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"Why, my boy, what have you got there?"
"But what are you going to do with them?" interrupted his mother, in the same surprised tone.
"I have brought them for you to look over," replied her son.
"Herbert! What do you mean?"
"Why, mother, you told me to ask if there was anything you could do for Mrs. Ramsay, and while I was speaking this bag was brought, with a letter, saying they were the papers found in Mr. Ramsay's private drawer. You see, he has been dead a fortnight now, so I daresay they want the room."
"I expect they do; but what am I to do with them?" said Mrs. Milner. "Really, Herbert—"
"I am coming to that directly. When poor Mrs. Ramsay saw the bag, she just sat down and cried. She is a poor thing, mother."
"Yes, I know she is. But you have not told me why you brought them here now," said his mother, impatiently.
"Oh, well, I told her you would do anything you could to help her; and then I asked if I should bring the bag here for you to look over. You know, mother, you are not like Mrs. Ramsay a bit. You don't sit down and cry over things, and so I thought—"
"But, Herbert, you had no right to think that I should like to go through Mr. Ramsay's private papers."
"But you could do it better than Mrs. Ramsay I am sure; and you wouldn't cry over it, as she would," protested Herbert.
Mrs. Milner was very vexed that her son should have put such a literal construction upon her offer to help her friend; and she thought Mrs. Ramsay ought to have known better, than to send her such a task. And so she resolved not to touch the bag this evening, but to call and see the widow the next day, and see if she could not rectify what she considered must be Herbert's blunder in the matter.
So the bag was put away, and mother and son spent a pleasant evening together, which was only once disturbed, and that was by a question that had been talked of occasionally between them lately, concerning an unknown aunt of Herbert's.
Mrs. Milner was a widow, and Herbert was her only son; and until lately, he thought he had no other relative, for his father was an only child. And somehow, without a word having been said about the matter, he had come to the conclusion that his mother also had neither brother nor sister. When, all at once, his mother told him that he had an aunt and cousins somewhere, and she would now like to know where they could be found, but it was so many years since she had heard anything of her younger sister, that she sometimes thought she must be dead.
It almost took the boy's breath away at first to hear that somewhere in the world were people who could claim relationship with him. And every now and again he would ask some question or other about these unknown friends. But his mother could tell him very little, beyond the fact that her sister had offended everybody who knew her, by marrying a man they considered beneath her; and as she refused to take anybody's advice, she was allowed to drift away from all who knew her.
"But the thought of my poor sister Elsie troubled your father before he died, for he thought he had perhaps been hard upon her. And so I promised I would try and find her; and he left some money for her if ever she needed it," she added, when telling her son of this sister.
Mrs. Milner thought she had better speak thus plainly to her son, when she put a carefully worded advertisement into some of the London newspapers; for there was no telling what might come of it. The unknown sister, or her despised husband, might appear at the door of their fashionable house at any time, and Herbert was not one to keep such a matter to himself. And so, to prevent him talking to other people about it, if such a thing should happen, Mrs. Milner told him beforehand.
But nothing had come of those advertisements, and more than a year had passed now; and it rather vexed Mrs. Milner to be reminded of her lost sister.
And so, when Herbert said, rather abruptly that evening, "Couldn't we do something else to find my lost aunt, mother?"
She looked up with a frown, and said, "My dear Herbert, do give your attention to the chess—that is sufficient for the present."
Herbert did not say any more until the game was finished. But when he had put up the chess board, he came and sat down by the fire, and looked thoughtfully into the cavernous depths of the coals for a minute, and then said slowly, "Don't you think we ought to try and find that auntie of mine?"
"What can we do? I was speaking to Mr. Capon the other day. Of course he had the management of all the business; and if a lawyer cannot see what is to be done, I am afraid we are not likely to succeed whatever we may try."
Herbert sighed, but did not look convinced. "I don't believe in lawyers much for a case like that," he said, in a disparaging tone. "If auntie was an heiress now, and there was a great deal of property in the question, it would make all the difference. I daresay they would find out something more that could be done then. But, as it is,—well,—I am not satisfied, mother."
His mother laughed at the tone in which these words were spoken. "My dear, I daresay the Capons would do more if I pressed them, but it would cost a great deal of money, and we are not such very rich people, you know. Besides, we cannot tell whether these unknown relatives are at all desirable kind of people to become acquainted with. I have not seen or heard of my sister for years; and her husband I never liked—he was much beneath us; and these sort of people always seem to sink lower and lower."
"But I have often heard you say that money is not everything, mother," said Herbert, quickly.
"I was not thinking of money alone, but of other things as well—moral character—and the finer feeling that makes all the difference between a gentleman and common people. Now Henry Winn—the man your aunt married—belonged to common people; and there is little doubt she has sunk to his level by this time." And Mrs. Milner sighed, as she recalled the picture of her younger sister when she last saw her.
After a pause, the conversation was renewed by Herbert asking some further questions about his unknown aunt—whether his mother had ever heard that he had cousins, as well as an aunt.
"Oh, I have no doubt there is quite a swarm of them. But they would be very undesirable acquaintances for you, my boy; and so I do not see that any good could be done by trying to find them."
