss Kate, no fear. It’s not likely any great harm could have happened to him. Mayhap he has got into some cottage, and the pony ran away. When we gets lights we’ll find him. He’ll be late for dinner. It can’t be that any great harm can have happened to the heir of Bloxholme; it’s impossible, Miss Kate, I am sure it is.”
Thus rambling on in his talk, John, with poor Kate, reached the Hall. Everybody there was in a state of consternation. In the first place, Kate had been missed, and it was supposed that she had been spirited away, as had been Digby. Then, not far from the Hall, the Squire and Thomas had been set upon by half a dozen men or more, whose aim seemed to be to inflict a severe injury on them. The Squire cried out who he was, but they only seemed the more eager to conquer him. Fortunately his thick stick stood him in good stead; and Thomas being armed in a similar manner, they had for some time kept their assailants at bay; but the Squire was at length brought on his knees, being very severely handled, and almost overpowered, when some of the men who had gone out to look for Digby, came up, and his assailants fled. He called on his people to pursue, but, much injured as he was, he stumbled and fell before he got far, and the ruffians escaped. His condition was deplorable. He was brought back to the Hall, his mind racked with anxiety at the disappearance of his son, and indignant at the way he himself had been treated. He was puzzled to ascertain whether the two circumstances were in any way connected. As soon as he was a little recovered, and had been able to collect his thoughts, he sent off to the village to demand the services of most of the male population, as John Pratt had suspected he would do. He also sent off in every direction to borrow lanterns, and anything that would serve as torches.
John Pratt, on his return with poor little Kate, was heartily welcomed. The Square was too ill to direct the search, so he desired John to make all the arrangements he thought necessary, and to carry them out without delay. He wished to go out again himself, and would have done so had not Mrs Heathcote and his daughters entreated him to remain within.
The attack on the Squire had naturally created a new cause for alarm about Digby. It seemed more than probable that the same ruffians who had attacked him had got hold of his son. Still it was not supposed that they had killed him; the very idea was too dreadful.
Through the active measures taken by John Pratt, the inhabitants of every cottage and house for miles round were aware of what had occurred; but John’s hopes that he might have got into some cottage were disappointed; not a trace of him could be found.
A sleepless night was passed by all the inmates of the Hall; no one thought even of going to bed. Everybody sat up expecting to receive information about Digby; but though people continued constantly to return, no satisfactory information was brought. The place where Kate had found her brother’s whip was carefully searched by men with torches and lanterns, but nothing else belonging to him could be discovered in the neighbourhood. It became evident, at last, that they must wait for daylight to make a more satisfactory search.
Never had the inmates of Bloxholme Hall passed a more anxious and miserable night. The morning brought no news of the lost one; not a trace of him could be discovered. The snow lay thickly on the ground, and must completely have covered up all marks of every description, if any had been left.
Poor Kate wandered about the house more like a ghost than a thing of this world, watching anxiously for every person who came in, and trembling at every footstep she heard.
Early in the day, cousin Giles—or rather Mr Woodcock, for that was his proper designation—arrived with Arthur Haviland. They, of course, were very much shocked at what had occurred. Arthur was eager to go out at once to assist in the search.
Mr Giles Woodcock had seen a great deal of the world, and had profited by what he had seen. He was an acute, sensible, energetic man, full of life and spirits, and fun too, which he was always ready to exercise in its proper time and place. He was more, also, than all that—he was a devout, serious-minded Christian, and never ashamed of acknowledging the motives of his conduct. His arrival at the moment was most opportune.
The Squire, although up and dressed, was, both in mind and body, so prostrate that he could not take that active superintendence of all the arrangements which were necessary.
Cousin Giles saw the state of things, and at once set to work. He called everybody in, and made them give their reports, of which he made notes. He called for a map of the district; he inquired whether anybody in the neighbourhood could have a motive for attacking Digby and the Squire. He strongly suspected that the men who had assaulted Mr Heathcote were in some way concerned in the disappearance of his son. How to find out who they were, and to get hold of them, was the difficulty. Although, however, he suspected one thing, he did not, as is often the case, exert himself to prove his suspicions correct to the neglect of all other points, but he directed the search to be continued and inquiries to be made in every possible direction and way.
At last John Pratt returned after another prolonged search over the country.
