"Dear Jack,"I want you to do, something for me. I want you to go to Merefield and see, first, Jenny, and then my father; and tell them quite plainly and simply that I've been in prison for a fortnight. I want Jenny to know first, so that she can think of what to say to my father. The thing I was sent to prison for was that I pleaded guilty to stealing a tin of salmon from a child called Mary Cooper. You can see the account of the case in the County Gazette for last Saturday week, the twenty-seventh. The thing I really did was to take the tin from somebody else I was traveling with. He asked me to."Next, I want you to send on any letters that may have come for me to the address I enclose on a separate piece of paper. Please destroy the address at once; but you can show this letter to Jenny and give her my love. You are not to come and see me. If you don't, I'll come and see you soon."Things are pretty bad just now, but I'm going to go through with it."Yours,"F."P.S.—By the way, please address me as Mr. F. Gregory when you write."
"Dear Jack,
"I want you to do, something for me. I want you to go to Merefield and see, first, Jenny, and then my father; and tell them quite plainly and simply that I've been in prison for a fortnight. I want Jenny to know first, so that she can think of what to say to my father. The thing I was sent to prison for was that I pleaded guilty to stealing a tin of salmon from a child called Mary Cooper. You can see the account of the case in the County Gazette for last Saturday week, the twenty-seventh. The thing I really did was to take the tin from somebody else I was traveling with. He asked me to.
"Next, I want you to send on any letters that may have come for me to the address I enclose on a separate piece of paper. Please destroy the address at once; but you can show this letter to Jenny and give her my love. You are not to come and see me. If you don't, I'll come and see you soon.
"Things are pretty bad just now, but I'm going to go through with it.
"Yours,
"F.
"P.S.—By the way, please address me as Mr. F. Gregory when you write."
He was perfectly obstinate, you understand, still.
Frank's troubles as regards prison were by no means exhausted by his distressing conversation with the young ladies in the post office, and the next one fell on him as he was leaving the little town early on the Saturday morning.
He had just turned out of the main street and was going up a quiet side lane that looked as if it would lead to the York Road, when he noticed a disagreeable little scene proceeding up a narrowcul-de-sacacross whose mouth he was passing.
A tall, loose-limbed young man, in his working-clothes, obviously slightly excited with drink, had hold of a miserable old man by the scruff of the neck with one hand, and was cuffing him with the other.
Now I do not wish to represent Frank as a sort of knight-errant, but the fact is that if anyone with respectable and humane ideas goes on the tramp (I have this from the mouth of experienced persons) he has to make up his mind fairly soon either to be a redresser of wrongs or to be conveniently short-sighted. Frank was not yet sufficiently experienced to have learned the wisdom of the second alternative.
He went straight up thecul-de-sacand without any words at all hit the young man as hard as possible under the ear nearest to him.
There seems to have been a moment of amazed silence; the young man dropped the old one, who fled out into the lane, and struck back at Frank, who parried. Simultaneously a woman screamed somewhere; and faces began to appear at windows and doors.
It is curious how the customs of the Middle Ages, as well as some of their oaths, seem to have descended to the ranks of the British working-man. In the old days—as also in prize-fights to-day—it was quite usual to assail your adversary with insults as well as with blows. This was done now. The young man, with a torrent of imprecations, demanded who Frank thought he was, asked where he was coming to, required of society in general an explanation of a stranger's interfering between a son and a qualified father. There was a murmur of applause and dissent, and Frank answered, with a few harmless expletives such as he had now learned to employ as a sort of verbal disguise, that he did not care how many sons or fathers were in question, that he did not propose to see a certain kind of bully abuse an old man, and that he would be happy to take the old man's place....
Then the battle was set.
Frank had learned to box in a certain small saloon in Market Street, Cambridge, and knew perfectly well how to take care of himself. He received about half the force of one extremely hard blow just on his left cheek-bone before he got warmed to his work; but after that he did the giving and the loose-limbed young man the receiving, Frank was even scientific; he boxed in the American manner, crouching, with both arms half extended (and this seems to have entirely bewildered his adversary) and he made no effort to reach the face. He just thumped away steadily below the spot where the ribs part, and where—a doctor informs me—a nerve-center, known as thesolar plexus, is situated. He revolved, too, with considerable agility, round his opponent, and gradually drew the battle nearer and nearer to the side lane outside. He knew enough of slum-chivalry by now to be aware that if a sympathizer, or sycophant, of the young man happened to be present, he himself would quite possibly (if the friend happened to possess sufficient courage) suddenly collapse from a disabling blow on the back of the neck. Also, he was not sure whether there was any wife in the question; and in this case it would be a poker, or a broken bottle, held dagger-wise, that he would have to meet. And he wished therefore to have more room round him than thecul-de-sacafforded.
But there was no need for precaution.
The young man had begun to look rather sickly under the eyes and to hiccup three or four times in distressed manner; when suddenly the clamor round the fight ceased. Frank was aware of a shrill old voice calling out something behind him; and the next instant, simultaneously with the dropping of his adversary's hands, he himself was seized from behind by the arms, and, writhing, discerned is blue sleeve and a gloved hand holding him.
"Now, what's all this?" said a voice in his ear.
There was a chorus of explanation, declaring that "'Alb" had been set upon without provocation. There was a particularly voluble woman with red arms and an exceedingly persuasive manner, who advanced from a doorway and described the incident from her own point of view. She had been hanging out the children's things, she began, and so forth; and Frank was declared the aggressor and "'Alb" the innocent victim.
Then the chorus broke out again, and "'Alb," after another fit of hiccupping, corroborated the witnesses in a broken and pathetically indignant voice.