"But there is the money my father left for aunt, if ever she should need it!" exclaimed the boy. "I have been thinking of that since I sat down here. Suppose aunt should want it just now! We ought to make sure of this, mother. Of course they may have got rich; there is no telling what may have happened; and they may now be rich, vulgar people, like the Stones."
"Herbert, why will you persist in saying the Stones are vulgar?" said his mother, rather angrily.
The boy laughed. "Because it is so plain to everybody. They are always trying to show off something or other. My aunt cannot be worse than the Stones; and if she is your sister, she could not be half so bad," he said, kissing his mother.
This gentle flattery appeased her, and the rest of the evening passed pleasantly enough.
Just before bed time he said, "Now, look here, mammy, I have one more spare day before I go back to school, and I'll give it to you to help with that bag, if you will promise not to bother Mrs. Ramsay about it. We will begin soon after breakfast in your morning-room. I know just how the thing ought to be done. You shall open the letters, and I will write down on a slip of paper the name of the person it came from, and just in a word or two what it was about, and then we will tie them up in packets, and give them over to Mrs. Ramsay. She may like to see them, by-and-bye, but there may be some business, she says, that ought to be attended to at once, so that some one must look over them."
Mrs. Milner would give no promise that night, but the weather helped Herbert in his plan, for the next morning proved to be a wet, windy day, that compelled them to stay indoors. And as soon as breakfast was over, the boy fetched the Gladstone-bag, and began turning out its contents upon the table.
"We shall forget the miserable weather now," he said, as he fetched a sheet of foolscap paper, and prepared to make his memoranda.
His mother sighed, but thought she might as well resign herself to the task, though she still felt that Mrs. Ramsay ought to do it herself.
Fortunately the letters all seemed short, and could be easily read, and so half a dozen memoranda were very quickly made of these. And then Mrs. Milner picked up one that seemed to require a great deal of reading before it could be understood.
"That seems to be a very long letter, mother," said Herbert, looking up from his task.
For a minute or two his mother still sat with the letter in her hand. But her son could see she was not reading it now, and he wondered what news it could contain that his mother was so affected by it.
"You read it, Herbert. I wonder how it came into Mr. Ramsay's hands. It is marked, 'To be enquired about.'"
She passed the letter to Herbert as she spoke, and he saw it was an official notification, that a scholarship gained by some girl had been resigned in favour of another, because of the death of the winner's father. There was some explanation about the girl having decided to stay at home and help her mother, but he saw nothing in this that should disturb his mother, and did not notice the name of the girl, in his hurry to read the business it contained.
"Do you think Mr. Ramsay intended to help this girl? What is her name?" and the boy turned to the letter once more.
"It is the name that struck me—Elsie Winn! My sister's name was Elsie, and I wondered whether this could be her daughter."
Once more the boy turned to the letter and read it through more carefully. When he came to the end, he said, "We must find these people, and see if it is my lost aunt. If it should be, they certainly need the money my father left for them; and they are not the kind of people you feared they might be."
"How do you know that, Herbert?"
"Why, mother, you see the letter from her governess says she is a very estimable girl, and deeply regrets having to give up the scholarship, but that she thinks it is her duty to do this, and stay at home and help her mother. Now, a girl who would do this is worth something! There is some grit in her, and she isn't likely to be vulgar, or at all a common sort of girl."
"My dear boy, how you do jump to conclusions! I send you to Mrs. Ramsay with a polite message, and you bring me back a bag of correspondence to look over. Now, this letter tells of a girl giving up a scholarship to stay at home with her mother, and you jump to the conclusion that she is a little paragon of perfection!"
"No, no, mother, I did not say that; I mean that a girl who will give up a good chance in life—as this probably was to her—just to stay at home and help her mother, is not a common, vulgar girl, but has the making of a lady in her."
"Herbert, Herbert," said his mother, smiling.
"You forget, mother, her mother is your sister, very likely; so why shouldn't she be a lady? Now, what are you going to do?" he asked, the next minute.
"Do! What do you mean? Are we not going to look through this bag?"
"But—but—mother, you will surely write a letter to the governess of this school, and ask her to tell you where this Elsie Winn lives. You can find out easily enough that way whether her mother is my lost aunt. And, of course, they will be very glad of the money that is waiting for them."
His mother smiled at his eagerness. "I will write to Capon by-and-bye, and ask him to make enquiries about these people, as this may prove to be a clue."
"Oh, mother! And I shall be away at school before you can hear anything," he said, impatiently.
"My dear boy, suppose these people should be total strangers, what good could be done? No, no, we must wait and let Mr. Capon write, or send a messenger, to find out what he can about these people; and then, of course, if it should be your aunt, why, I will go and see her."
"Thank you, mother. I really should like to feel that I have a cousin of some sort; and this Elsie I could be proud of, because it was a plucky thing to give up a scholarship after she had won it, and I should like to feel that I had a cousin like that."
Mrs. Milner thought the matter was disposed of when she had given this promise; but her son fetched writing materials at once, that she might send to the lawyer without delay. For he was anxious to have some further tidings of this Elsie Winn, nearly a year having passed since the letter was written; and there was no telling what might have happened during that time, especially as her father had died, and he could not have been a wealthy man, or his daughter would not have worked for a scholarship to enable her to go to a higher grade school. And it seemed likely that his aunt would have to work for herself and her children now, as this girl had to stay at home and help.