“Well, John,” said cousin Giles, “this is a sad matter. We won’t waste words, though. Have you a suspicion who has got hold of the lad? Had anybody any reason for attacking the Squire? Can you suggest any means of finding this out?”
John thought a little. “Old Dame Marlow may tell us something about it, zur,” he said, after scratching his head vehemently. “She knows zomething of everything; and if she don’t know, nobody does.”
Cousin Giles, having made further inquiries as to the dame’s character, was about to dispatch John to bring her to the Hall, when Mr Bowdler arrived.
He had been absent from home, and immediately on his return, hearing what had occurred, set off for the Hall.
Cousin Giles told him what he was about to do.
“She may know something about the matter, but not by supernatural means, as these poor ignorant people suppose,” he remarked. “A magistrate’s warrant, in the hands of a constable, will have the best effect in eliciting the truth from her. The Squire can issue it; a constable is in attendance; we will send it off at once. A grandson of her’s was lately apprehended and transported through the Squire’s means, and it is probable that she has instigated some of her friends to this act, to revenge herself.”
In less than an hour the wretched old woman was brought up to the Hall.
Mr Bowdler first endeavoured by gentle persuasion to induce her to confess all she knew; but she was deaf to all his exhortations. Though she put on a stolid, dull look, and answered only in monosyllables, there was a cunning twinkle in her eye, which showed that she fully understood what was said to her, and was evidently not ignorant of the matter.
Cousin Giles next tried to draw some information out of her by threats. She looked up several times with an inquiring look to ascertain whether he had the power of doing what he threatened. When brought before the Squire, she scowled fiercely at him, and not a word could be drawn from her. She was sent under charge of the constable to remain in the servants’ hall.
“Give her food and treat her kindly,” said the Squire; “she is an old woman, and feels the loss of her grandson.”
The old woman heard what was said, but made no remark.
“At all events I am convinced she can, if she will, give us some of the information we require,” remarked cousin Giles; “she completely betrayed herself by her looks and gestures. I remarked particularly her fear of me, not knowing who I was, and her hatred of the Squire, while she had made up her mind to turn a deaf ear to your exhortations, Mr Bowdler.”
“What do you advise, then?” asked the clergyman.
“Keep her here, and work upon her fears. Then show her that it is her interest to tell us what we want to know,” answered cousin Giles; “force will not do. I doubt if even the judges of the Inquisition would get much out of her.”
The whole day passed by and no clue as to what had become of Digby was obtained. Even John Pratt was knocked up, and was obliged to go to bed to recover strength, that he might continue the search.
When it was known that Dame Marlow was had up to the Hall, two men came in and stated that they had heard her threaten both the Squire and his heir with her vengeance, though they supposed that she intended to carry it out by means of her incantations. Their evidence, however, was sufficient to enable the Squire to detain her at the Hall. A bed was made up for her in a little room where people, who came to speak to him on magisterial business, were put till their turn arrived to see him. She much wanted to be left alone.
“No, no, old lady,” answered the constable, laughing; “you’d be flying up the chimney, or burning the house down, or playing some prank or other. That would never do.”
Arthur Haviland felt very sorry. He was very anxious to be doing something, but did not know what to do. Kate very naturally took him into her confidence.
“Oh, I wish that I was a boy,” she exclaimed. “I would roam the country round till I found Digby, or cross the seas, and search for him through every land, if I thought he had been carried there. But they will not let me go. Mamma says I must not, and Miss Apsley made me promise to obey, and so I must submit; but it is very cruel.”
“Fortunately I am a boy, and I will go,” cried Arthur, enthusiastically. “He saved my life, and I am sure that my father would not disapprove of my going.”
“Thank you, Arthur, thank you,” she answered. “I am sure that he is alive. I should have felt very differently had he been dead. I could not have borne that thought. You will find him; I feel that you must find him, remember that. Poor mamma and my sisters think that he has been killed by those dreadful men who attacked papa.”
This sad event made Arthur at once feel himself at home, and one of the family. He was prompt in all he did. He went at once to Mr Woodcock, and asked him to obtain a man to accompany him, saying that he would set off the next morning at daybreak, and prosecute his inquiries through the neighbouring districts.
“Perhaps I may find out something which has escaped the notice of the people here,” he remarked.
“I like your zeal and spirit, and will gladly aid your plan,” answered cousin Giles.
