"Above all, beware of the cat."—The Ugly Duckling.
"Here, Val, you're just the man I want! Tell me something to say."
It was a broiling afternoon. The summer term had once more come round, and Jack, with his coat off, was sitting in a shady corner of the schoolroom wrestling with a letter to Queen Mab.
"I write to her nearly every blessed week," he continued, "and the consequence is I've never got anything to say. I've told her how jolly it is to think that in four weeks' time we shall be at Brenlands again; and now I'm stuck, and I can't get any further."
"Have you told her how well you've been doing in cricket this season?"
"No."
"Well, I have; so it doesn't much matter. Look here! Raymond Fosberton's outside, and wants to see you."
"Oh, tell him to go to Bath!" answered Jack, making another stab at the ink-pot with his pen. "I want to finish this letter."
"No, come along," answered Valentine, laughing. "You must be civil to the fellow; he's been waiting about for nearly a quarter of an hour."
"Do him good," growled the scribe, reluctantly pitching his untidy epistle into a very disorderly desk. "He only comes here to show off. Just because he's in a lawyer's office, he thinks he's a big pot, and all he does is to write copies like a kid in the Lower School."
According to his own opinion, Raymond Fosberton had blossomed out into the full-blown man. He wore a light check suit of the very latest fashion, a rosebud adorned his button-hole, and he tapped the toe of his highly-polished, patent-leather boots with the point of a silver-mounted cane.
"Hallo!" he exclaimed; "what the dickens d'you want to keep a chap waiting so long for? I can tell you my time's more valuable than yours. Look here! I'm sorry I haven't been able to ask you boys to come and see me before, but nearly every night since I've been here I've been engaged. However, I want you to get leave to come and have tea at my rooms on Wednesday, and after that we'll go to the fair. You know what I mean. It's held once a year in a big field on the other side of the town; there are shows, and round-abouts, and all that sort of thing."
"Thanks," answered Valentine, "but I'm afraid we can't go."
"Why not?"
"Because the rule of the school is that no boys are allowed to go to Melchester Fair. Old Westford is awfully strict about it. Two years ago some fellows went, and had a row with one of the showmen, and it got into the papers."
"Oh, rubbish! you can say you're only going out to tea." Valentine shook his head.
"Oh, yes, you can," continued Raymond. "By-the-bye, there's a fellow here called Rosher, isn't there? My guv'nor knows his people, and told me to ask him out sometimes; tell him to come too, if he can."
"We can't do it," answered Valentine decisively; "while the fair's on, Westford won't even give fellows leave to go down into town."
"Nonsense!" answered Raymond contemptuously. "You leave it to me, and I'll manage it all right. Now I must cut back to the office. Ta! ta!"
On Wednesday afternoon the two cousins were preparing to start for the cricket field, when a small boy brought them word that the headmaster wished to see them for a moment in his study.
"What's the row now, I wonder?" said Jack. "'Pon my word, it's so long since I went to the old man's study that I feel quite nervous."
The interview was not of a distressing nature. "I have received a letter from your uncle," began Mr. Westford, "asking for you to be allowed to go and meet him at the station this afternoon at five o'clock. He wishes also to see Rosher, so you can tell him that he may go. Be back, of course, in time for supper."
"I wonder what brings Uncle Fosberton to Melchester," said Valentine to Jack as they walked away together.
"Can't say," returned the other. "I don't want to see him; but I suppose we must go. Let's hunt up Rosher."
A few minutes before five, the three boys entered the booking-office at the railway station.
"I wonder which platform it is!" said Jack. "Hallo! there's Raymond."
The gentleman in question came forward, flourishing his silver-mounted cane.
"Well, my dear nephews," he cried, laughing. "How are you to-day? Did old Westford get my letter all right?"
"What letter?" asked Valentine.
"Why, the letter asking for you to come out."
"But uncle wrote that!"
"Not a bit of it!" answered Raymond triumphantly. "I did it. I had a bit of the manor note-paper, and I sent it to our man to post it from Grenford. Ha! ha! I told you I'd manage the business!"
Rosher chuckled, Jack whistled, but Valentine remained silent.
"Look here, Raymond," said Valentine, after a moment's pause, "I tell you straight, I don't believe in this sort of thing. I'm going back."
"Don't be a fool, man," retorted the other. "You can't go back now, or they'll want to know the reason. Come along to my diggings and have some tea, and I'll bear all the blame."
With some reluctance Valentine agreed to go with the party to his cousin's lodgings. Raymond did not seem on very good terms with his landlady. The tea was a long time coming; and when at length it did make its appearance, the fare consisted only of bread and butter, and a half-empty pot of jam.
"Sorry I can't offer you anything more," remarked the host, "but just now I've run rather short of cash. Better luck next time."
As soon as the meal was over, Raymond repeated his proposal that they should visit the fair.
"It's an awful joke," he said. "I'm going, and you chaps may as well come along too."