These thoughts made him more impatient; and Mrs. Milner had to yield to his entreaties, and write the letter to her lawyer at once, asking him to make enquiries about this family through the schoolmistress who had sent this letter.
While his mother wrote the letter, Herbert copied the address of the school, that he might take it with him when he went away; for if he did not hear soon the result of Mr. Capon's enquiries, he resolved to write himself, and say that he believed these people were relatives. Mr. Capon would not do this, he felt sure; and it was very likely that these enquiries would be like the other he had made. He had no faith in Mr. Capon, and what he was likely to do, because it was only about a hundred pounds that had been left for his aunt, and such a small sum as that would not be worth their great lawyer making a fuss about.
He saw that Mr. Capon's letter was sent to the post; and he half hoped that some sort of answer would come before he went away the next day. They got through their task of looking over Mr. Ramsay's papers, many of which proved to be circulars and begging letters of various sorts. For Mr. Ramsay, having no children of his own, was known to be a charitable gentleman; and this was probably why the letter from the school had been sent to him.
It might be that he had enquired, and helped this girl and her mother; but he hoped he had not, if it should prove that it was his very own cousin. The rest of the papers were soon disposed of, no others proving to be of any interest to anybody; and after tea, Herbert took the bag and his memoranda back to Mrs. Ramsay. But he said nothing of the letter they had found, which proved to be of so much interest to themselves.
Mrs. Milner said she would talk the matter over with her old friend when they met, and Herbert had better not say anything about it.
The next day the lad went back to school; and though the-meeting again with old school-fellows, after the holidays, was pleasant enough, he did not forget Elsie Winn and her scholarship: for in the very first letter he wrote home, he asked if his mother had heard from Mr. Capon, and begged her to tell him as soon as ever she had any news from the lawyer.
ENQUIRIES.
HERBERT MILNER kept to his resolution of making enquiries on his own account, if those made by Mr. Capon did not prove satisfactory.
A week after he returned to school, he received a letter from his mother, telling him that Mr. Capon had not only written, but sent a messenger to enquire about the girl named Elsie Winn. But he found that they had moved away from the neighbourhood, and no one seemed to know where they had gone, or cared to talk about them.
"Let this satisfy you now, my dear boy," wrote his mother in conclusion. "We have done what we could to find your aunt, and failed. We have done our duty, and we can do no more."
But Herbert was by no means satisfied that no more could be learned of his missing relatives; and so, after he had read this letter, he decided to write himself to the schoolmistress. And his letter caused no small surprise to the lady who knew Elsie and her mother so well. It was handed to her just as she was leaving school with a friend one day; and she sat down at once to know who had written to her in such a round schoolboy hand.
"Dear Madam,—I think I have a cousin, and her name would very likely be Elsie Winn; but I have never seen her, and we don't know where to find her. You used to have a girl in your school of that name, and she took a scholarship. That is how we heard about her; but I should like to know some more, for I have neither brother nor sister; but I hope Elsie Winn is my cousin, fox I think she did a plucky thing to give up that scholarship to help her mother. I think her mother and my mother are sisters, and we want to find her."
The lady smiled as she read the letter, and handed it to her friend.
"This is from a boy, I have no doubt; but it is rather strange that as soon as Mrs. Winn has moved away from the neighbourhood, there should be these enquiries about her. There was a man here, you know, a day or two ago, asking if I knew where the Winns lived."
"Poor things! I am sorry for them, for I quite believed that man came about some little debt they may have owed. I wonder how much it was, for I know it will be a dreadful worry to Elsie, and her mother too. If I could only find out, I would pay it and send them the receipt, and then they would not be bothered about it again."
"Oh, but this has nothing to do with it," said her friend, quickly. "I am sure it was a boy that wrote this; and he would not be likely to tell this story about a cousin if it was not true."
"Well, I don't know where they have gone to live, and I won't know if I can help it; and then I can tell people truly enough that 'I don't know.' I am sure of this, that if Mrs. Winn has got into debt, it has been through Tom having the scarlet fever, and that she could not help it; and as for helping people to find her, to worry her about it, I will not, whoever they may be!"
Elsie's governess spoke very firmly, and looked at her friend as she did so, as if mutely asking if she was going to betray this unfortunate family.
"I don't think this is about a debt," said the lady, when she had read Herbert's letter through a second time. "I think this is a genuine schoolboy letter. But still I should like to find out a little about the writer before I answer it, and I can do so, I think; for I have a cousin living at Firdale, and he shall find out who lives at the Old Manor House. It sounds all right, the 'Old Manor House,' but still there is no telling. I can soon learn where Mrs. Winn has gone, if we should think it wise to tell this boy where she may be found."
"Don't tell me the address, please," said the other, "for I want to be able to say, 'I don't know,' if we have any more visitors like the last, for I did not like his manner at all."
A day or two later a letter came to Miss Russell, saying that the Old Manor House, Firdale, was a very select gentleman's boarding-school; which so far relieved the teacher's fears, that it was agreed that Miss Russell should write and tell Herbert where a letter would find Mrs. Winn. It also added the information that it was feared she might be in straightened circumstances, as her son had caught scarlet fever a few months after his father's death, and that had compelled them to remove to another neighbourhood; and she enclosed the address which she had received from an intimate friend of Mrs. Winn's.