Frank tore himself from one embracing arm and faced round, still held by the other.
"All right; I shan't run away.... Look here; that's a black lie. He was hitting that old man. Where is he? Come on, uncle, and tell us all about it."
The old man advanced, his toothless face contorted with inexplicable emotion, and corroborated the red-armed woman, and the chorus generally, with astonishing volubility and emphasis.
"You old fool!" said Frank curtly. "What are you afraid of? Let's have the truth, now. Wasn't he hitting you?"
"He, he, he!" giggled the old man, torn by the desire of self-preservation on one side and, let us hope, by a wish for justice on the other. "He warn't hittin' of me. He's my son, he is.... 'Alb is.... We were just having—"
"There! get out of this," said the policeman, releasing Frank with a shove. "We don't want your sort here. Coming and making trouble.... Yes; my lad. You needn't look at me like that. I know you."
"Who the deuce are you talking to?" snapped Frank.
"I know who I'm talking to, well enough," pronounced the policeman judicially. "F. Gregory, ain't it? Now you be off out of this, or you'll be in trouble again."
There was something vaguely kindly about the man's manner, and Frank understood that he knew very tolerably where the truth lay, but wished to prevent further disturbance. He gulped down his fury. It was no good saying anything; but the dense of the injustice of the universe was very bitter. He turned away—
A murmur of indignation broke out from the crowd, bidding the policeman do his duty.
And as Frank went up the lane, he heard that zealous officer addressing the court with considerable vigor. But it was very little comfort to him. He walked out of the town with his anger and resentment still hot in his heart at the indignity of the whole affair.
By the Sunday afternoon Frank was well on his way to York.
It was a heavy, hot day, sunny, but with brooding clouds on the low horizons; and he was dispirited and tired as he came at last into a small, prim village street rather after two o'clock (its name, once more, I suppress).
His possessions by now were greatly reduced. His money had gone, little by little, all through his journey with the Major, and he had kept of other things only one extra flannel shirt, a pair of thick socks and a small saucepan he had bought one day. The half-crown that the Governor had given him was gone, all but fourpence, and he wanted, if possible, to arrive at York, where he was to meet the Major, at least with that sum in his possession. Twopence would pay for a bed and twopence more for supper.
Half-way up the street he stopped suddenly. Opposite him stood a small brick church, retired by a few yards of turf, crossed by a path, from the iron railings that abutted on the pavement: and a notice-board proclaimed that in this, church of the Sacred Heart mass was said on Sundays at eleven, on holidays of obligation at nine, and on weekdays at eight-thirtya.m.Confessions were heard on Saturday evenings and on Thursday evenings before the first Friday, from eight to ninep.m.Catechism was at threep.m.on Sundays; and rosary, sermon and benediction at sevenp.m.A fat cat, looking as if it were dead, lay relaxed on the grass beneath this board.
The door was open and Frank considered an instant. But he thought that could wait for a few minutes as he glanced at the next house. This was obviously the presbytery.
Frank had never begged from a priest before, and he hesitated a little now. Then he went across the street into the shadow on the other side, leaned against the wall and looked. The street was perfectly empty and perfectly quiet, and the hot summer air and sunshine lay on all like a charm. There was another cat, he noticed, on a doorstep a few yards away, and he wondered how any living creature in this heat could possibly lie like that, face coiled round to the feet, and the tail laid neatly across the nose. A dreaming cock crooned heart-brokenly somewhere out of sight, and a little hot breeze scooped up a feather of dust in the middle of the road and dropped again.
Even the presbytery looked inviting on a day like this. He had walked a good twenty-five miles to-day, and the suggestion of a dark, cool room was delicious. It was a little pinched-looking house, of brick, like the church, squeezed between the church and a large grocery with a flamboyant inscription over its closed shutters. All the windows were open, hung inside with cheap lace curtains, and protected with dust-screens. He pictured the cold food probably laid out within, and his imagination struck into being a tall glass jug of something like claret-cup, still half-full. Frank had not dined to-day.
Then he limped boldly across the street, rapped with the cast-iron knocker, and waited.
Nothing at all happened.
Presently the cat from the notice-board appeared round the corner, eyed Frank suspiciously, decided that he was not dangerous, came on, walking delicately, stepped up on to the further end of the brick stair, and began to arch itself about and rub its back against the warm angle of the doorpost. Frank rapped again, interrupting the cat for an instant, and then stooped down to scratch it under the ear. The cat crooned delightedly. Steps sounded inside the house; the cat stopped writhing, and as the door opened, darted in noiselessly with tail erect past the woman who held the door uninvitingly half open.
She had a thin, lined face and quick black eyes.
"What do you want?" she asked sharply, looking up and down Frank's figure with suspicion. Her eyes dwelt for a moment on the bruise on his cheek-bone.
"I want to see the priest, please," said Frank.
"You can't see him."
"I am very sorry," said Frank, "but I must see him."
"Coming here begging!" exclaimed the woman bitterly. "I'd be ashamed! Be off with you!"
Frank's dignity asserted itself a little.
"Don't speak to me in that tone, please. I am a Catholic, and I wish to see the priest."
The woman snorted; but before she could speak there came the sound of an opening door and a quick step on the linoleum of the little dark passage.
"What's all this?" said a voice, as the woman stepped back.
He was a big, florid young man, with yellow hair, flushed as if with sleep; his eyes were bright and tired-looking, and his collar was plainly unbuttoned at the back. Also, his cassock was unfastened at the throat and he bore a large red handkerchief in his hand. Obviously this had just been over his face.