Arthur was ready at the hour he had arranged; and he found a lad of about eighteen prepared to be his companion. Adam Hodder seemed a very intelligent fellow; and Arthur felt that he would rather have him than an older person.
Both Arthur and his companion were warmly clad and well prepared to brave the cold. Arthur had put on his roughest clothing, but still he looked the gentleman. They carried some provisions in a bag that they might not have to go out of their way to obtain them: but they had taken a good breakfast in the dark, that no time might be lost of the short day of that season. The air smelt pure and fresh as they stepped out in the grey light of the early dawn; and as they walked on briskly Arthur found his spirits rising, and he felt sure that he should again see his friend.
“Well, Adam Hodder, what do you think can have become of Master Heathcote?” he asked.
“That’s more than I can say, sir,” answered Adam. “But I don’t think with some of the people about here, that old Dame Marlow has spirited him away. It’s more than likely that some of her people may have got hold of him, and will either carry him away out of the country, or make the Squire pay pretty largely before they give him back.”
This was a new idea to Arthur, and it served to help him in his inquiries. He told Adam also to make his own observations, and to gain certain information at every cottage they visited. He learned that some men in the dress of seamen had been seen in the parish. They had not spoken to any one, and no one knew where they were going. Then, again, these were the men probably who had attacked the Squire, and they might possibly have had nothing to do with Digby’s disappearance. Still, from their being dressed as seamen, Arthur resolved to prosecute his inquiries towards the coast. He accordingly sent a messenger back to the Hall to say what he had heard, and what he proposed doing. He hoped to get as far as Osberton that night. He had gone some way when he heard some horses’ hoofs clattering along the hard road. He looked round, and, as the riders approached, he saw that it was John Pratt and another man.
“I’ve come after you, sir, to tell you that we’ve got hold of some information that may lead us on the right scent,” said John, jumping from his horse. “I am to go along with you, sir. If you like to ride there’s a horse, if not, I’ll send him back.”
“I infinitely prefer walking such weather as this,” answered Arthur. “Send the horse back, and now tell me the news.”
“Why, sir, first, Mr Woodcock sent off to London for what they call a detective, a sort of ferrety-like fellow, who pokes his head in everywhere, and finds out everything. When Dame Marlow heard of it she was in a great taking, and asked what reward she would have if she tried to find out where the young Squire is?
“‘I’ll tell ye what, Dame,’ says Mr Woodcock to her, ‘if he isn’t soon found, you’ll have very much the contrary to a reward, let me tell you. When the detective comes down, you’ll find that tricks like these can’t be played, and you go unpunished. However, I’ll tell you what, Dame, we don’t want to be hard upon you, and if you help in any way to find the young master, depend on it the Squire will be liberal to you, and you’ll be a richer woman than you have been for many a day.’
“She made no answer, but sat smoking a pipe they had given her over the fire, for a long time; she smoked and smoked away. At last, says she, ‘I want to speak to that strange gentleman. He can see better with half an eye than all you people can with two; and I have a respect for him.’
“When Mr Woodcock went to her, says she—
“‘I may put you in the way of finding the young Squire, but send at once; there’s no time to be lost. Look out an honest man, if you can find such. It won’t do to be sending a beak, remember that. Send a lad with him; he may want somebody to help him.’
“Mr Woodcock at once thought of me, as he knows that no one loves the young Squire better; and so he sent for me, and told the old dame that I was the man he would send, and that he was sure you, Master Haviland, would wish to go also. She seemed well satisfied at this, and then went on to tell me what to do.
“‘A mile to the west of Osberton, in Luccombe Cove, there’s a fisherman’s cottage, close down to the beach,’ said she; ‘there’s no other near. You’ll find an old man there. Ask for Jem the Spotsman. Say that I sent you to him. Tell him that if he shows you where the young Squire is you’ll give him five golden guineas. He’ll not do it for less. If he says he knows nothing about the matter, tell him that the beaks will be on him, and that he’d better do as I bid him. If you can get another fearless man to go with you it may be better. Jem will lead you to a strange place, where you’ll meet strange people. Speak them fair; you’ll not do much by force. Tell them that you’ve plenty of friends at your back, who know where you are, and will come and look for you if you don’t soon return to them. I tell you this because I don’t want any more mischief to come out of the matter. Again I say, you mustn’t lose time. It’s just possible that, even now, you may be too late, and that the lad is on his way to far distant lands. That’s no fault of mine, remember. Those who have got him may be thinking of taking him, or they may not. It is not very likely that they will be wishing to send him back after they have shown him their hiding-place, and let him into other of their secrets.’