"There, I should think that would do," said Miss Russell, as she read over what she had written. "You see I have told him I am writing for you, as you don't know her address."
"No, it will be better altogether for me not to know it," said Elsie's former governess. "People are less likely to come to you for it, and I am sadly afraid the poor things will go down hill very fast through that boy catching the fever."
The lady said "that boy" as though she would like to shake him, for everybody knew it was through Tom's disobedience that his mother had lost her business, and been obliged to go away.
"But if this is really a cousin who writes, there may be better times in, store for the poor woman," said Miss Russell. However, her friend could not feel quite sure that they had not done more harm than good by replying to the schoolboy's letter.
Meanwhile Herbert Milner was delighted at the result of his application to the school, when, after waiting for a week, he received Miss Russell's letter. He did not know how dubious the ladies had been about writing to him; but he felt sure, from the wording of the letter, that this Mrs. Winn, whoever she might be, greatly needed help just now. And his mother, herself a widow, was well provided for, and therefore would be able to help and sympathise with Mrs. Winn. And if it should prove to be her long lost sister, how glad she would be to help her, and the brave girl who had given up the scholarship a year before.
This was how Herbert reasoned, as he sat down and wrote a rather incoherent letter to his mother, telling her he had written to the schoolmistress, and asked for Elsie Winn's address, and how they had sent it to him, though Capon's man could not find out anything about the people.
Now it must be confessed that Mrs. Milner was not too well pleased when she received her son's letter, vaunting his cleverness over "Capon's man." She was not without natural affection, and she often wished in a vague way for the little sister she had not seen for so long; but she was also a fashionable lady, and she was afraid now that she might feel ashamed to own the relationship with Elsie among the people she was now constantly meeting.
She wanted to do her duty, as she told herself, and Herbert too. But having done "all that people could expect of her—" having sent Capon's man in search of her lost sister—she thought she might settle down and make herself comfortable about the matter. But she did not feel really and truly sorry that the enquiries had failed, as Herbert did, but she was rather relieved, especially when Mrs. Stone called upon her, and talked about her new carriage, and diamonds, and the court that was paid to her husband by noblemen and other great people.
She was, as Herbert said, decidedly vulgar; but then she was also enormously rich, and Mrs. Milner shivered at the thought of letting Mrs. Stone know that she had poor relations; so poor, that their children went to a board school!
The lawyer's report was therefore a relief, rather than a disappointment to her, when she read that a messenger had been sent to the school named in her letter, and had ascertained that children bearing the name of Winn used to attend the school, but that they had now removed to another neighbourhood, and left no address behind them.
"It is possible these people went away in debt," added the lawyer.
Mrs. Milner was an honourable woman, and proud, too, and that her sister should be spoken of as having left a neighbourhood because she would not pay her debts, was very painful to her feelings; and she sat down at once and wrote a short note, saying that from the information he had gained, she felt sure this Mrs. Winn was not her sister, and that it was not necessary to pursue the enquiry any further. She had done her duty, and should let the matter drop for the future.
This was how she had written to Mr. Capon, and then shortly afterwards came Herbert's letter, saying he had been making independent enquiry, and had found his aunt's address, and begged her to go and see her, and not send Capon's man again.
But it happened that Mrs. Milner had a bad cold just then; and so she made the most of this, and told Herbert that it would be quite impossible for her to travel so far, until there was a change in the weather; and as they were now in the autumn season of the year, this meant a postponement for some months at least.
She did not let Herbert know how angry she really felt at his having written to the school about these people. He was her only son, and had always had a good deal of his own way in most things that concerned his own comfort and pleasure; and if this matter had been for his own benefit to find out his lost aunt, she could have understood and excused it. But this anxiety to find out a person who might prove to be a source of embarrassment and vexation to them, if ever she was found, she could not understand; and she was annoyed that he should be so persistent in a matter which he must know by this time was not pleasing to her.
Still, as far as she could, she kept these thoughts and feelings out of the letter she wrote to him, merely saying she could not take such a journey in her present state of health, and while the weather was so cold and unsettled. She said once more that she had done all that could be required of her, to try and find her sister, and if anything more was to be done, it must wait until she is in better health, and could take up the enquiry personally.
This long letter was anything but pleasant reading for Herbert, who was impatient to hear more about his only relatives,—especially his cousin Elsie, whom he had began to idealise in a fashion that would greatly have surprised that modest little maiden.
All sorts of conjectures and fears pressed upon his thoughts whenever he had a minute to himself. Suppose they should move to some other place, and he should lose trace of them again! Suppose his aunt should fall ill, and be unable to work for her children! In short, he supposed all sorts of contingencies, likely and unlikely, to befall Mrs. Winn, before the winter was over, and his mother able to go in search of her.
When he wrote to his mother again, he suggested some of these as very real dangers, that the money left by his father for her benefit might easily avert. If they could only make sure that this Mrs. Winn, the widow, and mother of the scholarship girl, was his aunt Elsie, then some of the money at least might be sent on to her.
This letter really hurt his mother's feelings, for he said nothing whatever about her bad cold, but the whole letter was about this missing aunt, and what he deemed the necessity of finding her without delay. And she wrote and told him he seemed to be forgetting his duty to his mother, in his anxiety to befriend strangers, who might not thank him for the trouble he had taken when they were found.
