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THE YOUNG SQUIRE ASSUMES A NEW CHARACTER.
THREE or four days passed, but no tidings came of Bill the Kicker.
A week went by, and still he was away. They had the river dragged, and all the ponds; every ditch and pitfall in the neighbourhood was searched; and printed bills, describing him, were posted up outside all the police stations of the district; but all to no effect.
The April rains had come on now, and the world had suddenly burst into verdure. It was a lovely vista that the Squire looked down over the gate of the wood, when he went to see after the repairs at the cottage. But he had to take his morning walks alone now. The tutor had returned, and Easter holidays were up.
Dick's presentiments, too, were realized. His father had found a school for him; and nine o'clock saw him strapping up his books and hurrying off to learn as much mischief and as little solid information as he could—after the fashion of boys made on his pattern.
Meanwhile, Farmer Bluff's gout and the repairs had gone on apace. The old fellow's prediction had come true more speedily than he desired. Not many days had elapsed when the left hand was seized, and he became entirely dependent upon Elspeth—being unable even to feed himself.
As long as the holidays had lasted, Hal had contrived to drop in pretty often; and he would hardly have believed how much he was missed, now that lessons and April showers combined to keep him away. One half-holiday proving fine, however, Hal slipped out between school and lunch, and set off for the farm. He rang, as usual, but no one came; so, finding the door on the latch, he pushed it open and announced himself.
A savoury smell greeted him. Farmer Bluff's dinner tray was on the table. Hal apologized for his intrusion.
"I didn't know you dined quite so soon," said he.
"No more I do, it seems," returned Farmer Bluff gruffly. "That's how she serves me pretty nearly every day; just brings it in and takes the covers off. Then leaves it here for me to smell until it's all gone cold,—to go and eat her own, I s'pose. And here am I, can't move hand or foot!"
"That's bad," said Hal; "it spoils the gravy so. You get the fat all on the top."
It was a mutton chop, and there were greens with it, according to the doctor's express orders.
"Greens aren't nice cold, either," added Hal. "They get so dabby, don't they? I suppose it rather comes of your having gout in both hands, though. Grown-ups are intended to be able to help themselves, you see."
The farmer groaned. He always did, when Hal made these little moral reflections. If any one had scolded, it would have only angered him and made him obstinate; but Hal's remarks came out so naturally, and he looked so sympathetic all the while, that a more ill-tempered man than Farmer Bluff could scarcely have felt annoyed.
"I'll tell you what," said Hal suddenly. "As I happen to be here just now, why shouldn't I help you? I can manage quite as well as Mrs. Elspeth, if you like."
When Elspeth returned, she was astonished to find the young Squire seated on a corner of the table, with his crutches one side, and the bailiff's plate the other, preparing dainty mouthfuls with the knife and fork, and skilfully conveying them to her master's mouth.
"Well, I never!" exclaimed she, pausing in the open doorway in amaze.
"It seemed a pity all this gravy should get cold, because you were so busy that you couldn't come," explained Hal. "I think, if I were you, I'd try and make sure of that before I brought the dinner in. I shouldn't like mine cold. And you must excuse my sitting on the table too. If I stand, you see, I want my hands to hold my crutches with; and if I sit down on a chair, I come so low I couldn't reach. I hope I make it salt enough," he added, as he lodged another forkful in the great bird's mouth.
Hal's relations with the bailiff became of a far more confidential nature after this. We often hear it said that a right to give advice is earned by lending help. So Hal found; only he put it in a different way. He felt that he had found his way to Farmer Bluff's affection by performing such a homely office for him; and he treated him accordingly. He often managed to run in upon half-holidays; and he didn't only lecture him about the gout. He soon succeeded in making him talk; so that before long, he knew more of Farmer Bluff's history than most other people did. He found out how the old man liked to talk of sport and dogs; but he also learned how Mrs. Bluff had died quite young of fever, and how one by one, the children whom she left had gone to follow her, so that in six short weeks, he had been left alone.
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"That was very sad for you," said he. "I shouldn't wonder if that partly made you have the gout."
"Trouble does act on the system, so the doctors say," said Farmer Bluff, glad of an excuse for what he knew Hal blamed as his own fault.
But that was not exactly Hal's meaning. "It might have been what made you take to beer," observed he.
"Now if you'd looked at it like this," continued Hal after due reflection: "My wife and children are gone on to heaven, where I mean to join them by and by, when I've done work. Just see what a difference it would have made. Some people," added he sagely, "only look at every day as it comes; and if it rains or snows, they think it's never going to stop. Other people look right ahead to the summer holidays—or to the harvest, if they're farmers, of course; and that makes all the difference. They know it will be all right in the long run, don't you see?"