“I didn’t stop to hear more, but I just got a couple of brace of pistols, and came away at once to overtake you. We might have ridden all the way into Osberton, but Mr Woodcock cautioned me to go in quietly, lest the smugglers or the people, whoever they are, who have got Master Digby, should hear of our coming, and suspecting treachery, should carry him off elsewhere.”
“I am rejoiced to hear what you tell me,” exclaimed Arthur, when John Pratt had finished his account. It is impossible, by the by, to do justice to the quaint and thoroughly provincial way in which he expressed himself; so that Arthur at times could scarcely understand him. “There can be but little doubt, from what you tell me, that he is alive, and that we are in a fair way of recovering him. We must proceed, I see, with caution and courage; and as we may employ another man, I know one who will gladly aid us. He is a friend, too, of Digby’s—Toby Tubb is his name. If we want help, he can help us better than anybody.”
“He may be a friend of Master Digby’s, and I hope he has many friends, but he can’t be a greater, nor one who would give every day he has to live for him,” exclaimed John, with a very natural burst of feeling.
They were walking on all this time rapidly towards Osberton. On arriving there, they first went to Mr Nugent’s house. He had been made aware of what had occurred, and had already consulted with Toby Tubb on the subject. While Arthur took some tea, and rested, he sent off for Toby.
When Toby, who had been thinking the matter over, as he said, arrived, and was told Arthur’s errand, he slapped his thigh, and exclaimed, “I thought it was so. I know the gang; a set of daring ruffians as ever lived. Poor Master Digby; it was hard for him to fall into their power. But we will get him out again as soon as we can, if they haven’t spirited him away.” Toby had come prepared for an expedition. He begged Mr Nugent to lend him a brace of pistols. Arthur and John Pratt were already armed. Adam Hodder had gone back with the horses. Arthur, with his two attendants, therefore, John and Toby, immediately set forth on their undertaking. As Toby Tubb knew every inch of the way, they soon reached the high ground above Luccombe Cove.
“There’s the cottage,” he observed, pointing to a hut low down on the beach. “I know Jem the Spotsman well—a terrible old ruffian he is. Do you, Master Haviland and John Pratt, go in and give him your message. If he refuses to help you, call me, and I’ll see what I can do.”
Arthur, followed by John Pratt, stepped boldly in. The expedition, independent of the object, had peculiar charms for him; there was so much romance and excitement in it. He did not stop to knock, but flung open the door of the hut, and unhesitatingly entered. An old man, in a blue Guernsey frock, sat bending over a drift-wood fire, which spluttered and smoked as he kept piling on the yet damp chips. He looked round at the noise, and, seeing strangers, rose with considerable activity to his feet. He scowled at them beneath his white shaggy eyebrows.
Arthur had begged that he might be the spokesman; he felt fully up to the emergency. At an early age, indeed, he had learned much to rely on himself. “Jem the Spotsman, I have a message for you,” he began.
“Who told you that was my name?” asked the old man, with a growl.
“Never mind, if it is your name,” said Arthur. “We’ve come to do you good, and show you how to gain five golden guineas.”
“Time was when I could gain fifty without much trouble,” interrupted the old man.
“You cannot now, though; and five guineas is a good sum,” observed Arthur. “You’ll get that, but not more. Dame Marlow bids me tell you that the beaks will be on you; that you know where the young Squire of Bloxholme is hid away, and that if you would keep your neck out of a noose, you will show us where he is to be found.”
The old man sat down and began to rake the ashes of the fire with a stick. He did not ask his visitors to take seats, though, but he kept watching them warily out of the corners of his eyes. “Five golden guineas, five golden guineas,” he kept muttering. “Who are you who make the promise?”
“A friend of Mr Heathcote’s,” answered Arthur. “It will be faithfully kept with you, depend on that.”
“Who’s that man with you?”
Arthur told him.
“Ay, he looks as if he had the hay-seed in his hair,” observed old Jem. “I’d rather trust a seaman.”
“If I bring a seaman, one, perhaps, whom you know, will you trust him?” asked Arthur.