Herbert loved his mother dearly, and the thought that she was hurt at his seeming want of feeling hurt him in turn. And he wrote, as soon as he could, a very penitent letter, but could not help adding a postscript, begging she would write, if she could not go, to the address he had sent to her, for there was no telling what might happen if they had to wait until the spring before any further enquiries were made.
To this Mrs. Milner replied that she would not fail to do her duty; and she would consider whether she would send to Mr. Capon again, if she could not go herself.
This letter satisfied Herbert for the time; and just then he had to give more attention to his lessons, and less thought to his unknown aunt, for he had fallen into arrears with some of his exercises; and if he was to take home a prize at Christmas, he would have to apply himself with a good deal more energy to the work in hand, or his mother would suffer another disappointment when the holidays arrived—and he loved her too dearly to do this, if it could possibly be avoided.
So the boy turned to his books once more, and for a week or two no one had reason to complain of his want of application. He won extra marks for the care and neatness with which his exercises were written and lessons prepared. But he was still hoping that each letter from his mother would tell him that Mr. Capon had sent his messenger again in search of Mrs. Winn. No such news, however, came.
He had given up mentioning the matter, as his mother had desired him, and Mrs. Milner did the same, hoping by that means to make Herbert forget all about it. For she saw in the future all sorts of difficulties and complications, and she wanted time to settle how these could be met and overcome, before she took any further step towards seeking these poor relations.
This was what she told herself, and it satisfied her conscience for the time being. But, not feeling sure that Herbert would feel satisfied, she did not mention the matter to him at all. On the other hand, she carefully abstained from all mention of his supposed aunt. She enlarged a good deal upon her continued weakness from the cold, and the social engagements that pressed upon, and took up so much of her time; and also how busy she was, making garments for the poor old people in the almhouses. With all these things to do, she could hardly find time to write his letters (she told him); and this she thought ought to satisfy him, that she had no time to take a long journey just now, or even to worry about Mr. Capon sending a messenger.
She did not for one moment suppose that her sister was in any great need. Of course she had got used to living in a mean little house, on straitened means, when she married; and she did not suppose she was much worse off now she was a widow. Mrs. Milner honestly thought this, and that next spring would do just as well to make enquiries about her, as to make a fuss just now.
So Herbert looked in vain for news of this aunt; and Mrs. Milner went on making garments for strangers, never dreaming that she was neglecting her duty while she did so—that her true duty was to search for her sister, and befriend her. This was the duty that lay nearest to her, and no kindness to strangers could atone for the neglect of this.
EARNEST ENDEAVOURS.
WHEN Tom told his mother the news brought by Jack, and that Mr. Murray and the clergyman had both agreed that he might try for this scholarship, she was quite overcome. For she had begun to blame herself very bitterly for moving so hastily, and thus depriving her children of educational advantages she had scarcely thought of at their true value, until she came here and found the difference in the schools.
Tom had continued his attendance after the fight with Bill Crane, but she felt sure it was rather to please her than from any real interest he took in his work there.
In this, however, she was mistaken. Tom did not say anything about it at home, but the fight with the redoubtable Bill had certainly improved his position with his school-mates. They talked of him among themselves as a "jolly plucky chap," though he did come from "Lunnon," where no boy was supposed to know how to fight. In school, this opinion of him gradually leavened and altered their behaviour towards him, and they were ready to forgive his fluent reading and better writing than their own, in consideration of his being able to stand up to the village bully, of whom every boy had been secretly afraid until Tom braved him.
Without knowing exactly why or how it had come about, Tom found his position at school far more tolerable as time went on than it was at first; and he was gradually becoming oblivious of the noise that disturbed him so much at first. So that when he told his mother of the scholarship plan, he made no complaint about not being able to learn lessons in such a school.
Mrs. Winn had burst into tears when she first heard the wonderful news, and that greatly disconcerted Tom.
"Don't cry, mother, don't cry," he said, putting his arm round her neck and kissing her. "I really do mean to work hard this time, and I daresay Mr. Murray will help me a bit extra, if he sees I'm in downright earnest, for I think he was rather pleased that we went to ask him about it, and he likes Elsie, I know."
"Yes, yes, dear, you will try now, I am sure," said the widow, trying to smile at Tom through her tears. "I am afraid it will be harder work for you this time, than if you had kept steadily on under Mr. Potter; but we must not mind that. And Elsie and I will do all we can to help you."
"Yes, mother, don't be afraid, will you? I really will, for your sake, work hard now. Elsie has got the books you bought for her when she was swatting up for her exam., and I daresay they will help me. I'll take them to school on Monday morning, and ask Mr. Murray to set me some extra lessons in grammar and geography. Now, come and see Jack, mother, before he goes; he is having a bit of bread and cheese before he starts."
Mrs. Winn thanked the boy who was so anxious to make amends for the mischief he had caused a few months before, and Jack started home on his wonderful bicycle, feeling happier than he had for many months past.
"I shall come again soon," he said, as he mounted his iron horse and rode away in the warm dusk of the evening.
"Yes, do," called Tom, Elsie, and little Bobbie, in one breath; and then they went in to talk over once more the alteration in Tom's prospects.
"I will call and see Mr. Murray on Monday," said the widow. And then she heaved a sigh, for she knew it would be quite out of her power to pay for extra lessons for Tom, and she must explain this to the schoolmaster at once, though it should betray her poverty in a fashion that was very painful to her.