"It's all very well for you to go," answered Jack, "but with us it's different. Any one can see by our hat-bands that we belong to the school; and if it gets to Westford's ears that we've been, we shall stand a jolly good chance of being expelled."
"Oh, well! if you're afraid, don't go," answered Raymond, with a sneer. "I thought you were a chap who didn't care for anything. Will you go, Rosher?"
"I don't mind."
"Come on, then; don't let's stick here all the evening."
The four boys put on their hats and sauntered out into the street. Valentine said good-night, and turned off in the direction of the school; but Jack lingered behind with the other two.
"That's right," said Raymond, taking his arm; "I knew you'd come."
The evening was always the gayest part of the day at Melchester Fair. Crowds of people from the town and surrounding neighbourhood jostled each other in the open spaces between the tents and booths, while the noise of bands, steam-organs, and yelling showmen was something terrific.
"I say, have either of you fellows got change for a sovereign?" asked Raymond. "You haven't? well, you pay, and I'll settle up with you some other time."
The boys wandered round the field, listening to the cheap Jacks, and the proprietors of various exhibitions, which were all "just a-goin' to begin." They patronized a shooting-gallery, where they fired down long tubes with little rifles, which made the marksman's hands very black, and seemed to carry round the corner. Jack, however, succeeded in hitting the bull's-eye, and ringing the bell, and was rewarded with a handful of nuts.
"Come on," said Rosher; "let's have a turn on the wooden horses," and the party accordingly moved off in the direction of the nearest round-about. The steeds were three abreast, and Raymond mounted the one on the outside. A little group of factory boys were standing close by, and, just as the engine started, one of them thought fit to enliven the proceedings with a joke.
"Hallo, mister! how much starch d'you put on your weskit?"
"That much!" answered Raymond, snappishly, and leaning outwards in passing he dealt the speaker a sharp cut with his cane.
"Yah! Thatches!" cried the boy, and every time the whirligig brought his assailant into view the shout was repeated.
In the year of grace 1877 some traces still remained of an ancient feud between the school and the boys of the town. The name "Thatches" had been invented by the latter on account of the peculiar pattern of straw hat worn by their adversaries; while the answering taunt always used in those warlike times was, "Hey, Johnny, where's your apron?" a remark which greatly incensed the small sons of toil, who usually wore this garment.
"What have you been doing to those chaps?" asked Jack, as the horses slowed down and the yell was repeated.
"One of them cheeked me, and I hit him with my stick."
"Well, we'd better slip away as soon as this thing stops; we don't want to have a row with them here."
Unfortunately for the three boys, their steeds stopped just opposite the hostile group. Jack pushed through them with an expression of lofty contempt, an example followed by Rosher; but Raymond was stupidly led into a further exchange of incivilities.
"Don't you give me any more of your confounded impudence, you miserable little cads, or I'll give you another taste of this stick."
The "cads" answered with a shout of derisive laughter, and a few more straggling clansmen joining the band, they followed after the three friends, keeping at a safe distance, and repeating their cries of "Yah! Thatches! Hit one yer own size!" and other remarks of a similar nature.
"We can't go on like this," said Jack. "They'll follow us all round the fair. Shall we charge the beggars?"
"No," answered Raymond. "Let's go into the circus, and that'll put them off the track. You fellows pay, and I'll owe it you; I don't want to change my sovereign here."
Rosher paid for three shilling seats, and the trio entered the big circular tent, thus for the time being effectually escaping from the pursuing band of unfriendly natives.
The performance had just commenced, and though the display was by no means brilliant, yet the boys enjoyed it, and soon forgot the existence of everything except clowns, acrobats, and trained horses.
"I say!" exclaimed Rosher suddenly, "d'you know what the time is? It's close on nine o'clock!"
"By jingo!" answered Jack, "we must do a bolt."
"No, don't go," interposed Raymond; "you can't get back in time now, so you may as well stay and see the end. If you'll come round by my lodgings, I'll get my guv'nor to write a letter of excuse."
"I don't want any more of your letters," murmured Jack, "it's too risky. We'd better hook it."
"No, stay; you can't get back in time now, so what's the good of losing part of the performance?"
After some further discussion, Jack and Rosher decided to remain, and so kept their seats until the end of the performance. It was quite dark when they emerged from the tent, and every part of the fair was lit up with flaring paraffin lamps. They had not gone very far when, as ill-luck would have it, a shrill cry of "Hallo! Thatches!" showed that they had been sighted by some small scout of the enemy.
"I've got some coppers left," said Rosher; "let's have a shot at the cocoa-nuts."
They stopped opposite a pitch, and began bowling at the fruit. The first two or three shies were unsuccessful; then Jack knocked down a nut.
"I'm not going to let you beat me!" cried Rosher. "Here; mister, give me some more balls."
A fresh group of town boys were hovering about in the rear, their number being now augmented by one or two of a larger size.
"Yah! Thatch! you can't hit 'em! Come 'ere and let's see that stick you was talking about."