But Hal's tacit reproof had not made Elspeth one whit more attentive to the invalid; indeed, if anything, she had been even more neglectful than before. Her master's time at the farm was getting short, and she had quite made up her mind to seek another place.
Farmer Bluff raged and swore when she informed him of her determination. But Elspeth only taunted him with his powerlessness to execute one word of all his threats or oaths; and finally, having done her best to rouse his worst passions, she left him to meditate upon his awkward situation.
Just then Hal, happening to get caught in a shower, swung himself up the yard and into the porch.
Elspeth grinned as she let him in.
"He's in an awful temper, that I warn you, Master Hal," she said. "I'd a'most as soon go talk to Blazer as him."
But Hal was not afraid; and before the lapse of many minutes, Farmer Bluff—without a single oath—had told him how things stood.
"Well, now, let's see," said Hal. "What must you do? You must have somebody, that's clear. If you hadn't got this gout just now, it would be different, and you could laugh her in the face,—though I don't know that it would be exactly Christian to laugh the face of a person who 'despitefully used you;' but I mean you could do without her if she was determined not to stay. Or rather," added Hal, his thoughts suddenly taking a leap back to the source of all the difficulty, "you wouldn't be in such a bother at all; because she would never have given notice if you hadn't had to move out of the farm. It's all the gout, you see."
Farmer Bluff moved impatiently upon his chair. It was rather hard to be constantly twitted with that fact—even by Hal; because if it was "all the gout," it was therefore "all his own fault." But he was paid back for his pains with such a twinge in either leg, that he involuntarily moved his arms in their slings; whereupon each finger of each hand seemed to say—"No good, old fellow; you can't escape your punishment; for 'whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.'"
Meanwhile Hal was busy trying to think what could be done.
"Haven't you got somebody?" suggested he at last. "Relations are the best, I think, because they have an interest in you. You must have got a sister, haven't you?"
Farmer Bluff said "No" at first; but afterwards, he changed his mind. "Leastways not one who would come," said he. The matter stood thus. He had a sister once, who married somebody he did not like—a pious man, who would not drink for the sake of good fellowship, and did not swear. So he quarrelled with his sister; and when she wrote and told him that she had a baby boy named after him, he did not answer her; he had never seen or written to her since.
"She couldn't come in any case, you see," said Hal; "because she has her own home and her husband to look after."
The bailiff shook his head.
"He's dead," said he. "He died about the same time as my wife, and so did the boy. She wrote to me to know if I could give her any help. There was a little girl, I think."
"Then she's just the very one," said Hal.
"Unless she's married some one else," added Farmer Bluff. "But she wouldn't come. 'Tain't likely, after how I've treated her."
"You don't deserve it, certainly," admitted Hal; which was not exactly what the farmer meant. "But sisters are amazingly forgiving—so they say. (I always wish I'd got one, do you know?) If I were you, I'd write to her."
This advice was rather out of place, seeing the helpless condition of the old fellow's hands. The upshot of it was, however, that Hal sat down to write from Farmer Bluff's dictation; and between them they made up a letter, setting forth the state of things, and offering Mrs. Rust a home, if she were willing to forgive the past, and come to live with him. Then Hal got up to say good-bye.
"I'll be sure and have it posted," said he. "If I put it in the hall with all the other letters, Perkins will take it when he goes from work."
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THE VERY ONE.
FARMER BLUFF'S answer came sooner than he expected.
Although Mrs. Rust had been deeply wounded by her hard-hearted brother's evident lack of affection, she had never cherished the least ill-will against him. She rather mourned to think that his evil ways should separate them whilst so many years of life to love each other were theirs.
But, as it chanced, this proposal that she should make her home with him, came very opportunely to the lonely, hard-worked widow. Her little girl, now just eleven, had grown-up very delicate; and in their one poor room in London, poor Maggie could not have the air and nourishment of which she stood so much in need. Nothing could be better for her than the free life of the fields and lanes.
Farmer Bluff read and re-read the letter, which was full of affectionate expressions, reminding him how they had played together in the years gone by, before they had begun their separate paths in life, and learnt what trouble meant. It seemed so wonderful to think that after these ten years of estrangement on his part, she should still care for him.
But it was just what Hal had said. "Sisters are amazingly forgiving—"
"Far more so than you deserve," conscience added, in a tone he could not choose but hear.
He contrived to send a message up to Hal that afternoon. One of the men happening to come in about the selling of some piglings, he at once seized the opportunity of letting "the young Squire" know the result of their joint penmanship. Hal came directly lessons were over for the day.