There was, however, no help for it, and this news had brought her some consolation that neither of her children could understand, for they did not know how bitterly she had been blaming herself for coming here. But now if it should prove that Tom would be eligible for this scholarship, then her self-reproaches would lose half their sting, and she would feel that for Tom, at least, the move had brought nothing but good.
The country air agreed with all the children, and they were growing strong and vigorous as well as Tom, who seemed to be better than he had ever been in his life before. But it was the want of work that troubled her.
Mrs. Perceval was very pleased with the way she had made her girl's dresses, and had since given her two of her own to do, with which she was so fully satisfied, that she promised to recommend her to other friends.
"But I am only the doctor's wife, you know," she said, laughingly, "and not being a fashionable lady, some of them may think I am not a competent judge of what is the latest thing in dresses."
She did not forget her promise, but most of the ladies she spoke to on Mrs. Winn's behalf always sent their dresses to be made in London, and quite looked down upon a village dressmaker, though she had just come from London, and could easily get the latest fashions and patterns from there.
Some of them recommended their servants to try the new dressmaker who had come to live in Fairfield, and she got a few servant's and children's dresses to make; but her business did not increase as time wore on, as she hoped it would, and sometimes a whole week passed and she would not earn a penny.
This state of things made her very anxious, for although their expenses were now very small, the children were in splendid health, and had good appetites. Fortunately Tom's vegetables served them for many a dinner, with the simple addition of a slice of bread, otherwise they must often have gone hungry. Indeed, she and Elsie often went with only half a meal, in order that the little ones should not go short, each of them pretending that they did not want any more.
Tom had not noticed this for some time; but after Jack's visit, and he had time to think over everything that had passed, he remembered the few words spoken just before they got home after seeing Mr. Murray, and coupling this with what he often heard Elsie say now, that she did not want much dinner or tea, he came to the conclusion that there must be some truth in Jack's surmise, and that Elsie was eating as little as possible that they might not get into debt here, and he resolved to do the same, and try to help his mother that way. But Elsie was too sharp for him.
"No, no, Tom, it won't do for you to go with half a meal when you are working so hard at your books, or in the garden. I don't want so much now because I have so little to do, but with you it is different. I know how hungry I used to be when I was working for my scholarship; and so you must eat, or we shall all be disappointed again when next November comes, and another disappointment will almost kill mother, I am afraid."
"Mr. Murray and Mr. Cotton will be disappointed too, I believe," said Tom, "for I know they quite expect me to win; and Mr. Murray told me to-day he would do all he could to help me. You see, it will be quite an honour for this school if I should get the scholarship. But I could not have gone in for it, if I had had my own way, and not gone to school to please mother—for I shall only have been just the qualifying time when the examination takes place, and I had been at school a month when Jack brought the news. Dear old Jack! He is another who will be disappointed if I don't pass," said Tom.
"But you must pass," insisted his sister; "and that is why you must eat all you can, as well as learn all you can. For mother and me it don't matter, of course, but don't let mother hear you say you cannot eat, or she will think you are going to be ill again, or that it does not suit you to sit close at your books. Oh, Tom, I shall be proud of you, and so will Jack, I know. He will come again soon, I expect, to see how you are getting on."
This hope that Jack would soon pay them another visit was not disappointed, but the lad had brought something besides himself this time on his iron horse. A large parcel was dangling from the front, and Jack took it to Mrs. Winn as a present from his father.
The lady wondered why Jack's father should send her a large ham, but the lad told her a rambling tale about Tom helping him with the rabbit hutch, and his foreman wanted to sell the ham. But Elsie had a keen suspicion that Jack's own pocket-money had been spent in its purchase. But they had a splendid tea of ham and eggs, such a meal as they had not seen for months past. Jack said he had brought the ham to help Tom on with his lessons now, because he had spoiled his chances before through building the rabbit hutch.
They all smiled, though they hardly knew what to make of Jack's tales; still, they were glad to welcome him whenever he came over on Saturday afternoon, which he generally did about once a month after that first visit, which seemed to change Tom's whole life and its outlook.
The fact was, Tom could never quite forget Jack's words about his mother owing money at the shops. Until he heard of this, he had not thought much about the expense his illness must have been, or that he had through this spoiled her business, and that there was no one able to earn a penny all the time he was ill.
But he often thought of it after that talk with Jack, and it made a great impression upon his mind and conduct too, for he now tried to do all he could to spare his mother and sister trouble and expense in every way possible, while his schoolmaster could not say enough in praise of his diligence, and the steady, patient way in which he worked, both at his ordinary school tasks, and those that were set him in addition, to be worked at when he was at home.
And he did not let the garden become weed-grown and neglected through this application to his books. Betsy Gunn had told him that he would never get a decent crop of peas, beans, or anything else if he did not keep the ground free from weeds; and so his garden was kept tidy, though Elsie often spent an hour or two in this work that her brother might not be hindered from his lessons.
So the weeks and months went on, and one day Mrs. Perceval called late in the summer to know how Mrs. Winn was prospering with her business.
"Not very well, ma'am," said Mrs. Winn, hardly able to keep back the tears as she spoke, for she had no work, and knew not when to expect any.