Now, I do not blame this priest in the slightest. He had sung a late mass—which never agreed with him—and in his extreme hunger he had eaten two platefuls of hot beef, with Yorkshire pudding, and drunk a glass and a half of solid beer. And he had just fallen into a deep sleep before giving Catechism, when the footsteps and voices had awakened him. Further, every wastrel Catholic that came along this road paid him a call, and he had not yet met with one genuine case of want. When he had first come here he had helped beggars freely and generously, and he lived on a stipend of ninety pounds a year, out of which he paid his housekeeper fifteen.
"What do you want?" he said.
"May I speak to you, father?" said Frank.
"Certainly. Say what you've got to say."
"Will you help me with sixpence, father?"
The priest was silent, eyeing Frank closely.
"Are you a Catholic?"
"Yes, father."
"I didn't see you at mass this morning."
"I wasn't here this morning. I was walking on the roads."
"Where did you hear mass?"
"I didn't hear it at all, father. I was on the roads."
"What's your work?"
"I haven't any."
"Why's that?"
Frank shrugged his shoulders a little.
"I do it when I can get it," he said.
"You speak like an educated man."
"I am pretty well educated."
The priest laughed shortly.
"What's that bruise on your cheek?"
"I was in a street fight, yesterday, father."
"Oh, this is ridiculous!" he said. "Where did you come from last?"
Frank paused a moment. He was very hot and very tired.... Then he spoke.
"I was in prison till Friday," he said. "I was given fourteen days on the charge of robbing a child, on the twenty-sixth. I pleaded guilty. Will you help me, father?"
If the priest had not been still half stupid with sleep and indigestion, and standing in the full blaze of this hot sun, he might have been rather struck by this last sentence. But he did have those disadvantages, and he saw in it nothing but insolence.
He laughed again, shortly and angrily.
"I'm amazed at your cheek," he said. "No, certainly not! And you'd better learn manners before you beg again."
Then he banged the door.
About ten minutes later he woke up from a doze, very wide awake indeed, and looked round. There lay on the table by him a Dutch cheese, a large crusty piece of bread and some very soft salt butter in a saucer. There was also a good glass of beer left—not claret-cup—in a glass jug, very much as Frank had pictured it.
He got up and went out to the street door, shading his eyes against the sun. But the street lay hot and dusty in the afternoon light, empty from end to end, except for a cat, nose in tail, coiled on the grocery door-step.
Then he saw two children, in white frocks, appear round a corner, and he remembered that it was close on time for Catechism.
About the time that Frank was coming into the village where the priest lived, Jenny had just finished lunch with her father. She took a book, two cigarettes, a small silver matchbox and a Japanese fan, and went out into the garden. She had no duties this afternoon; she had played the organ admirably at the morning service, and would play it equally admirably at the evening service. The afternoon devotions in the little hot Sunday school—she had decided, in company with her father a year or two ago—and the management of the children, were far better left in the professional hands of the schoolmistress.
She went straight out of the drawing-room windows, set wide and shaded by awnings, and across the lawn to the seat below the ancient yews. There she disposed herself, with her feet up, lit a cigarette, buried the match and began to read.
She had not heard from Frank for nearly three weeks; his last communication had been a picture postcard of Selby Abbey, with the initial "F" neatly printed at the back. But she was not very greatly upset. She had written her letter as she had promised, and had heard from Jack Kirkby, to whose care she sent it, that he had no idea of Frank's whereabouts, and that he would send on the letter as soon as he knew more. She supposed that Frank would communicate with her again as soon as he thought proper.
Other circumstances to be noted were that Dick had gone back to town some while ago, but would return almost immediately now for the grouse-shooting; that Archie and Lord Talgarth were both up at the house—indeed, she had caught sight of them in the red-curtained chancel-pew this morning, and had exchanged five words with them both after the service—and that in all other respects other things were as they had been a month ago.
The Dean of Trinity had telegraphed in great dismay on the morning following his first communication that Frank had gone, and that no one had the slightest idea of his destination; he had asked whether he should put detectives on the track, and had been bidden, in return, politely but quite firmly, to mind his own business and leave Lord Talgarth's younger son to Lord Talgarth.
It was a sleepy afternoon, even up here among the hills, and Jenny had not read many pages before she became aware of it. The Rectory garden was an almost perfect place for a small doze; the yews about her made a grateful shade, and the limes behind them even further cooled the air, and, when the breeze awoke, as one talking in his sleep, the sound about her was as of gentle rain. The air was bright and dusty with insects; from the limes overhead, the geranium beds, and the orchard fifty yards away, came the steady murmur of bees and flies.
Jenny woke up twenty minutes later with a sudden start, and saw someone standing almost over her. She threw her feet down, still bewildered by the sudden change and the glare on which she opened her eyes, and perceived that it was Jack Kirkby, looking very dusty and hot.
"I am so sorry," said Jack apologetically, "but I was told you were out here."
She did not know Jack very well, though she had known him a long time. She looked upon him as a pleasant sort of boy whom she occasionally met at lawn-tennis parties and flower shows, and things like that, and she knew perfectly how to talk to young men.
"How nice of you to came over," she said. "Did you bicycle? Have something to drink?"
She made room for him on the seat and held out her second cigarette.
"It's your last," said Jack.
"I've lots more in the house."
She watched him as he lit it, and as the last shreds of sleep rolled away, put the obvious question.
"You've news of Frank?"
Jack threw away the match and drew two or three draughts of smoke before answering.
"Yes," he said.
"Where is he?"
"He gave an address at York, though he wasn't there when he wrote. I sent your letter on there yesterday."