“Yes,” answered the old man, after a little thought.
Arthur made a sign to John Pratt to go and fetch Toby; but he seemed unwilling to leave Arthur alone.
“Go, go. What have I to fear?” said Arthur, firmly.
The old man looked up at him. “Some who have been here have been afraid, though,” he muttered. “Take a seat, young gentleman. I like your spirit.”
Arthur thanked him, and sat down on a three-legged stool, near a table, which, from its appearance, he knew had formed part of the furniture of the cabin of a ship, probably wrecked on the coast. Every portion of the hut, indeed, was evidently composed of wreck-wood—the roof, the sides, and floor.
John Pratt soon returned with Toby.
“Ho, ho, old shipmate,” said Toby, as he entered, “so you won’t believe what the young gentleman promises; but you’ll believe me. Five golden guineas or a rope’s-end, remember that.”
“The guineas,” answered old Jem, who at once recognised Toby as an acquaintance. “But I was placed here to receive a message; when they come who will they give it to?”
“Never you mind that; we’ll be be back in time, I dare say,” answered Toby.
“Then come along,” said the old man, whose weak mind was evidently powerfully influenced by the prospect of receiving the five golden guineas to the exclusion of every other consideration. “It will be rough work for the young gentleman, but he looks as if he wouldn’t fear it.”
Getting up, and walking with wonderfully firm steps, the old man led the way to a little inlet of the sea, into which a stream fell. It was large enough to allow four or five boats to float in it at once. One only was seen, and she was drawn up on the beach. A pair of oars and a rudder, and a mast and sails were in her. The old man called to Toby to help him launch her.
“What, be’es we going by the sea?” asked John Pratt, who had a thorough dread of the ocean.
“It’s better than going by the land, seeing that we could not get there at all, if I guess the place we are bound for,” observed Toby. “Now step in, young gentleman—step in, master.”
“Can you steer?” old Jem asked of Arthur.
“Yes, I am well accustomed to it,” he answered.
“Then take the helm, and do as I bid you,” said the old man, taking the after oar.
Toby took the other, and they pulled away from the land. The cove was sheltered by a high reef of rocks, so the water was perfectly smooth—so smooth, that a thin coating of ice had been formed at the margin, through which the boat easily forced her way. The stars shone brightly forth from the dark sky, and enabled Arthur to discern the whole outline of the wild, and fantastically-shaped cliffs, which formed the coast, as they towered high above his head on the right. The boat had gone out to clear a reef of rocks which ran out from the shore, and having got to the end of it, old Jem told Arthur to port his helm, and thus doubling it, he steered close in under the cliffs. In many places there was no beach, the water coming close up to their bases; and so close was the boat that frequently the oars touched their rugged fronts. Often, too, the sea-fowl, roosting low down on ledges of rocks, were disturbed from their perches, and flew up with loud screams, circling round and round their heads, till they had passed their resting-places.
John Pratt looked about him with considerable awe, if not dread; all was strange and new to him.
Arthur had witnessed similar scenes. The boat made but slow progress, for she was kept all the way in and out, through all the little bays, and bends, and inlets of the shore. Many thoughts passed through Arthur’s mind during the long pull. He hoped to recover his friend, and to enjoy the delight of restoring him to his family. At the same time, he could not help recollecting what Dame Marlow had said to John Pratt, and also the remarks of old Jem, and often he feared that they might arrive too late at the cavern where they expected to find him; that he might already be carried off to the distant lands of which the old woman spoke. Such things had occurred before, and might occur again; yet he was puzzled to know what motives the smugglers could have in such a mode of proceeding. He thought and thought over the matter without coming to any satisfactory conclusion. No one spoke above a whisper.
“We might be seen or heard by some passing coastguard man,” observed old Jem.
Now a lofty, dark, and beetling headland was seen before them.
“It’s on t’other side of St. Niven’s Head. We’ll have to go round it,” said old Jem.
Arthur did not object to the long pull, but he was eager to discover Digby, and to relieve him from all the anxiety he must be feeling.