"I say," whispered Raymond to his cousin, "wouldn't it be a lark to pretend to make a good shot, and knock that lamp over." He pointed as he spoke to one of the flaring oil lamps which, fastened to a stake a few feet above the ground, illuminated the line of nuts.
"No, don't do it," answered Jack; but the warning came too late. Raymond threw with all his might, and, as ill-luck would have it, the aim was only too true; the heavy wooden ball hit the lamp a sounding whack, dashed it from its stand, and the next moment the canvas screen at the back of the pitch against which it fell was all in a blaze.
In an instant all was confusion. Quick as thought Raymond turned, and slipped away between the wheels of a caravan which stood close by. The proprietor of the pitch sprang forward and seized Jack by the coat.
"'Ere, you did that," he cried, "and you did it a purpose."
The crowd of juvenile roughs closed in behind.
"Yes, 'e did it," they cried; "'e's the man."
"I didn't do it," retorted the boy. "Leave go!"
Rosher leaned forward, and giving his friend a nudge, uttered the one word,—
"Bolt!"
Jack's blood was up. He wrenched himself free of the man's grasp, and plunged into the little crowd of riff-raff, striking heavy blows to right and left. Rosher did the same; and the enemy, who were nothing but a pack of barking curs, went down like ninepins, falling over one another in their efforts to escape.
The two fugitives rushed on, stumbling over tent-ropes and dodging round the booths and stalls, until they came to the outskirts of the fair. Then they paused to take breath and consider what was to be done next. The glare of the burning canvas and a noise of distant shouting, which could be clearly distinguished above the other babel of sounds, showed the quarter from which they had come.
"Where's Raymond?" cried Jack.
"I don't know," answered Rosher; "we can't wait here, or we shall be collared."
"Didn't you see what became of him? I don't like the thought of leaving the fellow—"
The sentence was never finished; for at that moment two men suddenly appeared from behind a neighbouring stall. One was arrayed in a blue uniform with bright buttons, and his companion was at once recognized by the boys as being the proprietor of the cocoa-nut pitch.
"Here they are!" shouted the latter, catching hold of the policeman's arm; "now we've got 'em!"
"'Here they are! now we've got them!'""'Here they are! now we've got them!'"
"'Here they are! now we've got them!'""'Here they are! now we've got them!'"
Quick as thought the two schoolfellows turned and dashed off at the top of their speed. Beyond the outskirts of the fair all lay in darkness; a high hedge loomed in front of them. Jack scrambled up the bank, crashed through the thorn bushes, and fell heavily to the ground on the other side. In an instant he had regained his feet, and was running for his life with Rosher by his side. In this manner they crossed three fields, stumbling over uneven places in the ground, scratching their hands, and tearing their clothes in the hedges, and at length landed nearly up to their knees in a ditch half-full of mud and water.
"It's no good, Fenleigh, I can't go any further. I'm completely pumped."
Struggling on to a bit of rising ground, the fugitives halted and turned round to listen. The glare of light and noise of the fair had been left some distance behind them, and there were no sounds of pursuit. The night was very dark, and everything in their immediate neighbourhood was quiet and still.
"We must get to the town some other way," said Jack. "Doesn't the road to Hornalby pass somewhere here on the right?"
"I don't know," answered Rosher; "we ought to strike some road or other if we keep going in that direction."
The boys continued their flight, varying their walk by occasionally breaking into a jog-trot. At length they found themselves in a narrow lane; but after wandering down it for nearly half a mile, their further progress was barred by the appearance of a private gate.
"Botheration!" cried Jack, "we've come wrong; this leads to some farm. We shall never get home at this rate."
Retracing their steps the way they had come, the two unfortunate adventurers at length found themselves on the Hornalby road; but when they reached Melchester, and were hurrying down the side street past "Duster's" shop, the cathedral clock struck half-past eleven.
"Oh, my!" said Rosher; "how shall we get in? Everybody will be in bed. We shall have to knock up old Mullins at the lodge."
"No fear," answered Jack. "We must get into Westford's garden, and from there into the quad; then we'll try some of the windows."
The plan was carried out, and a few moments later the two boys were standing in the dark and deserted playground. Jack made a circuit of the buildings on tiptoe, and then returned to his companion.
"All the classroom windows are fast," he said, "but there's one on the first landing belonging to the bathroom that's open. What we must do is this. Under the bench in the workshop is that ladder thing that Preston and I made last year. We must fetch it, and you must hold it while I get up to the window. Then you must put the ladder back, and I'll creep down and let you in at the side door. The workshop's locked, but luckily I've got the key in my pocket!"
The scheme was successful, and ten minutes later the two wanderers were creeping up the main staircase. Rosher had a private bedroom; and Jack, moving softly, and undressing in the dark, managed to get into bed without awakening any of the other boys in his dormitory.
"One of the little boys took up the tin soldier and threw him into the stove."—The Brave Tin Soldier.