"Oh I did he give any account of himself?"
Jack looked at her.
"Well, he did. I've come about that. It's not very pleasant."
"Is he ill?" asked Jenny sharply.
"Oh, no; not at all; at least, he didn't say so."
"What's the matter, then?"
Jack fumbled in his breast-pocket and drew out a letter, which he held a moment before unfolding.
"I think you'd better read what he says, Miss Launton. It isn't pleasant, but it's all over now. I thought I'd better tell you that first."
She held out her hand without speaking.
Jack gave it her, and addressed himself carefully to his cigarette. He didn't like this kind of thing at all, he wished Frank wouldn't give him unpleasant commissions. But, of course, it had to be done. He looked out at the lawn and the sleepy house, but was aware of nothing except the girl beside him in her white dress and the letter in her hands. When she had finished it, she turned back and read it again. Then she remained perfectly still, with the letter held on her knee.
"Poor, dear old boy!" she said suddenly and quietly.
An enormous wave of relief rolled up and enveloped Jack. He had been exceedingly uncomfortable this morning, ever since the letter had come. His first impulse had been to ride over instantly after breakfast; then he had postponed it till lunch; then he had eaten some cold beef about half-past twelve and come straight away. He told himself he must give her plenty of time to write by the late Sunday night post.
He had not exactly distrusted Jenny; Frank's confidence was too overwhelming and too infectious. But he had reflected that it was not a wholly pleasant errand to have to inform a girl that her lover had been in prison for a fortnight. But the tone in which she had just said those four words was so serene and so compassionate that he was completely reassured. This really was a fine creature, he said to himself.
"I'm extraordinarily glad you take it like that," he said.
Jenny looked at him out of her clear, direct eyes.
"You didn't suppose I should abuse him, did you?... How exactly like Frank! I suppose he did it to save some blackguard or other."
"I expect that was it," said Jack.
"Poor, dear old boy!" she said again.
There was a moment's silence. Then Jack began again:
"You see, I've got to go and tell Lord Talgarth. Miss Launton, I wish you'd come with me. Then we can both write by to-night's post."
Jenny said nothing for an instant. Then:
"I suppose that would be best," she said. "Shall we go up pretty soon? I expect we shall find him in the garden."
Jack winced a little. Jenny smiled at him openly.
"Best to get it over, Mr. Jack. I know it's like going to the dentist. But it can't be as bad as you think. It never is. Besides, you'll have somebody to hold your hand, so to speak."
"I hope I shan't scream out loud," observed Jack. "Yes, we'd better go—if you don't mind."
He stood up and waited. Jenny rose at once.
"I'll go and get a hat. Wait for me here, will you? I needn't tell father till this evening."
The park looked delicious as they walked slowly up the grass under the shade of the trees by the side of the drive. The great beeches and elms rose in towering masses, in clump after clump, into the distance, and beneath the nearest stood a great stag with half a dozen hinds about him, eyeing the walkers. The air was very still; only from over the hill came the sound of a single church bell, where some infatuated clergyman hoped to gather the lambs of his flock together for instruction in the Christian religion.
"That's a beauty," said Jack, waving a languid hand towards the stag. "Did you ever hear of the row Frank and I got into when we were boys?"
Jenny smiled. She had been quite silent since leaving the Rectory.
"I heard of a good many," she said. "Which was this?"
Jack recounted a story of Red Indians and ambuscades and a bow and arrows, ending in the flight of a frantic stag over the palings and among the garden beds; it was on a Sunday afternoon, too.
"Frank was caned by the butler, I remember; by Lord Talgarth's express orders. Certainly he richly deserved it. I was a guest, and got off clear."
"How old were you?"
"We were both about eleven, I think."
"Frank doesn't strike me as more than about twelve now," observed Jenny.
"There's something in that," admitted Jack.... "Oh! Lord! how hot it is!" He fanned himself with his hat.
There was no sign of life as they passed into the court and up to the pillared portico; and at last, when the butler appeared, the irregular state of his coat-collar showed plainly that he but that moment had put his coat on.
(This would be about the time that Frank left the village after his interview with the priest.)
Yes; it seemed that Lord Talgarth was probably in the garden; and, if so, almost certainly in the little square among the yews along the upper terrace. His lordship usually went there on hot days. Would Miss Launton and Mr. Kirkby kindly step this way?
No; he was not to trouble. They would find their own way. On the upper terrace?
"On the upper terrace, miss."
The upper terrace was the one part of the old Elizabethan garden left entirely unaltered. On either side rose up a giant wall of yew, shaped like a castle bastion, at least ten feet thick; and between the two ran a broad gravel path up to the sun-dial, bordered on either side by huge herbaceous beds, blazing with the color of late summer. In two or three places grass paths crossed these, leading by a few yards of turf to windows cut in the hedge to give a view of the long, dazzling lake below, and there was one gravel path, parallel to these, that led to the little yew-framed square built out on the slope of the hill.
Two very silent persons now came out from the house by the garden door on the south side, turned along the path, went up a dozen broad steps, passed up the yew walk and finally turned again down the short gravel way and stood abashed.
His lordship was indeed here!
A long wicker chair was set in one angle, facing them, in such a position that the movement of the sun would not affect the delightful shade in which the chair stood. A small table stood beside it, with theTimesnewspaper tumbled on to it, a box of cigars, a spirit-bottle of iridescent glass, a syphon, and a tall tumbler in which a little ice lay crumbled at the bottom. And in the wicker chair, with his mouth wide open, slept Lord Talgarth.
"Good gracious!" whispered Jenny.