"Hurrah!" cried he as he entered. "Three cheers for Mrs. Rust!"
Then, after talking it over for a little while, they composed the answer, directing Mrs. Rust to pack her things together, and come down next week, to superintend the remove.
Of course, when Elspeth heard of this arrangement, she declared that she wasn't going to be "mississed over" by a widow woman who was so hard up that she was ready to snap at the first chance of a home. And the end of it was that the ill-natured woman cleared out of the house the very day that Mrs. Rust came in, leaving no provisions ready cooked, and all the work to do.
But Mrs. Rust made light of that, for there were eggs in plenty to be had; with the sweet, fresh country bread and butter, she and Maggie made a hearty meal, and after a short rest, she set herself to work to take old Elspeth's place.
When the Squire heard of it from Hal, however, he was very angry, and sent a woman up at once to help her with the work. "It isn't fair," said he. "She cannot possibly do it all—look after Farmer Bluff, and see to things about the dairy and farmyard, and get the cottage into order too."
Next afternoon, he went round with Hal to see what Mrs. Rust was like, after her ten years of widowhood.
He found her all that her girlhood had given promise of; tidy, respectful, and cheery—a thorough specimen of English matronhood. Meanwhile Hal made acquaintance with her little girl, who stood shyly near the window, watching Grip, and playing with the flowers she had gathered in the fields. But she was not shy long; for Hal's frank ways soon put her at her ease, and they became good friends.
A week later, two of the farm waggons, piled with furniture, rolled slowly across the yard, and up the road towards the gate of the wood. And that same evening, with many groans and grunts—but not a single oath, for little Maggie Rust was by—poor, gouty Farmer Bluff himself, in a bath-chair, with his two dogs tied behind, was wheeled to his new home. Next day, the future bailiff took possession of the farm; and the old life was a thing of the past.
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UNDER SENTENCE.
IT was more difficult for Hal to get as far as Farmer Bluffs cottage; nevertheless, on the very first half-holiday after the remove, he appeared there, just as Maggie ran out at the door.
Such a difference there was in her already! The fresh air seemed to have acted like magic on her languid frame. She would skip and bound and run; and everywhere her merry voice was heard, laughing, singing, calling to the dogs; mimicking the birds, or chattering through the open window to her uncle, who still sat in his arm-chair, bound hand and foot by gout.
Maggie had made great friends with both the dogs, but especially with Blazer. It was wonderful to see the fierce, rough creature jump up when he heard her voice, and stand there pulling at his chain, and whining for her to come and pat his great head.
And as for Maggie, she did not seem the least afraid of him. "He's ferocious, but he's honest," she would say. "I wouldn't come within a mile of him, if I were a thief; but he knows who are friends and who are not."
Hal was going in to talk to Farmer Bluff, but Maggie stopped him.
"Wait a bit," said she; "the doctor's there just now."
So Hal went round with her to have a word with his friend Blazer.
It was very pretty in the garden now. The wood was emerald green with the young foliage, and ferns were springing up through the carpet of dead leaves, uncrumpling their pale brown fronds in the sunlight that fell on them through the lacy branches of the beech and hornbeam trees.
Maggie had already learnt to leap the ditch. "Though mother says I mustn't stray into the wood," said she, "for fear of getting into mischief. So I just keep close at hand, and fancy that I'm far away. It's such a pity, too, my Uncle Bluff won't have the garden planted. He says the rabbits come across the ditch, and eat whatever grows. I mean to watch for them."
Indoors the doctor was talking in this sort of strain to Farmer Bluff. "Fact is, farmer, this gout is mounting to your stomach as fast as it can go; and if once it gets there, ten chances to one no power on earth will get it out. You'll die of it, that's all."
Farmer Bluff looked scared. "Is there nothing you can do to stop it, doctor?" asked he piteously.
"Do? When for the last five years and more you've undone every attempt I've made? Look at that!" And Dr. Winthrop pointed to the mug. "If you will drink beer, as I am sick of telling you, why, you must abide by the consequences. Dash my wigs!" exclaimed the doctor, warming up. "If I'd a mug of solid gold that made a fool of me, I'd throw it in the ditch and bury it."
In this strain, the doctor talked at him for ten minutes or more; then he went away. And Hal, seeing that the coast was clear, went in. But Farmer Bluff was unusually glum that morning. Do what Hal would, he could not cheer him up; for the poor old sinner had got it on his mind that he was doomed to die.