"Hallo, Fenleigh! You were back precious late last night," said Walker, the Sixth Form boy in charge of the dormitory.
"Yes," answered the other carelessly. "I had leave to go out to tea."
The reply seemed to satisfy Walker; but there was one person in the room to whom Jack knew he would have to make a full confession. While dressing he avoided Valentine's questioning glances, but after breakfast he was forced to give his cousin a full account of all that had happened. A dark frown settled on the latter's face as he listened to the recital, which he several times interrupted with impatient ejaculations.
"I knew you'd be in a wax with me," concluded Jack, with an air of defiance; "but it can't be helped now. You'll never make a saint of me, Val, old chap, so don't let's quarrel."
"It's not you that I'm angry with," answered Valentine wrathfully, "it's that beast of a Raymond. It's just his way to get other people into a mess, and leave them to get out of it as best they can. I suppose he never paid up his share of the money you spent?"
"Not he. Never mind, we got out of the bother a lot better than I expected."
Valentine shook his head.
"I hope to goodness you won't be found out," he said anxiously. "If you are, you'll stand a jolly good chance of being expelled."
"Oh, we're safe enough. Don't you fret," answered Jack lightly.—"Hallo, Tinkleby, what's up with you?"
The president of the Fifth Form Literary Society was striding across the gravel, fingering his nippers, as he always did when excited.
"Haven't you heard?" he answered. "Some one's in for a thundering row, I can tell you."
"Why, what do you mean?"
"Why, Mullins says that some man from the fair came this morning, and wanted to see the headmaster. He says one of our fellows was up there last night, kicking up a fine shindy, and set his show on fire; and he means to find out who it is, and summon him for damages. Mullins told him he'd better call again later on, as Westford was at breakfast. My eye! I pity the chap who did it, if it's true, and he's collared."
The clang of the school bell ended the conversation, and Tinkleby rushed off to impart his news to other classmates.
The distressed look on Valentine's face deepened, but he said nothing.
"Pooh!" exclaimed Jack, sticking his hands in his pockets, and making the gravel fly with a vicious kick. "Let him come and say what he likes. What do I care?"
The school had reassembled after the usual interval, and the Sixth Form were sitting in their classroom waiting for the arrival of the headmaster. A quarter of an hour passed, and still he did not arrive. At length the door opened, and Mullins poked his head inside.
"Mr. Westford wants to see all those gentlemen who are in charge of the different dormitories—now, at once, in his study."
A murmur of surprise followed the announcement, as the boys indicated rose to their feet and prepared to obey the summons. On entering the study they found a shabby-looking man standing just inside the door, who eyed them all narrowly as they came in. The headmaster sat at his writing-table looking stern and troubled. The twelve prefects arranged themselves in a semicircle, and stood silently waiting and wondering what could have happened.
"You say this took place about a quarter past ten?"
"Yes, sir," answered the man, twirling his hat with his fingers. "As near as I can say, it must have been about a quarter a'ter ten."
"I have sent for you," continued Mr. Westford, turning to the group of senior scholars, "to know if any of the boys were absent from any of the dormitories at the usual bed-time."
"One was absent from Number Five, sir," said Walker.
"Who?"
"Fenleigh J., sir."
"Why didn't you report him? What time did he return?"
"I don't know, sir. I was asleep when he came back. He said he'd had leave to go out to tea."
"Was any one else absent from any of the rooms? Very well. You may go. Redbrook, send Fenleigh J. to me at once."
A minute or so later the culprit entered the room.
"That's the young feller I want!" exclaimed the stranger. "I could tell him anywheres in a moment."
"Fenleigh, were you at the fair last night?"
"Yes, sir."
"What were you doing there? You know my orders?"
The boy was silent.
"I can tell you what he was doing," interrupted the man. "He knocked over one of my lamps and set my screen afire; and a'ter that he started fightin', and I was obliged to fetch a p'liceman. But there was two of 'em, this one and another."
"Did this really happen, Fenleigh?"
"Yes, sir."
"Who else was with you?"
"My cousin, Raymond Fosberton. It was he who knocked over the lamp."
"That's a lie!" interrupted the man. "It was you done it. I seed you with my own eyes."
"I don't think I need detain you any longer," said Mr. Westford, turning to the owner of the cocoa-nuts. "I need hardly say I regret that one of my scholars should be capable of such conduct. I shall make some further inquiries, and if you will call again this evening, whatever damage has been done shall be made good."
The man knuckled his forehead and withdrew. Jack was left alone with his judge, and felt that the case was ended.
"Now, sir," said the latter, in a cold, rasping tone, "you have succeeded in bringing public disgrace on the school, and I hope you are satisfied. Go to the little music-room, and remain there for the present."