There was a silence, and then like far-off thunder a slow meditative snore. It was not an object of beauty or dignity that they looked upon.
"In one second I shall laugh," asserted Jenny, still in a cautious whisper.
"I think we'd better—" began Jack; and stopped petrified, to see one vindictive-looking eye opened and regarding him, it seemed, with an expression of extraordinary malignity. Then the other eye opened, the mouth abruptly closed and Lord Talgarth sat up.
"God bless my soul!"
He rolled his eyes about a moment while intelligence came back.
"You needn't be ashamed of it," said Jenny. "Mr. Jack Kirkby caught me at it, too, half an hour ago."
His lordship's senses had not even now quite returned. He still stared at them innocently like a child, cleared his throat once or twice, and finally stood up.
"Jack Kirkby, so it is! How do, Jack? And Jenny?
"That's who we are," said Jenny. "Are you sure you're quite recovered?"
"Recovered! Eh—!" (He emitted a short laugh.) "Sit down. There's chairs somewhere."
Jack hooked out a couple that were leaning folded against the low wall of yew beneath the window and set them down.
"Have a cigar, Jack?"
"No, thanks."
They were on good terms—these two. Jack shot really well, and was smart and deferential. Lord Talgarth asked no more than this from a young man.
"Well—what's the matter?"
Jack left it thoughtfully for Jenny to open the campaign. She did so very adroitly.
"Mr. Jack came over to see me," she said, "and I thought I couldn't entertain him better than by bringing him up to see you. You haven't such a thing as a cigarette, Lord Talgarth?"
He felt about in his pockets, drew out a case and pushed it across the table.
"Thanks," said Jenny; and then, without the faintest change of tone: "We've some news of Frank at last."
"Frank, eh? Have you? And what's the young cub at, now?"
"He's in trouble, as usual, poor boy!" remarked Jenny, genially. "He's very well, thank you, and sends you his love."
Lord Talgarth cast her a pregnant glance.
"Well, if he didn't, I'm sure he meant to," went on Jenny; "but I expect he forgot. You see, he's been in prison."
The old man jerked such a face at her, that even her nerve failed for an instant. Jack saw her put her cigarette up to her mouth with a hand that shook ever so slightly. And yet before the other could say one word she recovered herself.
"Please let me say it right out to the end first," she said. "No; please don't interrupt! Mr. Jack, give me the letter ... oh! I've got it." (She drew it out and began to unfold it, talking all the while with astonishing smoothness and self-command.) "And I'll read you all the important part. It's written to Mr. Kirkby. He got it this morning and very kindly brought it straight over here at once."
Jack was watching like a terrier. On the one side he saw emotions so furious and so conflicting that they could find no expression, and on the other a restraint and a personality so complete and so compelling that they simply held the field and permitted no outburst. Her voice was cool and high and natural. Then he noticed her flick a glance at himself, sideways, and yet perfectly intelligible. He stood up.
"Yes, do just take a stroll, Mr. Kirkby.... Come back in ten minutes."
And as he passed out again through the thick archway on to the terrace he heard, in an incredibly matter-of-fact voice, the letter begin.
"Dear Jack...."
"Dear Jack...."
Then he began to wonder what, as a matter of interest, Lord Talgarth's first utterance would be. But he felt he could trust Jenny to manage him. She was an astonishingly sane and sensible girl.
He was at the further end of the terrace, close beneath the stable wall, when the stable clock struck the quarter for the second time. That would make, he calculated, about seventeen minutes, and he turned reluctantly to keep his appointment. But he was still thirty yards away from the opening when a white figure in a huge white hat came quickly out. She beckoned to him with her head, and he followed her down the steps. She gave him one glance as if to reassure him as he caught her up, but said not a word, good or bad, till they had passed through the house again, and were well on their way down the drive.
"Well?" said Jack.
Jenny hesitated a moment.
"I suppose anyone else would have called him violent," she said. "Poor old dear! But it seems to me he behaved rather well on the whole—considering all things."
"What's he going to do?"
"If one took anything he said as containing any truth at all, it would mean that he was going to flog Frank with his own hands, kick him first up the steps of the house then down again, and finally drown him in the lake with a stone round his neck. I think that was the sort of programme."
"But—"
"Oh! we needn't be frightened," said Jenny. "But if you ask me what he will do, I haven't the faintest idea."
"Did you suggest anything?"
"He knows what my views are," said jenny.
"And those?"
"Well—make him a decent allowance and let him alone."
"He won't do that!" said Jack. "That's far too sensible."
"You think so?"
"That would solve the whole problem, of course," went on Jack, "marriage and everything. I suppose it would have to be about eight hundred a year. And Talgarth must have at least thirty thousand."
"Oh! he's more than that," said Jenny. "He gives Mr. Dick twelve hundred."
There was a pause. Jack did not know what to think. He was only quite certain that the thing would have been far worse if he had attempted to manage it himself.
"Well, what shall I say to Frank?" he asked. Jenny paused again.
"It seems to me the best thing for you to do is not to write. I'll write myself this evening, if you'll give me his address, and explain—"
"I can't do that," said Jack. "I'm awfully sorry, but—"
"You can't give me his address?"
"No, I'm afraid I mustn't. You see, Frank's very particular in his letter...."
"Then how can I write to him? Mr. Kirkby, you're really rather—"
"By George! I've got it!" cried Jack. "If you don't mind my waiting at the Rectory. Why shouldn't you write to him now, and let me take the letter away and post it? It'll go all the quicker, too, from Barham."
He glanced at her, wondering whether she were displeased. Her answer reassured him.
"That'll do perfectly," she said, "if you're sure you don't mind waiting."