On pulling out towards the end of the promontory, a swell was felt which, as it rolled in, broke on the cliffs, and compelled them to keep at a somewhat greater distance. On they went. As Arthur looked up it appeared as if the cliffs rose to a prodigious height above his head, almost reaching the sky. In several places, indeed, they appeared to be completely overhanging the water; and he could scarcely divest himself of the feeling that they were about to fall down and overwhelm the boat. The boat now rose and fell more rapidly to the heaving wave, and nothing but John Pratt’s earnest desire to find his young master, prevented him from bitterly repenting that he had trusted himself on the treacherous ocean.
“Starboard your helm!” suddenly exclaimed Jem, with an energy which he did not seem capable of exerting.
A loud splashing, washing sound, was heard, and Arthur saw the sea breaking wildly over a rock, on which, in another instant, the boat would have struck. The danger passed, they pulled on till they rounded the headland. Wilder than ever was the scene. On one side the lofty cliffs, with their steep front, on which there appeared scarcely a ledge on which a sea-fowl might set its foot; while on the other was the broad boundless expanse of ocean. Arthur thought what would have been their fate if the boat had struck on the rock, and sunk.
“The cave where we may find him is not many hundred fathoms off,” said old Jem.
Arthur’s heart beat eagerly at the information; and John Pratt forgot all his fears.
“Remember, you have to deal with men who care not for law of any sort. You must speak them fair, or you will gain nothing,” said the old man. “Now steer in for that white spot. You’ll find some steps and a path cut in the face of the rock. Take care you don’t slip, or you’ll chance to break your neck. Enter the cave as boldly as you entered my nephew’s cottage; say your say, and wait for the answer. If they threaten you, call for me. I want my five golden guineas.”
Arthur sprang out of the boat, followed by Toby and John Pratt.
Toby whispered that he had no idea of the place they were going to.
Arthur carefully groped his way up the cliff, but had great difficulty in finding the path. He could not help allowing it to occur to him how completely they were in the power of the ruffians they had come to seek. A few stones rolled down would have precipitated them all into the sea. Still the idea was far from making him repent that he had come on the expedition. His chief thought and earnest wish was to rescue Digby.
Toby Tubb puffed up after him, but John Pratt, once on dry land, was himself again, and came along with easy strides. Lichens and salt-loving plants grew on the face of the cliff, and served Arthur as handles to assist him to mount, though he trusted chiefly to his feet and the ledges and excrescences in the rock. Up he went—on, on, on. He thought that he must have got into the wrong path; not a sight of a cave appeared. Then he thought that perhaps old Jem had played them a trick, and having placed them on the wild rock had pulled away. The old man had charged him not to speak, so he was afraid of stopping and consulting with Toby and John Pratt. He was beginning to despair, when suddenly he found that he had reached a broad ledge. The party collected on it. A dark spot on the face of the cliff was before them; that was evidently the entrance to the cavern. He drew his breath faster; who would not on such an occasion? Then he and his two attendants walked rapidly forward, till they found themselves under the arched roof of the cave. There was no light, or signs of any one being there. Toby had brought a lantern; he lighted it. As he did so, he whispered to Arthur—
“There may be pitfalls in the way; it’s as well not to tumble into them.”
The cave did not run directly into the cliff, but turned sharply round to the left. Toby holding up his lantern, they boldly advanced. Still no voices were heard.
“The fellows are asleep,” whispered Toby.
They soon reached a narrower part of the cave, with a screen of rough planks running across it. At one end of the screen was a low door; Arthur pushed it open, and entered, fully believing that, in another instant, he should grasp Digby’s hand. Arthur saw before him a large vaulted cavern. In the centre was a fire, over which an old man and a boy were sitting toasting some slices of fish at the points of their knives. So eager were they in their occupation that they did not perceive his approach. Could the boy be Digby? The idiotic expression of wonder and fear with which the lad looked up at him showed him that he was not. The few inarticulate words uttered by the lad made the man turn round, when, starting up, he drew a pistol, and presented it at Arthur.
“We come in peace, and have no wish to hurt you,” said Arthur. “Tell me where is Squire Heathcote’s son. We come to seek him.”
While the man stood irresolute, without replying, Arthur’s eye fell on some clothes on the top of a cask. He took them up: there was a cap, and jacket, and waistcoat, such as Digby was accustomed to wear. He had little doubt that they were Digby’s. His heart sunk within him.
“Where is Squire Heathcote’s son?” he repeated.
The man stretched out his hand. “They have carried him off; he is far down Channel by this time.”
All Arthur’s worst apprehensions were realised; he was too late to save his friend.