There was also another trouble. Elsie was looking pale, and had lost her appetite the last few days. The rest were well; and Tom seemed to be quite strong again, and was growing very fond of gardening. But Elsie always shared her mother's anxieties now, and she was afraid it was proving too much for her.
Mrs. Perceval suggested that Elsie should come and stay with her for a few days, for her boys were coming home for their holidays, and she would be very useful, if Mrs. Winn could spare her. For such a sensible girl would keep them from mischief when they went out for a long ramble, and there were many ways she could be useful, if she could be spared.
Mrs. Winn was glad enough to accept the offer, for she had no doubt that a week or two with other boys and girls would do Elsie a great deal of good, and it was arranged that the gig should be sent for her on the following Monday.
Elsie was loth to go away and leave her mother with no one to help her; but Mrs. Winn could plead that she had no work in the house just now, and Mrs. Perceval had been so kind she would not like to disoblige her. And these considerations had more weight with Elsie than her own health, or the need there was that she should have some change, and forget for a time the cares and troubles of the home life.
It was the want of work that troubled her as well as her mother; for she knew well enough, that unless her mother could soon get a great deal more work than seemed at all likely now, absolute starvation would stare them in the face. And though she had never said a word of this to her mother, the thought of it haunted her day and night now. If only they could get work, this country life would be very enjoyable, Elsie thought, for she did not know yet what life in the country was like during the winter.
During her stay at Mrs. Perceval's, she almost forgot the home troubles, and grew rosy, and was able to eat anything and everything that was offered to her. For her kind hostess took care that she should spend the greater part of every day in the open air, if it was fine. And this was altogether a new life to the girl, for although they had a garden of their own at the cottage, Elsie did not spend much time in it, there being so much to do to keep the children tidy now their clothes were beginning to wear out, and there was no money to spare to buy new ones.
A good deal of the washing and mending fell to Elsie now, for if her mother was not at work, she was out seeking it. As she said, it would never come to her if she sat at home with her hands folded. And many a weary mile did she walk, hoping for the success that never seemed likely to come.
By the time the cold autumn rains set in, Mrs. Winn had almost lost heart, and was ready to think that her coming to Fairfield had been a grievous mistake, that could only end in failure, after all her efforts.
She went to church on Sunday, and tried to listen to the service, and believe that God still cared for the fatherless and widow, as the Bible taught; but her thoughts would drift away to wondering how the rent was to be paid, and what the baker would say when she told him she had no money to pay his bill.
Then as the weather grew colder, and they needed fires more, they had to do with less; for when their present stock of coals was burnt, they did not know how they were to get any more. And they had to sit huddled over a scrap of fire in the kitchen during the day, and go to bed soon after dusk to save lights and fires.
The only bright spot in the dreary outlook was that Tom might get a scholarship at the forthcoming examination; and this, as Mrs. Winn had learned lately, would be even more valuable than Elsie's, for it would afford Tom board and lodging as well as education at the college.
For Tom's sake, therefore, that he might not be hindered in his book-work, they were obliged to make the best of things, and the change of season brought Mrs. Winn one or two dresses to make.
Mrs. Perceval bought her girls winter dresses, and sent them to the widow to make up at once; and the servants she had worked for in the spring sent her their work again; one lady's maid saying, that her dress was better made than her mistress's, though she had paid three times as much to have it made in London.
This encouraged Mrs. Winn to hope that in time she might be able to get a good business together here in Fairfield, but what was she and her children to do while she was waiting. That was the problem that confronted her continually, and to which she could find no solution, but the practice of such rigid economy, as to make their life one of continual privation. They did not let Tom or the children feel this more than they could help, but upon Elsie and her mother the burden daily grew harder and harder as the weather grew colder, and their need of food and fire greater.
A NEW FRIEND FOR ELSIE.
IT must not be supposed that Elsie's life had been wholly unhappy during this time. At first she missed her girl friends very much, but Tom's memorable fight, which led to her introduction to the schoolmaster's daughter, made a great deal of difference to her in this respect.
She liked Mary at once, and after they got home, and Tom was safely in bed, she said to her mother, "I believe poor Mary would be better, if her mother did not make her believe she was very ill."
"Very likely," said Mrs. Winn, but she spoke in an absent manner, for she was troubled about Tom and this fight, fearing it might lead to more trouble for them.
That Tom seemed quite well, and was willing to go to school the next morning, was a great relief to her, and when he brought a message home at dinner time, that Mary would like to see Elsie in the afternoon, Mrs. Winn at once urged her to go as soon as she had cleared the dinner things away.
"I was afraid Mr. Murray might think Tom was to blame for the fight yesterday," said the widow, "as it was begun over something Tom said in school, and so I shall be very glad for you to go and see this girl, for it may smooth matters for Tom, you know."
"Yes, mother," said Elsie, who needed no second bidding to go and see her new friend.
She reached the schoolmaster's house, just as Mrs. Murray was leaving. "Don't talk to her too much. I like her to sleep in the afternoon, because she rests so badly at night," said Mrs. Murray as she went out.
"Poor, dear mother! I wish she did not worry so much about me," said Mary, holding out both her thin white hands to greet her friend. "I am so glad you have come, for I was not at all sure that you would, after what mother told me."
"Why! What did she tell you?" asked Elsie, in some surprise.