The Rectory garden seemed more than ever a harbor from storm as they turned into it. The sun was a little lower now, and the whole lawn lay in shadow. As they came to the door she stopped.
"I think I'd better go and get it over," she said. "I can tell father all about it after you've gone. Will you go now and wait there?" She nodded towards the seat where they had sat together earlier.
But it was nearly an hour before she came out again, and a neat maid, in apron and cap, had come discreetly out with the tea-things, set them down and retired.
Jack had been thinking of a hundred things, which all centered round one—Frank. He had had a real shock this morning. It had been intolerable to think of Frank in prison, for even Jack could guess something of what that meant to him; and the tone of the letter had been so utterly unlike what he had been accustomed to from his friend. He would have expected a bubbling torrent of remarks—wise and foolish—full of personal descriptions and unkind little sketches. And, indeed, there had come this sober narration of facts and requests....
But in all this there was one deep relief—that it should be a girl like Jenny who was the heart of the situation. If she had been in the least little bit disturbed, who could tell what it would mean to Frank? For Frank, as he knew perfectly well, had a very deep heart indeed, and had enshrined Jenny in the middle of it. Any wavering or hesitation on her part would have meant misery to his friend. But now all was perfectly right, he reflected; and really, after all, it did not matter very much what Lord Talgarth said or did. Frank was a free agent; he was very capable and very lovable; it couldn't possibly be long before something turned up, and then, with Jenny's own money the two could manage very well. And Lord Talgarth could not live for ever; and Archie would do the right thing, even if his father didn't.
It was after half-past four before he looked up at a glint of white and saw Jenny standing at the drawing-room window. She stood there an instant with a letter in her hand; then she stepped over the low sill and came towards him across the grass, serene and dignified and graceful. Her head was bare again, and the great coils of her hair flashed suddenly as they caught a long horizontal ray from the west.
"Here it is," she said. "Will you direct it? I've told him everything."
Jack nodded.
"That's excellent!" he said. "It shall go to-night."
He glanced up at her and saw her looking at him with just the faintest wistfulness. He understood perfectly, he said to himself: she was still a little unhappy at not being allowed to send the letter herself. What a good girl she was!
"Have some tea before you go?" she said.
"Thanks. I'd better not. They'll be wondering what's happened to me."
As he shook hands he tried to put something of his sympathy into his look. He knew exactly how she was feeling, and he thought her splendidly brave. But she hardly met his eyes, and again he felt he knew why.
As he opened the garden gate beyond the house he turned once more to wave. But she was busy with the tea-things, and a black figure was advancing briskly upon her from the direction of the study end of the house.
Life had been a little difficult for the Major for the last fortnight or so. Not only was Frank's material and moral support lacking to him, but the calls upon him, owing to Gertie's extreme unreasonableness, had considerably increased. He had explained to her, over and over again, with a rising intensity each time, how unselfishly he had acted throughout, how his sole thought had been for her in his recent course of action. It would never have done, he explained pacifically, for a young man like Frank to have the responsibility of a young girl like Gertie on his hands, while he (the Major) was spending a fortnight elsewhere. And, in fact, even on the most economical grounds he had acted for the best, since it had been himself who had been charged in the matter of the tin of salmon, it would not have been a fortnight, but more like two months, during which the little community would have been deprived of his labor. He reminded her that Frank had had a clean record up to that time with the police....
But explanation had been fruitless. Gertie had even threatened a revelation of the facts of the case at the nearest police-station, and the Major had been forced to more manly tactics with her. He had not used a stick; his hands had served him very well, and in the course of his argument he had made a few insincere remarks on the mutual relations of Frank and Gertie that the girl remembered.
He had obtained a frugal little lodging in one of the small streets of York, down by the river—indeed looking straight on to it; and, for a wonder, five days' regular work at the unloading of a string of barges. The five days expired on the Saturday before Frank was expected, but he had several shillings in hand on the Sunday morning when Frank's letter arrived, announcing that he hoped to be with them again on Sunday night or Monday morning. Two letters, also, had arrived for his friend on the Sunday morning—one in a feminine handwriting and re-directed, with an old postmark of June, as well as one of the day before—he had held it up to the light and crackled it between his fingers, of course, upon receiving it—and the other an obvious bill—one postmark was Cambridge and the other Barham. He decided to keep them both intact. Besides, Gertie had been present at their delivery.
The Major spent, on the whole, an enjoyable Sunday. He lay in bed till a little after twelve o'clock, with a second-hand copy of the Sporting Times, and a tin of tobacco beside him. They dined at about one o'clock, and he managed to get a little spirit to drink with his meal. He had walked out—not very far—with Gertie in the afternoon, and had managed by representing himself as having walked seven miles—he was determined not to risk anything by foolishly cutting it too fine—to obtain a little more. They had tea about six, and ate, each of them, a kippered herring and some watercress. Then about seven o'clock Frank suddenly walked in and sat down.
"Give me something to eat and drink," he said.
He looked, indeed, extraordinarily strained and tired, and sat back on the upturned box by the fireplace as if in exhaustion. He explained presently when Gertie had cooked another herring, and he had drunk a slop-basinful of tea, that he had walked fasting since breakfast, but he said nothing about the priest. The Major with an air of great preciseness measured out half a finger of whisky and insisted, with the air of a paternal doctor, upon his drinking it immediately.
"And now a cigarette, for God's sake," said Frank. "By the way, I've got some work for to-morrow."
"That's first-rate, my boy," said the Major. "I've been working myself this week."
Frank produced his fourpence and laid it on the corner of the table.
"That's for supper and bed to-night," he said.