There was something ominous in the brevity of this reprimand. No punishment had been mentioned, but in the school traditions the little music-room was looked upon as a sort of condemned cell. Every one knew the subsequent fate of boys who had been sent there on previous occasions; and in a short time the news was in everybody's mouth that Fenleigh J. was going to be expelled. It was a grave offence to hold any communication with a person undergoing solitary confinement, yet, before Jack had been very long a prisoner, a pebble hit the window, and looking out he saw Rosher.
"I say," began the latter dolefully, "I'm awfully sorry you've been found out. If you like, I'll go and tell Westford I was with you."
"Of course you won't. What's the good?"
"Well, I thought perhaps you'd think I was a sneak if I didn't. I'm afraid you'll get the sack," continued Rosher sadly. "It was awfully good of you, Fenleigh, not to split; you always were a brick. I say, we were rather chummy when you first came, if you remember; and then we had a bit of a row. I suppose it don't matter now. If you like, I'll write you when you get home."
It was something, at such an hour, to have the sympathy and friendship even of a scapegrace like Rosher. The prisoner said "it didn't matter," and so they parted.
For some time Jack wandered round the little room, swinging the blind cords, and trifling with the broken-down metronome on the mantelpiece. It was this very instrument that had been upset when he sent Rosher sprawling into the fireplace; and yet, here was the same fellow talking about keeping up a correspondence. A litter of torn music lay on the top of the piano; among it a tattered hymn-book. Jack turned over the pages until he came to "Hark, hark, my soul!" and then, sitting down, played the air through several times with one finger. It was a tune that had been popular on Sunday evenings at Brenlands, and the children had always called it Queen Mab's hymn.
Jack shut the book with a bang. In less than a fortnight's time he ought to have been with her again, and what would she think of him now?
Dinner was over in the big hall, and most of the boys had started for the playing-field. Mr. Ward sat correcting exercises in the deserted Fifth Form classroom, when there was a knock at the door, and Valentine entered.
"Well, Fenleigh," said the master kindly, "what do you want?"
"I came to speak to you, sir, about my cousin Jack. Don't you think there's any chance of getting Mr. Westford to let him off?"
"I'm afraid there isn't. I don't see what excuse can be offered for your cousin's conduct."
"But there is an excuse, sir," persisted Valentine, his love of honour and justice causing the blood to mount to his cheeks at the recollection of Raymond Fosberton's share in the adventure. "It was not all Jack's fault, and it'll be an awful shame if he's expelled."
Had it been another fellow, Mr. Ward might have pooh-poohed the objection, and sent the speaker about his business; for, it being nearly the end of the term, the master had plenty of work to occupy his attention. He was not given to making favourites among his pupils, but Valentine was a boy who had won his respect; and so he laid down his pen to continue the conversation.
"I still fail to see what can be said on your cousin's behalf. If it was not his fault, who then is to blame?"
Valentine hastily recounted all that had happened on the previous afternoon. He did not hesitate to give a true account of the bogus invitation, and repeated all that Jack had told him as to what had taken place at the fair. Mr. Ward listened patiently till he had heard the whole of the story.
"There certainly is something in what you say," he remarked. "But the fact remains that your cousin went to the fair in defiance of the school rules. There was no reason at all why he should have gone. You say you came back; then why couldn't he have done the same?"
"If I'd thought that my staying away would have made it any the worse for him, I'd have gone to the fair myself," said Valentine desperately.
Mr. Ward smiled.
"Well, what do you want me to do?" he asked. "I don't see that I can be of much service to you in the matter. The only thing I can advise you to do is to go to Mr. Westford, and tell him exactly what you have told me."
"I thought perhaps you might say a word for him too, sir," pleaded the boy. "He's been behaving a lot better lately than he used to do."
"There certainly was some room for improvement," returned the master, laughing. "Well, if you like to come to me again just before school, I'll go with you and speak to Mr. Westford."
The long summer afternoon dragged slowly away. Mullins brought Jack his dinner; and after that had been consumed, he sought to while away the hours of captivity by reading a tattered text-book on harmony, and strumming tunes with one finger on the piano. He wondered whether he would be sent away that evening or the following morning.
At length, just before the second tea-bell rang, the school porter once more appeared, this time to inform the prisoner that the headmaster wished to see him in his study. Mr. Westford sat at his table writing a letter, and received his visitor in grim silence.
"I've sent for you, sir," he said at length, "to tell you that I have been given to understand that you were not altogether to blame for what happened yesterday. There is, however, no excuse for your having set me at defiance by breaking the strict rule I laid down that no boy was to attend the fair. As I have already said, I believe you are not solely responsible for the disgraceful behaviour of which I received a complaint this morning. I shall not, therefore, expel you at once, as I at first intended, but I am writing to your father to inform him that your conduct is so far from satisfactory that I must ask him to remove you at the end of the present term. Until then, remember you are not to go beyond the gates without my permission."
"Well, I've got off better than I expected," said Jack, as he walked up and down the quadrangle, talking matters over with his cousin. "It was jolly good of you, Val, to go and speak up for me to the old man. Ward told me all about it. If it hadn't been for that, I should have been expelled at once. You've always been a good friend to me ever since I came here."
"I'm sorry to think you're going at all," returned the other. "I can't help feeling awfully mad with Raymond."
"Yes," answered Jack, "it wasn't all my fault; but there, it's just my luck. The guv'nor'll be in a fine wax; but I don't care. Only one thing I'm sorry for, and that is that this'll be my last holidays at Brenlands."
"So at last he ran away, frightening the little birds in the hedge as he flew over the palings. 'They are afraid of me, because I am so ugly,' he said. So he closed his eyes, and flew still further."—The Ugly Duckling.
Whatever changes and alterations might take place in the outside world, Brenlands seemed always to remain the same. Coming there again and again for their August holidays, the children grew to think of it as a place blessed with eternal summer, where the flowers and green leaves never faded from one year's end to another, and such a thing as a cold, foggy winter day, with the moisture dripping from the trees, and the slush of slowly melting snow upon the ground, was a thing which could never have been possible, even in the memory of the oldest inhabitant. Better still, the welcome which greeted them on their arrival was always as warm as on previous occasions, and never fell one single degree during the whole of the visit.
In spite of all this, on that glad day when Queen Mab's court gathered once more round her cosy tea-table, Jack was not in his usual spirits, but appeared silent and depressed. The result of Mr. Westford's letter to his father had been a reply to the effect that, as he seemed determined to waste his opportunities at school, it would be decidedly the best thing for him to come home and find some more profitable employment for his time.
When tea was over he strolled out into the garden, and wandered moodily up and down the trim, box-bordered paths. To realize that one has done with school life for ever, that the book, as it were, is closed, and the familiar pages only to be turned again in memory, is enough to make any boy thoughtful; but it was not this exactly that weighed upon Jack's mind. He had grown to love Queen Mab and his cousins; the thought of being different from them became distasteful; and he had entertained some vague notion of turning over a new leaf, and becoming a respectable member of society. Now all his half-formed resolutions had come to the ground like a house of cards, and he was ending up worse than he had begun.
He was standing staring gloomily at the particular pear-tree which marked the scene of his and Valentine's first encounter with Joe Crouch, when his aunt came out and joined him.
"Well, Jack, and so you've left school for good?"
She made no mention of the Melchester fair incident, though Jack himself had sent her all particulars. He wished she would lecture him, for somehow her forbearance in not referring to the subject was worse than a dozen reproofs.
"Yes, aunt, they've thrown me out at last!"
"It will be dreadful when both of you have left Melchester. Valentine tells me that next Easter he expects to be going on to an army coach, to prepare for Sandhurst."
"Yes, I know," answered Jack, petulantly. "I'm always telling him what a lucky dog he is. I wish I had half his chances, and was going into the army, instead of back to that miserable Padbury."
"What does your father mean you to do?"
"Oh, he's got some scheme of sending me into the office of some metal works there. He says it's about all I'm good for, and he hasn't any money to put me in the way of learning a profession. But," added the boy impatiently, "he knows I hate the idea of grubbing away at a desk all day. I want to be a soldier."
"I know you do, and I believe you'd make a good one; but, after all, it would be a sad thing if every one devoted themselves to learning to fight. Besides, we can't afford to let all our gallants go to the wars; we want some to stay behind and do brave things in their daily life at home."
"Well, I'm not going to rust all my life in an office," answered Jack doggedly. "Rather than do that, I'll go off somewhere and enlist."
Queen Mab looked down and smiled. They were walking together arm in arm, and he was fumbling with the little bunch of trinkets on her watch chain.
"Do you recollect who gave me that little silver locket?"
"Yes," he answered, with a pouting smile.
"Well, then, please to remember that you are always going to be my own boy, and so don't talk any more about such things as running away and enlisting."
"Yes, but what am I to do? Look at the difference between my chances and Val's."
"I think that a man's success often depends more on himself, and less on circumstances, than you imagine," she answered. "'To be born in a duck's nest, in a farmyard, is of no consequence to a bird if it is hatched from a swan's egg.' That's what the story says that I used to tell the children."
Jack laughed, and shook his head. He was far from being convinced of the truth of this statement.
A few mornings later the usual harmony of the breakfast-table was disturbed by the arrival of a letter from Raymond Fosberton.
"He writes," said Miss Fenleigh, "to say that his father and mother are going away on a visit, and so he wants to come here for a few days."
The announcement was received with a chorus of groans.
"I wonder he has the cheek to come, after the way he treated us at Melchester," said Valentine; "I never wish to see him again."
Raymond did come, however, and instead of being at all abashed at the recollection of the termination of his tea-party, he was, if anything, more uppish than ever. It was only natural that he should make some reference to their adventure at the fair, and this he did by blaming Jack for not having made good his escape.
"Why didn't you run for it sooner, you duffer? You stood still there like a stuffed monkey, and wouldn't move till the man collared you."
"And you ran so far and so fast," retorted Jack, "that you couldn't get back to own up it was your doing, and save me from being expelled."
"Oh, go on! it isn't so bad as that," answered Raymond airily. "You ought to be jolly glad you're going to get out of that place. It's no good quarrelling over spilt milk.—Look here, will either of you do a chap a friendly turn? Can you lend me some money? I want a pound or two rather badly. Of course, I'd have got it from home, only the guv'nor's away."
Jack and Valentine shook their heads.
"Well, I wish you could," continued the other. "I'd give you a shilling in the pound interest, and pay you back for certain at the end of next month."
"I wonder how it is," said Jack to Valentine that evening as they were undressing, "that Raymond's always wanting money, and never seems to have any. His people are rich enough, and I should think they make him a good allowance."
"Of course they do," answered Valentine, "but he throws it away somehow; and he's the most selfish fellow in the world, and never spends a halfpenny on any one but himself."
Raymond was certainly no great addition to the party at Brenlands. His manners, one could well imagine, resembled those of the ferocious animal in the Fosberton crest, which capered on a sugar-stick with its tongue stuck out of its mouth, as though it were making faces at the world in general. He monopolized the conversation at table, voted croquet a bore, and spent most of his time lying under a tree smoking and reading a novel. He fell foul of Joe Crouch (who still came to do odd jobs in the garden) over some trifling matter, calling him an impudent blockhead, and telling Miss Fenleigh in a lofty manner that "he would never allow such a cheeky beggar to be hanging about the premises at Grenford."
"I am sick of the fellow," said Valentine to Helen that same evening. "I wish he wouldn't come here during the holidays; it spoils the whole thing."
On the following day Raymond was destined to give his cousins still more reason for wishing that he had not favoured Brenlands with a visit. At dinner he was full of a project for borrowing a gun, and having some target practice in the garden.
"I know a man living not far away who's got a nice, little, single-barrelled muzzle-loader. We might borrow it, and make some bullets, then stick up a piece of board against that hedge at the end of the long path, and have a regular shooting match."
"Oh, I don't want any guns here!" said Queen Mab. "I should be afraid that one of you might get hurt. You'd far better stick to your croquet."
"Yes," added Valentine. "It would be precious risky work firing bullets about in this garden with a muzzle-loader."
"Pooh! you're a nice chap to think of being a soldier, if you're afraid of letting off a gun!"
"Val knows a lot more about guns than you do," broke in Jack. "I suppose you think a thorn hedge and a bit of board would stop a bullet, you duffer!"
Raymond lost his temper, and the discussion was carried on in a manner which was more spirited than polite.
"Come, come," interposed Queen Mab, "I think we might change the subject. I'm sure Raymond won't want to borrow the gun if he knows it would make me nervous."
The meal was finished in silence. Anything so near a quarrel had never been known before at Brenlands, and proved very disturbing in what was usually such a peaceful atmosphere.
Jack sauntered out into the garden in no very tranquil frame of mind. Joe Crouch was there, weeding. They had always been good friends ever since the pear incident, and something in Jack's mode of action on that occasion seemed to have gained for him an abiding corner in Crouch's respect and affections.
"Well, Joe, what's the news?"
"Nothing particular that I knows of, sir, but there—there was somethin' I had to tell you; somethin' about this 'ere young bloke who comes orderin' every one around, as if the place was his own."
"What's that?"
"Why, I'll tell you," continued Crouch, lowering his voice in a significant manner. "You remember, sir, you was askin' me this time last year about a man called Hanks, who'd come up to you wantin' money, and you didn't know 'ow he'd got to know you. Well, he's in jail now for stealing fowls; but I seen him a month or so back, and got to know all about the whole business."
The speaker paused to increase the interest of his story.
"Well, what was it?"
"D'you remember, sir, about two years agone you and Master Valentine and the young ladies went up the river to a place called Starncliff? Well, Hanks said he saw you there, and that you set some one's rick afire. He wasn't sure which of you done it, but he had a word with Master Fosberton as you was comin' 'ome, and he told him it was you two had been smokin', but that you were his cousins, and he didn't want to get you into a row; so he said he'd give Hanks five shillings to hold his tongue, and promised he'd speak to you, and between you you'd make it up to something more, and that's why Hanks was always botherin' of you for money."
Jack's wrath, which had been quickly rising to boiling point during the recital of this narrative, now fairly bubbled over.
"What a lie!" he exclaimed. "What a mean cad the fellow is! Why, he set the rick on fire himself!"
"I just thought as much," said Joe.
"Yes, and that's not all. He knew we got into a row at school through the man talking to us; and then last summer, when the man was drunk, and met us in the road, he pretended he couldn't tell how it was the fellow knew our names!"
"Well, 'ere he is," interrupted Joe Crouch; "and if I was you, I'd just give him a bit of my mind!"
Raymond came sauntering across the lawn.
"I say," he exclaimed, "what a place this is! Fancy not being allowed to let off a gun. It's just what you might have expected from an old maid like Aunt Mabel, but I should have thought Valentine would have had more pluck. A fine sort of soldier he'll make—the milksop!"
Raymond Fosberton had for some time been running up an account in his cousin's bad books. This speech was the final entry, and caused Jack to demand an immediate settlement.
"Look here," he began, trembling with indignation, "don't you speak like that to me about Aunt Mab or Valentine, He's got a jolly sight more pluck than you have, you coward! If you want to begin calling names, I'll tell you yours—you're a liar and a sneak!"
"What d'you mean?"
"I mean what I say. I know all your little game, and it's no good your trying to keep it dark any longer. You told Hanks that Val and I had set that rick on fire, and so got us into a row through the man's speaking to us at Melchester. And last year, when we met him, you made out you didn't know why he should be always pestering us for money."
Raymond's face turned pale, but he made no attempt to deny the accusation.
"That was one of your cowardly tricks. Another was when you ran away after knocking that lamp over at the fair, the other day, and left Rosher and me to get out of the bother as best we could. That was what practically got me thrown out of the school. For two pins I'd punch your head, you miserable tailor's dummy!"
It was hardly likely that a fashionable young man like Master Raymond Fosberton would stand such language from a school-boy two years his junior.
"I should like to see you!" he remarked. "Two can play at that game."
The speaker did not know the person he was addressing; in another moment his request was granted. Jack came at him like a tiger, put all the force of his outraged feelings into a heavy right and left, and Raymond Fosberton disappeared with a great crash into a laurel bush.
Joe Crouch rose from his knees with a joyful exclamation, wiping his hands on his apron. "I should have liked to have had a cut in myself," he afterwards remarked, "but Master Jack he managed it all splendid!"
Whatever Joseph's wishes may have been, he had no opportunity of taking part in the proceedings; for, before the contest could be renewed, Helen rushed across the lawn and caught Jack by the arm.
"Oh, don't fight!" she cried breathlessly. "What is the matter?"
"Ask him!" answered Jack shortly, nodding with his fists still clenched, in the direction of Fosberton, who was in the act of emerging from the depths of the laurel bush. "Ask him, he knows."
"He called me a liar!" answered Fosberton; "and then rushed up and hit me when I was unprepared, the cad!"
This assertion very nearly brought on a renewal of the contest, but the speaker knew that Helen's presence would prevent any more blows being struck. Jack watched his adversary with a look of contempt, as the latter wiped the blood from his cut lip.
"Yes, I said you were a liar and a coward."
"Oh, hush!" said the girl, laying her hand on her cousin's mouth. "Don't quarrel any longer; it's dreadful here, at Brenlands! What would Aunt Mabel say if she knew you'd been fighting? Come away, Jack, and don't say any more."
The boy would have liked to stay behind for another private interview with Raymond, but for Helen's sake he turned on his heel and followed her into the house.
"All right, my boy," muttered Raymond, looking after the retreating figures with a savage scowl on his face, "I'll be even with you some day, if ever I get the chance."
There was a great lack of the usual mirth and gaiety at the tea-table that evening. Every one knew what had happened, and in their anxiety to avoid any reference to the painful subject conversation flagged, and even Queen Mab's attempts to enliven the assembly for once proved a failure. Neither of the boys would have been at all shocked at seeing a row settled by an exchange of blows, had the dispute taken place at school; but here, at Brenlands, it seemed a different matter—bad blood and rough language were out of keeping with the place, and the punching of heads seemed a positive crime.
To make matters worse, the day ended with a thunderstorm, and the evening had to be spent indoors. Raymond was in a sulk, and refused to join in any of the parlour games which were usually resorted to in wet weather.
"Aunt Mab, I wish you'd show us some of your treasures," said Barbara. She was kneeling upon a chair in front of a funny little semicircular cupboard with a glass door, let into the panelling of the wall, and filled with china, little Indian figures, and all kinds of other odds and ends.
"Very well, dear, I will," answered Miss Fenleigh, glad to think of some way of amusing her guests. "Run up and fetch the bunch of keys out of the middle drawer in my dressing-table."
The young people gathered round, and the contents of the cupboard were handed from one to another for examination. The curiosities were many and various. The girls were chiefly taken with the china; while what most appealed to Jack and Valentine was a small Moorish dagger. They carefully examined the blade for any traces of bloodstains, and trying the point against their necks, speculated as to what it must feel like to be "stuck."
"And what's that?" asked Barbara, pointing to a little, square leather case on the bottom shelf.
"Ah! that's the thing I value more than anything else," answered Queen Mab. "There!" she continued, opening the box and displaying a large, handsome gold watch. "That was given to your grandfather by the passengers on his ship at the end of one of his voyages to Australia. They met with dreadful weather, and I know I've heard him say that for two days and nights, when the storm was at its height, he never left the deck. You boys ought to be proud to remember it. There, Valentine, read the inscription."
The boy read the words engraved on the inside of the case:—