"Oh! Nothing to feel hurt about; I only wish I could be mother's right hand as you are."
"I see you thought I should be busy. Well, mother is not at all busy just now, and if she was, I could manage to come and see you in the afternoon; because I could either bring my work or baby with me."
"Do come, and bring the baby to-morrow," interrupted Mary, eagerly. "You see the afternoons are the worst part of the day for me; mother is at home in the morning, getting the dinner ready and other things; but in the afternoon she has to go to school to teach the girls needlework, and so I am all alone."
"Poor Mary! It must be lonely for you, I may call you Mary, may I not?" she said, kissing the invalid again, and looking pityingly at the pale faded face.
An answering kiss, and a whispered, "Dear Elsie, I am so glad you have come," sealed the girls' compact of friendship.
"Do you never go out?" asked Elsie, after a pause.
"I have not been out for a long time. Mother is afraid I should take cold, but father said the other day, he thought he should carry me out in the garden, sometimes, when the weather got warmer."
"Oh! But if you could have a ride in a bath chair, that would do you more good than just sitting in the garden."
"But you see I have to lie down all the time, and even then my back aches dreadfully sometimes."
"So would mine if I was always lying on it," said Elsie, stoutly. "You were not lying down when I came in yesterday; you were sitting in that easy-chair by the window."
"Yes, my back ached so much that I persuaded mother to let me sit up just for once. It was funny that I should have that fancy, for if I had not been here, I should not have seen the fight, and they might not have brought your brother in, and then I should not have seen you, and that would have been a pity. Don't you think it would?"
"Yes, I should have been sorry, for you see I have no girl friend here; and though I love Tom very much, he is only a boy, and can't be expected to understand things as a girl can."
"That's just what I have told mother, sometimes," said the invalid, fondling Elsie's rather rough red hands. "You see I have the dearest, sweetest mother and father that ever was, but then somehow I have wished I could know a girl like myself. Can you keep a secret?" she suddenly asked.
"What sort of a secret is it?" said Elsie. "You see I got into trouble once through that, for mother said I ought not to have promised to keep secret what I did, as a good deal of trouble might have been saved to other people, if I had spoken in time."
"I don't think; I hope my secret will not cause anybody trouble, and I do want to tell you so much," said Mary. "You see it is this way, the doctors said I must lie on my back for two years, and only one year has passed. I have not walked all that time, for I am not heavy, and father carries me up and down stairs, and I lie here all day. I hardly thought of what I was doing, but when I saw Mr. Thompson pick your brother up and bring him towards our gate, I remembered that the street door was locked, and I just slipped off the chair, and walked across the room and unlocked it, and then came back again. Nobody thought to ask how he got in, and I was afraid to tell mother, for she would have fretted so much about it."
"But why should she if you are no worse?" interrupted Elsie.
"You see the doctors said I was to lie still for two years."
"But if you are no worse for sitting up in the chair and walking across the room, you—"
"Oh no, I am not worse, I slept better last night than I have done for a long time, and that is why I am going to ask you something, but you must keep it a secret. I want you to let me lean on your arm and try to walk again, I don't think I could do it by myself, for there is no one wanting to get in to-day."
Elsie laughed and clapped her hands. "I see you want to cheat the doctors if you can, and you would like me to help you," she said.
Mary laughed too, and her pale cheek flushed with pleasant excitement when she saw how heartily her new friend could enter into her feelings. "Wouldn't it be delightful to surprise my mother and father one day, by going to meet them as they come out of school?" she said.
"We'll talk about that afterwards, but you shall have your walk indoors if you like. Suppose we lock the street door before we begin our secret mischief, and then you must have a pair of slippers on, or you may catch cold."
"Slippers?" repeated Mary. "Don't you think these wool ones would be enough? They are nice and warm." And Mary put one foot from under the rug to assure Elsie on this point.
Elsie was about to suggest that they should postpone this trial trip until the next afternoon, but she saw that Mary would be greatly disappointed, for she was all eagerness to put her feet on the ground again. And so she said, "They would do for a little trial, just once across the room and back again, and then if you can do it, I will run home and fetch a pair of mine or mother's, that would go over those soft woollen boots and prevent you taking cold."
This was readily agreed upon, and Mary went so well with the help of Elsie's arm, that she would have repeated the experiment again and again, if Elsie had not insisted that she should wait until she could run home for the shoes, before crossing the room again.
"If I am to keep your secret, I must take care that no harm happens through it," said Elsie, "and it would do you a great deal of harm if you were to catch cold."
So Mary agreed to wait, and Elsie was not long before she was back again, bringing with her a warm soft shawl to wrap round the invalid, for she did not doubt but that she would want to go into the kitchen, when the parlour had been crossed several times.
She knew where to find a comfortable pair of old slippers, and was soon back with Mary, and had put them over the woollen boots she wore.
"Now then, you are dressed for the journey," she said, as she wrapped the shawl about her and walked gently round the room, Mary seeming to grow stronger and more confident at every step.
"Do let me walk once round the kitchen now?" said the invalid. "You don't know how nice and funny it feels to be on your feet again."
So she walked once round the kitchen, and then Elsie said she must not attempt any more walking for that day, but she promised to bring the slippers and shawl the next afternoon, that she might try again, if she was no worse for this experiment.