"Nonsense, my boy; put it back in your pocket."
"Kindly take that fourpence," remarked Frank. "You can add some breakfast to-morrow, if you like."
He related his adventures presently—always excepting the priest—and described how he had met a man at the gate of a builder's yard this evening as he came through York, who had promised him a day's job, and if things were satisfactory, more to follow.
"He seemed a decent chap," said Frank.
The Major and Gertie had not much to relate. They had left the market-town immediately after Frank's little matter in the magistrates' court, and had done pretty well, arriving in York ten days ago. They hardly referred to Frank's detention, though he saw Gertie looking at him once or twice in a curiously shy kind of way, and understood what was in her mind. But for very decency's sake the Major had finally to say something.
"By the way, my boy, I won't forget what you did for me and for my little woman here. I'm not a man of many words, but—"
"Oh! that's all right," said Frank sleepily. "You'll do as much for me one day."
The Major assented with fervor and moist eyes. It was not till Frank stood up to go to bed that anyone remembered the letters.
"By the way, there are two letters come for you," said the Major, hunting in the drawer of the table. Frank's bearing changed. He whisked round in an instant.
"Where are they?"
They were put into his hand. He looked at them carefully, trying to make out the postmark—turned them upside down and round, but he made no motion to open them.
"Where am I to sleep?" he said suddenly. "And can you spare a bit of candle?"
(And as he went upstairs, it must have been just about the time that the letter-box at Barham was cleared for the late Sunday post.)
Frank lay a long time awake in the dark that night, holding tight in his hand Jenny's letter, written to him in June. The bill he had not even troubled to open.
For the letter said exactly and perfectly just all those things which he most wished to hear, in the manner in which he wished to hear them. It laughed at him gently and kindly; it called him an extraordinarily silly boy; it said that his leaving Cambridge, and, above all, his manner of leaving it—Frank had added a postscript describing his adventure with the saddle and the policeman—were precisely what the writer would have expected of him; it made delightful and humorous reflections upon the need of Frank's turning over a new leaf—there was quite a page of good advice; and finally it gave him a charming description—just not over the line of due respect—of his father's manner of receiving the news, with extracts from some of the choicest remarks made upon that notable occasion. It occupied four closely-written pages, and if there were, running underneath it all, just the faintest taint of strain and anxiety, loyally concealed—well—that made the letter no less pleasant.
I have not said a great deal about what Jenny meant to Frank, just because he said so very little about her himself. She was, in fact, almost the only element in his variegated life upon which he had not been in the habit of pouring out torrential comments and reflections. His father and Archie were not at all spared in his conversation with his most intimate friends; in fact, he had been known, more than once, in a very select circle at Cambridge, to have conducted imaginary dialogues between those two on himself as their subject, and he could imitate with remarkable fidelity his Cousin Dick over a billiard-table. But he practically never mentioned Jenny; he had not even a photograph of her on his mantelpiece. And it very soon became known among his friends, when the news of his engagement leaked out through Jack, that it was not to be spoken of in his presence. He had preserved the same reticence, it may be remembered, about his religion.
And so Frank at last fell asleep on a little iron bedstead, just remembering that it was quite possible he might have another letter from her to-morrow, if Jack had performed his commission immediately. But he hardly expected to hear till Tuesday.
Gertie was up soon after five next morning to get breakfast for her men, since the Major had announced that he would go with Frank to see whether possibly there might not be a job for him too; and as soon as they had gone, very properly went to sleep again on the bed in the sitting-room.
Gertie had a strenuous time of it, in spite of the Major's frequently expressed opinion that women had no idea what work was. For, first, there was the almost unending labor of providing food and cooking it as well as possible; there was almost a standing engagement of mending and washing clothes; there were numerous arguments to be conducted, on terms of comparative equality, if possible, with landladies or farmers' wives—Gertie always wore a brass wedding-ring and showed it sometimes a little ostentatiously; and, finally, when the company was on the march, it was only fair that she should carry the heavier half of the luggage, in order to compensate for her life of luxury and ease at other times. Gertie, then, was usually dog-tired, and slept whenever she could get a chance.
It was nearly eight o'clock before she was awakened again by sharp knocking on her door; and on opening it, found the landlady' standing there, examining a letter with great attention. (It had already been held up to the light against the kitchen window.)
"For one of your folks, isn't it, Mrs.—er—" Gertie took it. It was written on excellent paper, and directed in a man's handwriting to Mr. Gregory:
"Thank you, Mrs.—er—" said Gertie.
Then she went back into her room, put the letter carefully away in the drawer of the table and set about her household business.
About eleven o'clock she stepped out for a little refreshment. She had, of course, a small private exchequer of her own, amounting usually to only a few pence, of which the Major knew nothing. This did not strike her as at all unfair; she only wondered gently sometimes at masculine innocence in not recognizing that such an arrangement was perfectly certain. She got into conversation with some elder ladies, who also had stepped out for refreshment, and had occasion, at a certain point, to lay her wedding-ring on the bar-counter for exhibition. So it was not until a little after twelve that she remembered the time and fled. She was not expecting her men home to dinner; in fact, she had wrapped up provisions for them in fragments of the Major'sSporting Timesbefore they had left; but it was safer to be at home. One never knew.
As she came into the room, for an instant her heart leaped into her mouth, but it was only Frank.
"Whatever's the matter?" she said.
"Turned off," said Frank shortly. He was sitting gloomily at the table with his hands in his pockets.
"Turned off?"
He nodded.
"What's up?"
"'Tecs," said Frank.
Gertie's mouth opened a little.