"If I were you," said Hal to Maggie, as he went out at the gate, "I think I'd sing to Farmer Bluff. I can't, you know, or else I would; but I can manage talking best. He's right down in the dumps to-day. I can't think why—unless it is because he had to leave the farm."
A few days later told them, though. Gout doesn't attack the more important parts of the body without letting a man know it. Farmer Bluff was in such fearful pain that Dr. Winthrop was sent for in a hurry.
The doctor shook his head.
"He's had no beer since you were here last, sir," said Mrs. Rust. "He called for it no end of times; but I refused to bring it in."
"You did quite right," the doctor said. "When grown-up patients won't be sensible, they must be treated like children."
He little knew the language Farmer Bluff had hurled at her for carrying out these orders for his good.
Farmer Bluff was watching Dr. Winthrop's expression very anxiously.
"Is there any change—for the better, doctor?" asked he eagerly. "What can be the cause of all this pain?"
The doctor shook his head again.
"You mustn't think," said he, "that three days can cure disease brought on by the habits of a lifetime. I will do my best for you; but you have killed yourself."
Hal met Dick that day.
"It's a pity," said he. "Dr. Winthrop says that Farmer Bluff can't possibly get well. The gout has reached his stomach. It's all through drinking too much beer."
Then he went on to the cottage to talk to Farmer Bluff in his own simple, sympathetic way. "I'm very sorry," he told him gently, "especially as it's your own fault. That makes so much worse of it."
"In this world and the next," put in Farmer Bluff gloomily. "But it's too late to talk about that now."
"Too late!—Why?" asked Hal.
But although Farmer Bluff knew pretty well his own reasons for saying so, he did not answer the boy's question.
So Hal went on: "I don't at all think it's too late. 'Never too late to mend' is a good saying; but 'Never too late to repent' seems to me a better. Because, you see, if what Dr. Winthrop says is right, your gout won't let you mend; but Jesus said that everybody who repented in their heart, would be accepted and forgiven."
"I've tried singing to him," Maggie told Hal, when he came downstairs again. "I know a lot of hymns; and he likes it too."
Hal looked about for Dick, when he got outside.
But at school, Dick had made a lot of new acquaintances who were not likely to know anything about the adventure with Bill; so he preferred their company, and had gone off birds'-nesting with some of them.
Arrived on the terrace, Hal went straight to the Squire's library. He found his grandfather sitting in his great arm-chair, with his gold-rimmed spectacles upon his nose, reading a big folio volume that lay open on his knee; for the Squire was rather fond of learned books. He drew his glasses off as Hal came in, and laid them on the page.
"Grandfather," said Hal, in a tone of great concern, "the doctor says that Farmer Bluff will have to die. The gout has got so far it can't be stopped."
"It's as bad as that, is it?" replied the Squire. "I thought as much," added he, half to himself.
Hal sat down upon the edge of a chair with a dejected air.
"It serves him right," added the Squire.
Hal looked up quickly, as if about to speak; then changed his mind and relapsed into silence again. He was disappointed. He had cherished the hope of being able to convince Farmer Bluff of his folly; and he had failed.
But his grandfather did not quite understand this.
"It's his own fault," said he; "he had fair warning."
Hal shifted again, and looked like speaking, but got no further. There was a big lump in his throat.
"All the arguing in the world wouldn't do it, if tweaking and twinging wouldn't," continued the Squire, mentally referring to his own and the doctor's discourses, together with the pains and premonitions of the disease itself. "It's astonishing what a man will bear, rather than give up his besetting sin."
"I did my best," added Hal, thinking of nobody's efforts but his own. "I spoke out plainly too."
"Ah!" said the Squire, suddenly remembering those words of Hal's when first he learnt that the bailiff was to be discharged. "You've been in and out a good deal, I suppose, Hal; as you say, you've done your best."
"But, you see, it hasn't saved him," rejoined Hal mournfully. "That's the worst of it."
"It's very sad," said the Squire, after a pause, during which he put his gold-rimmed glasses on, and took them off again. "It's always sad when a man reaps the fruits of his own folly."
"Especially when he has had fair warning," added Hal, "and might have done so differently."
"I must go and see him one of these mornings, I suppose," observed the Squire presently.
The next few days made a great difference in Farmer Bluff. When the Squire went, he found the downstairs room vacant.
"Where's Farmer Bluff?" asked Hal uneasily.
"Upstairs," answered Maggie, who had opened the door for them. "He can't get out of bed any more."
And she ran to ask if they could go up.
"Well, Bluff," said the Squire kindly, as he approached the bedside; "I'm sorry to see you like this."
"They tell me it's my own fault, sir," said the sufferer meekly.
Somehow, he had come to swear less and less since Maggie had been there. "My own fault!" he repeated, with a sigh.
"It's a hard thing to tell a man, when he's on his death-bed,"' said the Squire gently.
"But I suppose it's true," rejoined Farmer Bluff.
"And it's better that a man should know it's true," the Squire added solemnly; "for then he has a chance of taking comfort from the assurance that 'if we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.' Though our sins and folly may have destroyed our body, the moment that we cast them from us by our faith in Him whom God sent to be our Saviour, they lose power to harm our soul; and the only condition of forgiveness and acceptance is we cease to cherish our sins, and, trusting in Jesus, seek to be restored."
Farmer Bluff was silent. Perhaps his conscience told him it was less the sin that he was sorry for than the consequences it had brought.
"You weren't far wrong, you see, sir, when you turned me out," said he presently. "It was a hard blow, but I deserved it. I had no right to murmur; for I wasn't equal to my work."
"And I didn't leave you unprovided for," the Squire added kindly. "I chose this place, too, because I thought you would be happier near the wood than anywhere. I see you've brought the dogs here, too."
"Grip and Blazer, sir; yes. I can't make out what's got 'em both to-day."
The two dogs were barking "fit to fetch the house down," as the farmer put it. They had been barking so all night, and ever since sunset the evening before; so he told the Squire.
"I heard old Dobson throw his window up once or twice," said he; "and at last he took his gun and had a look about, to see if it was anybody prowling round."
"Perhaps it was only rabbits," suggested the Squire. "I've heard Dobson say that even hares will come into these gardens on moonlight nights."
"They will, sir, I can certify," said Farmer Bluff, amused for the minute; "though they won't find much to pay 'em here. I wasn't going to have the ground planted, for them to eat up every shoot that grew."
Hal was standing by the casement during this conversation, now watching his grandfather and the farmer, now looking out of the window at the kennel, where Blazer was jumping and plunging angrily, tearing the air with his furious cries. Just as Farmer Bluff finished speaking, he uttered a sudden exclamation.
"Grandfather!" cried he. "Blazer has burst his collar, and got free!"
At the same instant, the barking had ceased, and Blazer, without a scrap of chain about him, had gone racing down the clearing through the wood. The next minute Maggie's voice was heard on the staircase.
"Uncle Bluff! Uncle Bluff!" cried she, as she climbed. "Blazer has got loose and run away!"
In the excitement of the moment, Farmer Bluff made a desperate effort to get to a sitting posture; but that was beyond him, and he earned nothing but pain for his exertion.
"He's run right away," said Maggie, appearing in the doorway with an agitated face.
"Oh! He'll come back right enough," returned her uncle, lifting his head to look at her. "The mischief is—mercy on any one he should meet. And I don't know the man, except old Dobson, who dare go after him."
"I dare," said Maggie bravely; "I'll go to the ditch and call."
"No, child," cried Farmer Bluff; but quick as lightning Maggie was gone. "Stop her!" roared he, as she sped downstairs and out at the house door. "He'll knock her down! He'll kill the child!"
"Not he!" said Hal. "Not Blazer! He's far too fond of Mag. She's not afraid of him; no more am I. I'll go too."
But the Squire stopped him.
"I'd hardly dare go myself," said Farmer Bluff. "Hark! There she's calling him!"
And the little girl's voice was heard ringing out clear and loud—"Blazer, Blazer; where have you rushed off to? You bad old doggie, you!"
The Squire had his head out of the casement, calling her to come in; but Blazer had heard her voice and come back with a rush, leaping the ditch and bounding up to lick her hand, then crouching at her feet, whilst Maggie stood firm as a rock, and fearlessly patted his broad head. Then he leapt the ditch again, and barked, and looked towards the child; then came back, and jumped around her; then back to the ditch, as if he wanted her to go with him.
"Well, I'll leap the ditch then, Blazer," they heard her cry; "if that is what you want." And stepping back a pace or two, she took a run, and jumped it clean and clear.
"That was a good leap, my lass," the Squire called approvingly. "Surely she's not town-bred, Bluff," added he, drawing in his head to look back towards the bed.
"She is, sir," answered Farmer Bluff; "and such a white-faced thing, too, when her mother brought her here."
"Well, come!" rejoined the Squire cheerily. "There's something to set off against your leaving the farm. If you hadn't had to come up here, I suppose she'd be white-faced yet. But what about this dog? I don't see how he's going to be got upon the chain again. The collar is broken too."
"There used to be another collar about the place," Farmer Bluff answered.
For the brute had always seemed so fierce, they had not dared to depend upon a single one; but where it was, he could not say—though Mrs. Rust might know when she came in—nor who would undertake to put it on.
"I shouldn't be afraid if I could manage it," said Hal, who had reluctantly obeyed his grandfather's desire that he would not go down. "But you see my crutches are so in the way."
The Squire shook his head.
"Better wait till old Dobson's home," suggested Farmer Bluff. "The dog knows him."
"Only," put in Hal, "just think how frightened Mrs. Rust will be when she comes in."
Meanwhile Blazer was still rushing madly to and fro. Far from satisfied with having got Maggie across the ditch, he was evidently trying hard to prevail on her to go into the wood with him. If she ran a step or two he seemed so pleased, but as soon as she stopped, he barked and leapt, and tugged at her dress, making every sign dog ingenuity could suggest to coax her into going forward down the track.
"There's something at the bottom of all that, depend upon it," said the Squire, walking to the foot of the bed. "Blazer has found somebody or something; and he wants to show his find. I shell venture down and follow his lead. He knows me pretty well."
"He knows me better, grandfather," said Hal.
"We'll both go," said the Squire, setting off towards the stairs, Hal following.
A ditch was an obstacle both for the old gentleman and the cripple boy, neither of whom could leap like the little London maid. There was a way out of the difficulty, however, by going round to the gate of the wood; and in a very few minutes, the Squire and Hal had joined Maggie, and were following Blazer down the track, much to the jealousy of Grip, who stood watching from his kennel in the front garden, and uttering a series of short, snappish barks, by way of protest at this unfairness.
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A RUNAWAY'S STORY.
THE old Squire had always made a point of having a civil word for both dogs whenever he went to the farm; so that, as he said, both Blazer and Grip were tolerably familiar with him. On the present occasion, however, Blazer was too much delighted at getting his own way to show any disagreeable tempers. He did nothing but run and leap and bark in an ecstasy of triumph, looking back from time to time, to make sure that he was being followed, and exerting himself ten times more than was necessary, in his efforts to incite them to speed.
But the uneven surface of the track was less easy for Hal's crutches than the open road; and Blazer had to be content with rather slow progress, whilst Maggie ran backwards and forwards, jumping and calling, thoroughly enjoying the fun, and doing her best, by her own excitement, to keep up Blazer's.
They had not proceeded very far in this manner, however, when Blazer changed his course, darting in amongst the undergrowth.
The Squire pulled up.
"Now, Blazer, old boy," said he, "that isn't just the sort of place an old gentleman finds convenient to scramble through. What do you want with it?"
But the dog was evidently in real earnest. There was no mistake about that. He trotted on a little way ahead, then turned and leapt and barked, and came bounding back, jumping round the Squire, and all but beckoning him to come.
"What a pity he can't speak!" exclaimed Hal, looking up into his grandfather's face, as if to read his thoughts.
"We must contrive to go with him somehow, that's certain," returned the Squire, stopping to consider; "or, at least, I must. He has found something, and he wants to show it us. Hal, you wait here with Maggie; no, stay! Let Maggie come with me, in case I want a messenger."
And putting one shoulder to the hazel bushes, to Blazer's infinite delight, the old gentleman commenced pushing his way in amongst them, Maggie following close upon his heels.
A shade of disappointment came over Hal's face. This was how he had to feel his affliction every now and then. But Hal was not a boy to stop at disappointment. He only stood still a minute or so; then turning, set off down the track again, to search for an opening by which to reach the spot whither the dog was leading them—sure, at all events, of knowing by his barks the direction that they took.
He had but just lighted on a cross track when the barking ceased. They must have reached the place.
Hal stopped to listen just an instant, then set forward, breathing fast, and flushing with his exertions to lose no time, and hoping that as Blazer had led them off in a slanting direction, this track, which crossed the cartway at right angles, would converge with their path.
Presently, however, the track ended in a sort of winding path, which seemed to lead into thicker and thicker tangle. Hal stopped, perplexed, and listened, but could hear no sound. Next minute, however, Blazer's bark sounded out again, short and sharp; once, twice, thrice. Hal set forward instantly, with increased vigour, and after following the windings of the path for a short distance, he was able to distinguish voices, whilst every now and then Blazer gave a sharp bark, as if to call him on.
All on a sudden, an idea struck Hal, and resting on his crutches to get breath, he called Blazer's name with all his might.
The plan succeeded. Blazer heard, and gave an answering bark. In a few seconds, Hal heard the crackling of the dry leaves under his paws; then out he rushed along the path. They were not far off, and Hal was going straight for them. He hurried on after the dog.
"Where are you, grandfather?" called he, when he got near enough to distinguish the Squire's voice.
"Here!" was the reply.
And at the same instant, Hal spied Maggie's pink apron through the bushes.
Hal paused a second; then pushing one crutch in among the twigs, he made his way to where the others were.
The Squire was bending over something on the ground, Maggie kneeling by his side. "He's opening his eyes!" cried she, as Hal came up.
And there, to his astonishment, half-raised upon the turf mound at the foot of a hazel clump, lay the long-lost runaway, Bill the Kicker.
Bill drew a long breath and rolled his eyes round; then the lids dropped to again.
Maggie gave vent to an exclamation of mingled pity and disappointment, and the Squire observed,—
"It's evidently a case of starvation. From the look of him, I should imagine that the young scamp has kept away as long as he could hold out. If Blazer hadn't happened to find him, he would have died here before night."
The sound of voices roused Bill again. His eyes opened, and he drew another long breath. Then suddenly a look of bewilderment came over his face. "Where 'm I got to?" he asked excitedly.
But before any one could answer, he had recognised the Squire. The bewildered look gave place to one of terror, and Bill made a desperate effort at scrambling to his feet; but he had long since reached the point when starved and exhausted nature could do no more. He only fell back upon the bank with a sick and dizzy sensation, and his eyelids closed again.
"Lie still, my boy," said the Squire kindly. "You must have something to eat. You're starving."
Bill put his hand to his waist-belt. He had ceased to remember that he was hungry; but the Squire's words brought back the craving. He recollected how he had felt before he swooned.
"Have either of you anything eatable about you?"' asked the Squire, turning to Hal and Maggie. "A sweetmeat, or a bit of biscuit; anything that he could suck or munch."
Hal had not. He was not a boy who cared for sweets. Maggie, however, produced a chocolate drop, given her over the counter by the grocer's man.
"But what is that when he's starving!" exclaimed she.
"All the better," returned the Squire. "In his present state, it would be dangerous to give him much. But you may run home," added he, as Bill eagerly took the tiny mouthful and crunched it up. "Run home—you can find your way?—And bring cup of bread or biscuit sopped in milk—or water, if you can't find milk; be as quick as ever you can. The poor boy is nearly starved."
Some good people would have tried to get Bill's story out of him whilst Maggie was running for the food. But Hal's grandfather did no such thing, having too much common sense, as well as too much pity for the boy. Besides, his story was so plainly told by every feature of his face, and every inch of tattered garment that he wore. His whole appearance seemed to say, in language that no eyes could fail to read, that it was one thing to get into a scrape and run away in order to escape the consequence, but quite another thing to keep decent clothes upon his back, and pick up food enough to hold the wolf at bay. In short, poor Bill had learnt the value of a home.
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THE SQUIRE FINDS BILL THOROUGHLY EXHAUSTED.
Meanwhile, Maggie had scrambled back to the cart-track, making fearful havoc of her zephyr apron in her haste; and had torn home, panting and breathless, taking the ditch at a bound, and astonishing beyond measure her mother, who was just returning up the garden path. On learning what had happened, however, Mrs. Rust quickly made the pap, and, calling up the stairs to Farmer Bluff, set off with Maggie to the spot.
"I made it warm, sir," said she, as she knelt down by Bill's side to feed him from the cup.
Bill took it eagerly, and would have made short work of it, had he not been restrained. It quickly revived him, however, and he sat up, looking very much as if he would like to run away again.
"You'll be all the better for that, my boy," said Mrs. Rust, standing back a step or two with the empty cup in her hand.
But Bill felt rather foolish. He looked from one to another of the group round him, and said nothing.
The Squire was the first to speak. "Well, young man," said he, possessing himself of his gold-headed cane, which he had laid down beside Bill on first stooping to examine him; "I'm glad to see you've come home again. And I hope you've had enough of a lesson about the folly of running away."
Bill hung his head. "I don't know as I'm going home," said he, in a low, dogged tone of voice.
"Oh! Don't you?" said the Squire. "I'll take care of that."
"Likely!" continued Bill defiantly. "To have the strap."
"Perhaps, if you behave well, and answer all I want to know," returned the Squire, "I may feel inclined to beg you off the strapping—though I must confess that you deserve it every bit."
Bill subsided and looked down, waiting in sullen silence to be questioned, whilst Maggie drew a little nearer, moving her eyes rapidly from him to the Squire with lively interest.
"Why did you run away?" commenced the Squire.
Maggie's eyes went back to Bill.
"'Cause he told me to," said Bill.
"He?" rejoined the Squire. "Who's he?"
"Him what I stole the egg for," answered Bill. "Dick Crozier, sir."
"Dick Crozier!" exclaimed Hal and his grandfather in a breath. "Mind you're not inventing lies," added the Squire. "Why, dear me," he continued half-aside, "I had fancied him a better lad. It seems incredible!"
"He said as you was comin' round a purpose to 'indemnifight' me," Bill went on; "an' if he was me, he wouldn't stand still to be took."
What Bill had supposed this terrible word to mean, it would be hard to determine; but he had kept on repeating it to himself all the way he had run, until it had got so mixed up as to come out entirely wrong. "Nor I wasn't going to neither," added Bill, with the defiant look again.
"How came you to steal an egg for him?" asked the Squire next.
"'Cause I wanted sixpence," answered Bill. "But he's as bad as me," added Bill eagerly. "He hadn't ought to ha' taken what I'd stole. I've heard my father say so once."
"Quite right," rejoined the Squire. "Receiving stolen goods is punishable by law. He sucked this egg, then, I suppose; and gave you sixpence for it."
Then came out the history of how Bill's evil conscience had brought about the smashing of the eggs; and how, in self-defence, he had inflicted on the unfortunate goose the injuries that had caused her death. "I didn't want to hurt her, sir," said Bill; "but when one o' them things is after you—"
"It's rather terrible, I must admit," returned the Squire, hardly able to restrain a smile. "Then you didn't get your sixpence after all?"
"Yes, I did though," replied Bill quickly, with a cunning grin. "He guv it me to keep from splitting, 'cause he knew as how if I was caught, I was bound to let out who I'd stole it for. If it hadn't been for that," said Bill, whose meal had pretty well revived him by this time, "and t' other, what I got for bein' made a pictur' of, I'm blest if I'd 'a' had a rag o' flesh on any o' my bones by now—grub's that hard to get."
"Ah! Recollect that, next time that you're tempted to do wrong," returned the Squire solemnly.
"But he was just as bad as me," repeated Bill, who seemed inclined to take comfort in companionship in his disgrace.
He found, however, that the Squire entertained a different view of the matter. "Gently," said he. "You had the first of it; for you put temptation in his way, by offering to undertake the theft. But now, one question more. What did you want the sixpence for?"
Bill hung his head and looked more than half a mind not to answer; but he changed his mind, thinking that it was sure to come out, and that, all things considered, he had better enjoy the merit of making a clean breast of the whole affair.
"'Cause I wanted a new knife," said he; "and so I'd borrowed sixpence from the rent."
"You've got to beg me off the strapping, sir," said Bill, as they set off back towards the cartway, a few minutes later; "'cause you promised if I answered square."
"And when I promise anything, I keep my word," replied the Squire, rather pleased than otherwise with the boy's straightforwardness. He took occasion by the way, however, to administer a lecture on the wickedness of breaking in through hedges after other people's property. "If Blazer had caught you there, instead of half dead in this wood," said he, "he would have shown you little mercy, you may make quite sure."
Bill also related by degrees a lot of his adventures since leaving home; how he had escaped along the riverbank, running till his breath gave out, and walking till he nearly dropped, to reach the town before the night came on; how he had slept under porches or in doorways, in wind and wet and darkness, frightened, cold, and wretched, night after night; and how, after his food and money were all gone, he had begged for work, and gone from door to door to ask a piece of bread, until he grew so weak and wild with living on the scanty crusts he got, that he began to wish he had not run away.
"Leastways," said Bill, "I wished I hadn't stole the eggs."
And he went on to tell how at the last he had determined to come back, but had not had the courage to face his parents' anger; and so had wandered on into the wood, and round to the back of the two cottages, where he was about to beg food, when to his surprise, he spied Blazer chained up, and Blazer spied him.
"And for the life of me I durstn't ask," said Bill; "so I cut away into the wood, and there I tumbled down."
"And there you would have died," the Squire added, "if Blazer had not broken loose and followed on your track, and found you where you lay, you poor silly boy. Well, you have had your punishment; and I can promise you, your parents will be glad enough to see you back. Only mind you show that you are worthy of forgiveness by making a fresh start."
Arrived at Farmer Bluffs, Bill was glad to sit down quietly and have some more to eat, whilst the Squire went and saw Blazer's collar mended up. As for Blazer, he came quite gently to take a biscuit and a lump of sugar out of Maggie's hand, and then submitted to have the chain put on; after which, he retired into his kennel, and lay down to rest.
Then the Squire, having directed Mrs. Rust to search the other collar out, or get a new one made, set out with Bill, to see him safe into his parents' hands.