"One of them saw me going in and wired for instructions. He had seen the case in the police-news and thought I answered to the description. Then he came back at eleven and told the governor."
"And—"
"Yes."
There was a pause.
"And George?"
"Oh! he's all right," said Frank a little bitterly. "There's nothing against him. Got any dinner, Gertie? I can't pay for it ... oh, yes, I can; here's half a day." (He chucked ninepence upon the table; the sixpence rolled off again, but he made no movement to pick it up.)
Gertie looked at him a moment.
"Well—" she began emphatically, then she stooped to pick up the sixpence.
Frank sighed.
"Oh! don't begin all that—there's a good girl. I've said it all myself—quite adequately, I assure you."
Gertie's mouth opened again. She laid the sixpence on the table.
"I mean, there's nothing to be said," explained Frank. "The point is—what's to be done?"
Gertie had no suggestions. She began to scrape out the frying-pan in which the herrings had been cooked last night.
"There's a letter for you," she said suddenly.
Frank sat up.
"Where?"
"In the drawer there—by your hand. Frankie...."
Frank tore at the handle and it came off. He uttered a short exclamation. Then, with infinite craft he fitted the handle in again, wrapped in yet one more scrap of theSporting Times, and drew out the drawer. His face fell abruptly as he saw the handwriting.
"That can wait," he muttered, and chucked the letter face downwards on to the table.
"Frankie," said the girl again, still intent on her frying-pan.
"Well?"
"It's all my fault," she said in a low voice.
"Your fault! How do you make that out?"
"If it hadn't been for me, you wouldn't have taken the tin from George, and...."
"Oh, Lord!" said Frank, "if we once begin on that!... And if it hadn't been for George, he wouldn't have taken the tin; and if it hadn't been for Maggie Cooper, there wouldn't have been the tin; and if it hadn't been for Maggie's father's sister, she wouldn't have gone out with it. It's all Maggie's father's sister's fault, my dear! It's nothing to do with you."
The words were brisk enough, but the manner was very heavy. It was like repeating a lesson learned in childhood.
"That's all right," began Gertie again, "but—"
"My dear girl, I shall be annoyed if you go back to all that. Why can't you let it alone? The point is, What's to happen? I can't go on sponging on you and the Major."
Gertie flushed under her tan.
"If you ever leave us," she said, "I'll—"
"Well?"
"I'll ... I'll never leave George."
Frank was puzzled for a moment. It seemed anon sequitur.
"Do you mean—"
"I've got me eyes," said Gertie emphatically, "and I know what you're thinking, though you don't say much. And I've been thinking, too."
Frank felt a faint warmth rise in his own heart. "You mean you've been thinking over what I said the other day?"
Gertie bent lower over her frying-pan and scraped harder than ever.
"Do stop that confounded row one second!" shouted Frank.
The noise stopped abruptly. Gertie glanced up and down again. Then she began again, more gently.
"That's better," said Frank.... "Well, I hope you have," he went on paternally. "You're a good girl, Gertie, and you know better. Go on thinking about it, and tell me when you've made up your mind. When'll dinner be ready?"
"Half an hour," said Gertie.
"Well, I'll go out for a bit and look round."
He took up the letter carelessly and went out.
As he passed the window Gertie glanced towards it with the corner of her eye. Then, frying-pan still in hand, she crept up to the angle and watched him go down the quay.
A very convenient barrel was set on the extreme edge of the embankment above the water, with another beside it, and Frank made for this immediately. She saw him sit on one of the barrels and put the letter, still unopened, on the top of the other. Then he fumbled in his pockets a little, and presently a small blue cloud of smoke went upwards like incense. Gertie watched him for an instant, but he did not move again. Then she went back to her frying-pan.
Twenty minutes later dinner was almost ready.
Gertie had spread upon the table, with great care, one of the Major's white pocket-handkerchiefs. He insisted upon those being, not only retained, but washed occasionally, and Gertie understood something of his reasons, since in the corner of each was embroidered a monogram, of which the letters were not "G.T." But she never could make out what they were.
Upon this tablecloth she had placed on one side a black-handled fork with two prongs, and a knife of the same pattern (this was for Frank) and on the other a small pewter tea-spoon and a knife, of which the only handle was a small iron spike from which the wood had fallen away. (This was for herself.) Then there was a tooth-glass for Frank, and a teacup—without a handle, but with a gold flower in the middle of it, to make up—for herself. In the center of the pocket-handkerchief stood a crockery jug, with a mauve design of York Minster, with a thundercloud behind it and a lady and gentleman with a child bowling a hoop in front of it. This was the landlady's property, and was half full of beer. Besides all this, there were two plates, one of a cold blue color, with a portrait of the Prince Consort, whiskers and hat complete, in a small medallion in the center, and the other white, with a representation of the Falls of Lodore. There was no possibility of mistaking any of the subjects treated upon these various pieces of table-ware, since the title of each was neatly printed, in various styles, just below the picture.
Gertie regarded this array with her head on one side. It was not often that they dined in such luxury. She wished she had a flower to put in the center. Then she stirred the contents of the frying-pan with an iron spoon, and went again to the window.
The figure on the barrel had not moved; but even as she looked she saw him put out his hand to the letter. She watched him. She saw him run a finger inside the envelope, and toss the envelope over the edge of the quay. Then she saw him unfold the paper inside and become absorbed.
This would never do. Gertie's idea of a letter was that it occupied at least several minutes to read through; so she went out quickly to the street door to call him in.
She called him, and he did not turn his head, nor even answer.
She called him again.
The letter that Frank read lies, too, with a few other papers, before me as I write.
It runs as follows: