Chapter Five.A Stubborn Disposition.“Stop!”Don had taken his hat, and, seeing his uncle apparently immersed in a letter, was about to yield to his curiosity and follow the constable, when, as he reached the door, his uncle’s word thundered out and made him turn and go on with his writing in response to a severe look and a pointing finger.From time to time the boy looked up furtively as he sat, and wondered why his uncle did not say anything more about the money.But the time glided on, and the struggle between his desire to speak out frankly and his indignant wounded pride continued.A dozen times over he was on the point of crossing to the stern-looking old man, and begging him to listen and believe, but Uncle Josiah sat there with the most uncompromising of expressions on his face, and Don dared not speak. He dared not trust himself for very shame, as the incident had so upset him, that he felt sure that he must break down and cry like a child if he attempted to explain.After a time there was the sound of voices talking and laughing, and the click of the heavy latch of the gate. Then through the open windows came the deepburr burrof Jem’s bass, and the shrill inquiring tones of Sally Wimble, as she eagerly questioned her lord.Then there were steps, some of which passed the office door; and Don, as he sat with his head bent over a ledger, knew exactly whose steps those were, and where the makers of those steps were going to the different warehouses in the great yard.Directly after Jem’s foot was heard, and he tapped at the door, pushed it a little way, and waited.“Come in,” said Uncle Josiah, sharply.Jem entered, doffing his cocked hat, and casting a sympathising look at Don, who raised his head. Then seeing that his employer was deeply immersed in the letter he was writing, Jem made a series of gesticulations with his hat, supplemented by some exceedingly queer grimaces, all meant as a kind of silent language, which was very expressive, but quite incomprehensible to Don.“Well?” said Uncle Josiah, sharply.“Beg pardon, sir! Thought you’d like to hear how we got on?”“Well?”“Went pretty quiet, sir, till we got about half-way there, and then he begun kicking like mad—leastways he didn’t kick, because his legs was tied, but he let go all he could, and it was hard work to hold the ladder.”“And he is now safely locked up?”“Yes, sir, and I’ve been thinking, sir, as he must have took that money when Master Don here was up in the warehouse along o’ me.”“I daresay we shall find all out by-and-by, Wimble,” said the old merchant, coldly. “That will do, now.”Jem looked uneasily at Don, as he turned his hat round to make sure which was the right way on, and moved slowly toward the door.“Which, begging your pardon, sir, you don’t think now as—”“Well?” said the old merchant, sharply, for Jem had stopped.“Think as Mrs Wimble picked up any of the money, sir?”“No, no, my man, of course not.”“Thankye, sir, I’m glad of that; and if I might make so bold, sir, about Master Don—”“What do you wish to say, man?”“Oh, nothing, sir, only I’m quite sure, sir, as it was all Mike Bannock’s doing, and—”“I think you had better go on with your work, Wimble, which you do understand, and not meddle with things that are beyond you.”“Certainly, sir, certainly,” said Jem, quickly. “Just going, sir;” and giving Don a sympathetic look, he hurried out, but had hardly closed the door before he opened it again.“Beg pardon, sir, Mrs Lavington, sir, and Miss Kitty.”Don started from his stool, crimson with mortification. His mother! What would Uncle Josiah say?Jem Wimble gave Don another look full of condolence before he closed the door, leaving Mrs Lavington and her niece in the office.Mrs Lavington’s face was full of anxiety and care, as she glanced from her son to her brother and back again, while Kitty’s was as full of indignant reproof as she darted an angry look at Don, and then frowned and looked straight down at the floor.“Well?” said the old merchant, coldly, “why have you come? You know I do not like you to bring Kitty here to the business place.”“I—I heard—” faltered Mrs Lavington, who stood in great awe of her brother when he was in one of his stern moods.“Heard? Well, what did you hear?”“Such terrible news, Josiah.”“Well, well, what?”“Oh, my brother!” she exclaimed, wildly, as she stepped forward and caught his hand, “tell me it is not true.”“How can I tell you what is not true when I don’t know what you are talking about,” cried the old man, impatiently. “My dear Laura, do you think I have not worries enough without your coming here?”“Yes, yes; I know, dear.”“And you ought to know that I shall do what is just and right.”“I am sure of that, Josiah, but I felt obliged to come. Kitty and I were out shopping, and we met a crowd.”“Then you should have turned down a side street.”“But they were your men in the midst, and directly after I saw little Sally Wimble following.”“Oh, she was, was she?” cried the old man, glad of some one on whom to vent his spleen. “That woman goes. How dare she leave the gates when her husband is out? I shall be having the place robbed again.”“Yes, that is what she said, Josiah—that you had been robbed, and that Don—my boy—oh, no, no, no; say it is not true.”Mrs Lavington looked wildly from one to the other, but there was a dead silence, and in a few minutes the poor woman’s manner had entirely changed. When she first spoke it was as the timid, shrinking, affectionate woman; now it was as the mother speaking in defence of her child.“I say it is not true,” she cried. “You undertook to be a father to my poor boy, and now you charge him with having robbed you.”“Laura, be calm,” said the old merchant, quietly; “and you had better take Kitty back home and wait.”“You have always been too stern and harsh with the poor boy,” continued Mrs Lavington, without heeding him. “I was foolish ever to come and trust to you. How dare you charge him with such a crime?”“I did not charge him with any crime, my dear Laura,” said the old merchant, gravely.“Then it is not true?”“It is true that I have been robbed, and that the man whom Lindon has persisted in making his companion, in spite of all I have said to the contrary, has charged him with the base, contemptible crime of robbing the master who trusted him.”“But it is not true, Josiah; and that is what you always do, treat my poor boy as if he were your servant instead of your nephew—your sister’s boy.”“I treat Lindon as if he were my son when we are at home,” said the old man, quietly. “When we are here at the office I treat him as my clerk, and I trust him to look after my interests, and to defend me from dishonest people.”Don looked up, and it was on his lips to say, “Indeed, uncle, I always have done so,” when the old man’s next words seemed to chill and harden him.“But instead of doing his duty by me, I have constantly had to reprove him for making a companion of a man whom I weakly, and against my better judgment, allowed in the yard; and the result is I have been robbed, and this man accuses Lindon of committing the robbery, and bribing him to silence.”“But it is not true, Josiah. My son could not be guilty of such a crime.”“He will have every opportunity of disproving it before the magistrates,” said Uncle Josiah, coldly.“Magistrates!—my boy?” exclaimed Mrs Lavington, wildly. “Oh, no, no, no, brother; you will not proceed to such extremities as these. My boy before the magistrates. Impossible!”“The matter is out of my hands, now,” said the old merchant, gravely. “I was bound to charge that scoundrel labourer with the theft. I could not tell that he would accuse your son of being the principal in the crime.”“But you will stop it now for my sake, dear. Don, my boy, why do you not speak, and beg your uncle’s forgiveness?”Don remained silent, with his brow wrinkled, his chin upon his breast, and a stubborn look of anger in his eyes, as he stood with his hands in his pockets, leaning back against his desk.“Do you hear me, Don? Tell your uncle it is not true, and beg him to help you clear yourself from this disgrace.”The lad made no reply, merely crossing his legs, and made his shoe-buckles rasp together as he slowly moved his feet.“Don!”He looked up strangely, met his mother’s earnest appealing gaze, and for the moment his better nature prevailed; but as he looked from her to his uncle, and saw the old man’s grey eyes fixed upon him searchingly, a feeling of obstinate anger swept over him again, and made him set his teeth, as something seemed to whisper to him, “No; you told the truth, and he would not believe you. Let him prove you guilty if he can!”It was not the first time in history that a boy had stubbornly fought against his better self, and allowed the worst part of his nature to prevail.“Do you not hear me, Don?” cried his mother. “Why do you not speak?”Don remained silent, and Kitty, as she looked at him, angrily uttered an impatient ejaculation.“Don, my son, for my sake speak to your uncle. Do you not hear me?”“Yes, mother.”“Then appeal to him to help you. Ask him to forgive you if you have done wrong.”“And she believes me guilty, too,” thought Don, as he scowled at his feet.“But you have not done wrong, my boy. I, your mother, will not believe it of you.”Don’s better self began to force down that side of his mental scale.“You may have been weak and foolish, Don, but nothing worse.”The evil scale went down now in turn, and with it the foolish, ignorant boy’s heart sank low.“Come, Don.”“I’ve nothing more to say, mother.”“Nothing more to say!” cried Mrs Lavington, wildly. “Oh, yes, yes, you have much to say, my boy. Come, throw away this wilful pride and obstinacy.”“I wish I could,” thought Don one moment. “It is as cruel as it is unjust,” he thought the next; and he felt more obstinately full of pride than ever.“Don, I command you to speak,” said Mrs Lavington, whose manner now began to change; but unfortunately the stern tone she adopted had the wrong effect, and the wrinkles in the boy’s face grew deeper, and the position more strained.If Uncle Josiah, who had never had boys of his own, had come down from the lofty perch he had assumed, taken the boy’s hand, and said in kindly and frank tones, “Come, Don, my boy, there are troubles enough in life, clouds sufficient to obscure too much sunshine; speak out, let’s have all this over, and clear the storm away,”—if he had said something like that, Don would have melted, and all would have been well; but accustomed to manage men with an iron rule, Uncle Josiah had somehow, in spite of his straightforward, manly, and just character, seemed to repel the boy whose charge he had taken, and instead now of making the slightest advance, he said to himself, “It is not my duty to eat humble pie before the obstinate young cub. It will be a severe lesson for him, and will do him good.”So the breach widened. Don seemed to grow sulky and sullen, when he was longing to cast himself upon his mother’s neck. The poor woman felt indignant at her son’s conduct, and the last straw which broke the camel’s back was laid on the top of the load by Kitty, who, moved by a desire to do good, made matters far worse by running across to Don, and in an impetuous way catching his hands and kissing him.“Don, dear!” she cried.The boy’s face lit up. Here was some one who would believe him after all, and he responded to her advances by grasping her hands tightly in his.“Do, do speak, Don dear, and beg father to forgive you,” she cried. “Tell him it was a mistake, and that you will never do so again.”Don let fall her hands, the deep scowl came over his brow again, and he half turned away.“No, no, Don, dear,” she whispered; “pray don’t be obstinate. Confess that you did it, and promise father to do better in the future. He will forgive you; I know he will.”Don turned his back with an impatient gesture, and Kitty burst into tears, and went slowly to her aunt, to whose hands she clung.“Laura, dear,” said Uncle Josiah, gravely, “I think we had better bring this painful interview to an end. You may rest assured that I shall do what is just and right by Don. He shall have every opportunity for clearing himself.”“I am not guilty,” cried Don, fiercely throwing back his head.“I thought so this morning, my boy,” said the old merchant, gravely. “Your conduct now is making me think very differently. Laura, I will walk home with you, if you please.”“Josiah! Don, my boy, pray, pray speak,” cried Mrs Lavington, piteously.Don heard her appeal, and it thrilled him, but his uncle’s words had raised up an obstinacy that was stronger than ever, and while longing to throw himself in his mother’s arms—passionately longing so to do—his indignant pride held him back, and he stood with his head bent, as in obedience to her brother Mrs Lavington took his arm, and allowed him to lead her out of the office, weeping bitterly the while.Don did not look up to meet his mother’s yearning gaze, but for months and years after he seemed to see that look when far away in the midst of peril, and too late he bitterly upbraided himself for his want of frankness and power to subdue his obstinate pride.“He thinks me guilty!” he said to himself, as he stood with his head bent, listening, and unaware of the fact that some one was still in the room, till a light step came towards him, his hand was caught, and his cheek rapidly kissed.“Kitty!”“Coming, father.”Then there was a rapid step, the door closed, and Don stood in the same attitude, listening to the steps on the gravel, and then to the bang of the wicket-gate.Alone with his thoughts, and they were many and strange.What should he do? Go right away, and—and—“Mas’ Don.”He looked up, and Jem stood at the door.
“Stop!”
Don had taken his hat, and, seeing his uncle apparently immersed in a letter, was about to yield to his curiosity and follow the constable, when, as he reached the door, his uncle’s word thundered out and made him turn and go on with his writing in response to a severe look and a pointing finger.
From time to time the boy looked up furtively as he sat, and wondered why his uncle did not say anything more about the money.
But the time glided on, and the struggle between his desire to speak out frankly and his indignant wounded pride continued.
A dozen times over he was on the point of crossing to the stern-looking old man, and begging him to listen and believe, but Uncle Josiah sat there with the most uncompromising of expressions on his face, and Don dared not speak. He dared not trust himself for very shame, as the incident had so upset him, that he felt sure that he must break down and cry like a child if he attempted to explain.
After a time there was the sound of voices talking and laughing, and the click of the heavy latch of the gate. Then through the open windows came the deepburr burrof Jem’s bass, and the shrill inquiring tones of Sally Wimble, as she eagerly questioned her lord.
Then there were steps, some of which passed the office door; and Don, as he sat with his head bent over a ledger, knew exactly whose steps those were, and where the makers of those steps were going to the different warehouses in the great yard.
Directly after Jem’s foot was heard, and he tapped at the door, pushed it a little way, and waited.
“Come in,” said Uncle Josiah, sharply.
Jem entered, doffing his cocked hat, and casting a sympathising look at Don, who raised his head. Then seeing that his employer was deeply immersed in the letter he was writing, Jem made a series of gesticulations with his hat, supplemented by some exceedingly queer grimaces, all meant as a kind of silent language, which was very expressive, but quite incomprehensible to Don.
“Well?” said Uncle Josiah, sharply.
“Beg pardon, sir! Thought you’d like to hear how we got on?”
“Well?”
“Went pretty quiet, sir, till we got about half-way there, and then he begun kicking like mad—leastways he didn’t kick, because his legs was tied, but he let go all he could, and it was hard work to hold the ladder.”
“And he is now safely locked up?”
“Yes, sir, and I’ve been thinking, sir, as he must have took that money when Master Don here was up in the warehouse along o’ me.”
“I daresay we shall find all out by-and-by, Wimble,” said the old merchant, coldly. “That will do, now.”
Jem looked uneasily at Don, as he turned his hat round to make sure which was the right way on, and moved slowly toward the door.
“Which, begging your pardon, sir, you don’t think now as—”
“Well?” said the old merchant, sharply, for Jem had stopped.
“Think as Mrs Wimble picked up any of the money, sir?”
“No, no, my man, of course not.”
“Thankye, sir, I’m glad of that; and if I might make so bold, sir, about Master Don—”
“What do you wish to say, man?”
“Oh, nothing, sir, only I’m quite sure, sir, as it was all Mike Bannock’s doing, and—”
“I think you had better go on with your work, Wimble, which you do understand, and not meddle with things that are beyond you.”
“Certainly, sir, certainly,” said Jem, quickly. “Just going, sir;” and giving Don a sympathetic look, he hurried out, but had hardly closed the door before he opened it again.
“Beg pardon, sir, Mrs Lavington, sir, and Miss Kitty.”
Don started from his stool, crimson with mortification. His mother! What would Uncle Josiah say?
Jem Wimble gave Don another look full of condolence before he closed the door, leaving Mrs Lavington and her niece in the office.
Mrs Lavington’s face was full of anxiety and care, as she glanced from her son to her brother and back again, while Kitty’s was as full of indignant reproof as she darted an angry look at Don, and then frowned and looked straight down at the floor.
“Well?” said the old merchant, coldly, “why have you come? You know I do not like you to bring Kitty here to the business place.”
“I—I heard—” faltered Mrs Lavington, who stood in great awe of her brother when he was in one of his stern moods.
“Heard? Well, what did you hear?”
“Such terrible news, Josiah.”
“Well, well, what?”
“Oh, my brother!” she exclaimed, wildly, as she stepped forward and caught his hand, “tell me it is not true.”
“How can I tell you what is not true when I don’t know what you are talking about,” cried the old man, impatiently. “My dear Laura, do you think I have not worries enough without your coming here?”
“Yes, yes; I know, dear.”
“And you ought to know that I shall do what is just and right.”
“I am sure of that, Josiah, but I felt obliged to come. Kitty and I were out shopping, and we met a crowd.”
“Then you should have turned down a side street.”
“But they were your men in the midst, and directly after I saw little Sally Wimble following.”
“Oh, she was, was she?” cried the old man, glad of some one on whom to vent his spleen. “That woman goes. How dare she leave the gates when her husband is out? I shall be having the place robbed again.”
“Yes, that is what she said, Josiah—that you had been robbed, and that Don—my boy—oh, no, no, no; say it is not true.”
Mrs Lavington looked wildly from one to the other, but there was a dead silence, and in a few minutes the poor woman’s manner had entirely changed. When she first spoke it was as the timid, shrinking, affectionate woman; now it was as the mother speaking in defence of her child.
“I say it is not true,” she cried. “You undertook to be a father to my poor boy, and now you charge him with having robbed you.”
“Laura, be calm,” said the old merchant, quietly; “and you had better take Kitty back home and wait.”
“You have always been too stern and harsh with the poor boy,” continued Mrs Lavington, without heeding him. “I was foolish ever to come and trust to you. How dare you charge him with such a crime?”
“I did not charge him with any crime, my dear Laura,” said the old merchant, gravely.
“Then it is not true?”
“It is true that I have been robbed, and that the man whom Lindon has persisted in making his companion, in spite of all I have said to the contrary, has charged him with the base, contemptible crime of robbing the master who trusted him.”
“But it is not true, Josiah; and that is what you always do, treat my poor boy as if he were your servant instead of your nephew—your sister’s boy.”
“I treat Lindon as if he were my son when we are at home,” said the old man, quietly. “When we are here at the office I treat him as my clerk, and I trust him to look after my interests, and to defend me from dishonest people.”
Don looked up, and it was on his lips to say, “Indeed, uncle, I always have done so,” when the old man’s next words seemed to chill and harden him.
“But instead of doing his duty by me, I have constantly had to reprove him for making a companion of a man whom I weakly, and against my better judgment, allowed in the yard; and the result is I have been robbed, and this man accuses Lindon of committing the robbery, and bribing him to silence.”
“But it is not true, Josiah. My son could not be guilty of such a crime.”
“He will have every opportunity of disproving it before the magistrates,” said Uncle Josiah, coldly.
“Magistrates!—my boy?” exclaimed Mrs Lavington, wildly. “Oh, no, no, no, brother; you will not proceed to such extremities as these. My boy before the magistrates. Impossible!”
“The matter is out of my hands, now,” said the old merchant, gravely. “I was bound to charge that scoundrel labourer with the theft. I could not tell that he would accuse your son of being the principal in the crime.”
“But you will stop it now for my sake, dear. Don, my boy, why do you not speak, and beg your uncle’s forgiveness?”
Don remained silent, with his brow wrinkled, his chin upon his breast, and a stubborn look of anger in his eyes, as he stood with his hands in his pockets, leaning back against his desk.
“Do you hear me, Don? Tell your uncle it is not true, and beg him to help you clear yourself from this disgrace.”
The lad made no reply, merely crossing his legs, and made his shoe-buckles rasp together as he slowly moved his feet.
“Don!”
He looked up strangely, met his mother’s earnest appealing gaze, and for the moment his better nature prevailed; but as he looked from her to his uncle, and saw the old man’s grey eyes fixed upon him searchingly, a feeling of obstinate anger swept over him again, and made him set his teeth, as something seemed to whisper to him, “No; you told the truth, and he would not believe you. Let him prove you guilty if he can!”
It was not the first time in history that a boy had stubbornly fought against his better self, and allowed the worst part of his nature to prevail.
“Do you not hear me, Don?” cried his mother. “Why do you not speak?”
Don remained silent, and Kitty, as she looked at him, angrily uttered an impatient ejaculation.
“Don, my son, for my sake speak to your uncle. Do you not hear me?”
“Yes, mother.”
“Then appeal to him to help you. Ask him to forgive you if you have done wrong.”
“And she believes me guilty, too,” thought Don, as he scowled at his feet.
“But you have not done wrong, my boy. I, your mother, will not believe it of you.”
Don’s better self began to force down that side of his mental scale.
“You may have been weak and foolish, Don, but nothing worse.”
The evil scale went down now in turn, and with it the foolish, ignorant boy’s heart sank low.
“Come, Don.”
“I’ve nothing more to say, mother.”
“Nothing more to say!” cried Mrs Lavington, wildly. “Oh, yes, yes, you have much to say, my boy. Come, throw away this wilful pride and obstinacy.”
“I wish I could,” thought Don one moment. “It is as cruel as it is unjust,” he thought the next; and he felt more obstinately full of pride than ever.
“Don, I command you to speak,” said Mrs Lavington, whose manner now began to change; but unfortunately the stern tone she adopted had the wrong effect, and the wrinkles in the boy’s face grew deeper, and the position more strained.
If Uncle Josiah, who had never had boys of his own, had come down from the lofty perch he had assumed, taken the boy’s hand, and said in kindly and frank tones, “Come, Don, my boy, there are troubles enough in life, clouds sufficient to obscure too much sunshine; speak out, let’s have all this over, and clear the storm away,”—if he had said something like that, Don would have melted, and all would have been well; but accustomed to manage men with an iron rule, Uncle Josiah had somehow, in spite of his straightforward, manly, and just character, seemed to repel the boy whose charge he had taken, and instead now of making the slightest advance, he said to himself, “It is not my duty to eat humble pie before the obstinate young cub. It will be a severe lesson for him, and will do him good.”
So the breach widened. Don seemed to grow sulky and sullen, when he was longing to cast himself upon his mother’s neck. The poor woman felt indignant at her son’s conduct, and the last straw which broke the camel’s back was laid on the top of the load by Kitty, who, moved by a desire to do good, made matters far worse by running across to Don, and in an impetuous way catching his hands and kissing him.
“Don, dear!” she cried.
The boy’s face lit up. Here was some one who would believe him after all, and he responded to her advances by grasping her hands tightly in his.
“Do, do speak, Don dear, and beg father to forgive you,” she cried. “Tell him it was a mistake, and that you will never do so again.”
Don let fall her hands, the deep scowl came over his brow again, and he half turned away.
“No, no, Don, dear,” she whispered; “pray don’t be obstinate. Confess that you did it, and promise father to do better in the future. He will forgive you; I know he will.”
Don turned his back with an impatient gesture, and Kitty burst into tears, and went slowly to her aunt, to whose hands she clung.
“Laura, dear,” said Uncle Josiah, gravely, “I think we had better bring this painful interview to an end. You may rest assured that I shall do what is just and right by Don. He shall have every opportunity for clearing himself.”
“I am not guilty,” cried Don, fiercely throwing back his head.
“I thought so this morning, my boy,” said the old merchant, gravely. “Your conduct now is making me think very differently. Laura, I will walk home with you, if you please.”
“Josiah! Don, my boy, pray, pray speak,” cried Mrs Lavington, piteously.
Don heard her appeal, and it thrilled him, but his uncle’s words had raised up an obstinacy that was stronger than ever, and while longing to throw himself in his mother’s arms—passionately longing so to do—his indignant pride held him back, and he stood with his head bent, as in obedience to her brother Mrs Lavington took his arm, and allowed him to lead her out of the office, weeping bitterly the while.
Don did not look up to meet his mother’s yearning gaze, but for months and years after he seemed to see that look when far away in the midst of peril, and too late he bitterly upbraided himself for his want of frankness and power to subdue his obstinate pride.
“He thinks me guilty!” he said to himself, as he stood with his head bent, listening, and unaware of the fact that some one was still in the room, till a light step came towards him, his hand was caught, and his cheek rapidly kissed.
“Kitty!”
“Coming, father.”
Then there was a rapid step, the door closed, and Don stood in the same attitude, listening to the steps on the gravel, and then to the bang of the wicket-gate.
Alone with his thoughts, and they were many and strange.
What should he do? Go right away, and—and—
“Mas’ Don.”
He looked up, and Jem stood at the door.
Chapter Six.Jem Wimble talks Sense.“May I come in?”Don nodded.“The master’s gone, and took the ladies ’long with him. Why, don’t look like that, my lad. Your uncle don’t think you took the money?”Don nodded.“But your mother don’t, sir?”“Yes, Jem, she believes me guilty too.”“I never did!” cried Jem, excitedly. “But sure-lieMiss Kitty don’t?”“Yes, Jem, they all think I’m a thief. Everybody does,” cried Don, passionately.“No, everybody don’t,” said Jem, fiercely; “so don’t talk like that, Mas’ Don. Why, even I couldn’t ha’ stole that money—me, as is only yard-man, and nothing o’ no consequence t’other day. So if I couldn’t ha’ done it, I’m quite sure as you, as is a young gentleman born and bred, couldn’t.”“But they think I did. Everybody thinks so.”“Tell yer everybody don’t think so,” cried Jem, sharply. “I don’t, and as for them, they’ve all got dust in their eyes, that’s what’s the matter with them, and they can’t see clear. But didn’t you tell ’em as you didn’t?”“Yes, Jem,” said Don, despondently; “at first.”“Then why didn’t you at last, too? Here, cheer up, my lad; it’ll all blow over and be forgotten, same as the row was about that sugar-hogshead as I let them take away. I don’t say shake hands ’cause you’re like master and me only man, but I shakes hands with you in my ’art, my lad, and I says, don’t be down over it.”“You couldn’t shake hands with a thief, you mean, Jem,” said Don, bitterly.“Look here, Mas’ Don, I can’t punch your head because, as aforesaid, you’re young master, and I’m only man; but for that there same what you said just now I hits you in my ’art. Thief indeed! But ah, my lad, it was a pity as you ever let Mike come into the office to tell you his lies about furren parts.”“Yes, Jem, it was.”“When you might ha’ got all he told you out o’ books, and the stories wouldn’t ha’ been quite so black.”“Ah, well, it’s all over now.”“What’s all over?”“My life here, Jem. I shall go right away.”“Go? What?”“Right away. Abroad, I think.”“And what’ll your mother do?”“Forget me, I hope. I always was an unlucky fellow Jem.”“What d’yer mean? Run away?”“Yes, I shall go away.”“Well, that’s clever, that is. Why, that’s just the way to make ’em think you did it. Tshah! You stop like a man and face it out.”“When everybody believes me guilty?”“Don’t be so precious aggrawatin’, my lad,” cried Jem, plaintively. “Don’t I keep on a-telling you that I don’t believe you guilty. Why, I’d just as soon believe that I stole our sugar and sold bundles of tobacco-leaves to the marine store shops.”Don shook his head.“Well, of all the aggrawatin’ chaps I ever did see, you’re ’bout the worst, Mas’ Don. Don’t I tell you it’ll be all right?”“No, Jem, it will not be all right. I shall have to go before the magistrates.”“Well, what of that?”“What of that?” cried Don, passionately. “Why, that scoundrel Mike will keep to his story.”“Let him!” cried Jem, contemptuously. “Why, who’d ever believe him i’ preference to you?”“My uncle—my mother—my cousin.”“Not they, my boy. They don’t believe it. They only think they do. They’re sore just now, while it’s all fresh. To-morrow by this time they will be a-hanging o’ themselves round about your neck, and a-askin’ of your pardon, and kissin’ of you.”“No, Jem, no.”“Well, I don’t mean as your uncle will be kissin’ of you, of course; but he’ll be sorry too, and a-shaking of your hand.”Don shook his head.“There, don’t get wagging your head like a Chinee figger, my lad. Take it like a man.”“It seems that the only thing for me to do, Jem, is to tie up a bundle and take a stick, and go and try my luck somewhere else.”“And you free and independent! Why, what would you say if you was me, tied up and married, and allus getting into trouble at home.”“Not such trouble as this, Jem.”“Not such trouble as this, my lad? Worser ever so much, for you don’t deserve it, and I do, leastwise, my Sally says I do, and I suppose I do for being such a fool as to marry her.”“You ought to be ashamed to talk like that, Jem.”“So ought you, Mas’ Don. I’ve often felt as if I should like to do as you say and run right off, but I don’t do it.”“You have felt like that, Jem?” cried Don, eagerly.“Yes, often, my lad.”“Then let’s go, Jem. Nobody cares for us here. Let’s go right away to one of the beautiful foreign countries Mike told me about, and begin a new life.”“Shall us, Mas’ Don?”“Yes; why not? Get a passage in some ship, and stop where we like. He has told me of dozens of places that must be glorious.”“Then we won’t go,” said Jem, decidedly. “If Mike Bannock says they’re fine spots, don’t you believe him; they’re bad ’uns.”“Then let’s go and select a place for ourselves,” cried Don.“Lor! I do wonder at you, Mas’ Don, wantin’ to leave such a mother as you’ve got, and asking me to leave my wife. Why, what would they do?”“I don’t know,” said Don, sadly. “They care very little for us now. You can do as you like; I shall go.”“Nay, nay, you won’t, my lad.”“Yes, Jem, I think I shall.”“Ah, that’s better! Think about it.”“I should have thought that you’d be glad to come with me, Jem.”“So I should, my lad; but there’s a some’at as they calls dooty as allus seems to have hold on me tight. You wait a bit, and see how things turn out.”“But I shall have to appear before the magistrates, and be called a thief.”“Ah, well, that won’t be pleasant, my lad, of course; but wait.”“Then you wouldn’t go with me, Jem?”“Don’t tempt a man, Mas’ Don, because I should like to go with you, and course I shouldn’t like to go with you, because I shouldn’t like you to go. There, I must get on with my work.”At that very moment came the call of a shrill voice—“Jem!”“There I told you so. She see me come in here, and she’s after me because I haven’t got on with my casks. Oh, how sharp she is!”Jem gave Don an intelligent nod of the head, and moved out, while the lad stood gazing at the opposite window and listened to the sharp voice addressing the foreman of the yard.“Poor Jem! He isn’t happy either!” said Don, sadly, as the voices died away. “We might go right off abroad, and they’d be sorry then and think better of us. I wish I was ten thousand miles away.”He seated himself slowly on his stool, and rested his arms upon the desk, folding them across his chest; and then, looking straight before him at the door, his mental gaze went right through the panels, and he saw silver rivers flowing over golden sands, while trees of the most glorious foliage drooped their branches, and dipped the ends in the glancing water. The bright sun shone overhead; the tendrils and waving grass were gay with blossoms; birds of lovely plumage sang sweetly; and in the distance, on the one hand, fading away into nothingness, were the glorious blue mountains, and away to his right a shimmering sea.Don Lavington had a fertile brain, and on the canvas of his imagination he painted panorama after panorama, all bright and beautiful. There were no clouds, no storms, no noxious creatures, no trials and dangers. All was as he thought it ought to be, and about as different from the reality as could be supposed. But Don did not know that in his youthful ignorance, and as he sat and gazed before him, he asked himself whether he had not better make up his mind to go right away.“Yes, I will go!” he said, excitedly, as he started up in his seat.“No,” he said directly after, as in imagination now he seemed to be gazing into his mother’s reproachful eyes, “it would be too cowardly; I could not go.”
“May I come in?”
Don nodded.
“The master’s gone, and took the ladies ’long with him. Why, don’t look like that, my lad. Your uncle don’t think you took the money?”
Don nodded.
“But your mother don’t, sir?”
“Yes, Jem, she believes me guilty too.”
“I never did!” cried Jem, excitedly. “But sure-lieMiss Kitty don’t?”
“Yes, Jem, they all think I’m a thief. Everybody does,” cried Don, passionately.
“No, everybody don’t,” said Jem, fiercely; “so don’t talk like that, Mas’ Don. Why, even I couldn’t ha’ stole that money—me, as is only yard-man, and nothing o’ no consequence t’other day. So if I couldn’t ha’ done it, I’m quite sure as you, as is a young gentleman born and bred, couldn’t.”
“But they think I did. Everybody thinks so.”
“Tell yer everybody don’t think so,” cried Jem, sharply. “I don’t, and as for them, they’ve all got dust in their eyes, that’s what’s the matter with them, and they can’t see clear. But didn’t you tell ’em as you didn’t?”
“Yes, Jem,” said Don, despondently; “at first.”
“Then why didn’t you at last, too? Here, cheer up, my lad; it’ll all blow over and be forgotten, same as the row was about that sugar-hogshead as I let them take away. I don’t say shake hands ’cause you’re like master and me only man, but I shakes hands with you in my ’art, my lad, and I says, don’t be down over it.”
“You couldn’t shake hands with a thief, you mean, Jem,” said Don, bitterly.
“Look here, Mas’ Don, I can’t punch your head because, as aforesaid, you’re young master, and I’m only man; but for that there same what you said just now I hits you in my ’art. Thief indeed! But ah, my lad, it was a pity as you ever let Mike come into the office to tell you his lies about furren parts.”
“Yes, Jem, it was.”
“When you might ha’ got all he told you out o’ books, and the stories wouldn’t ha’ been quite so black.”
“Ah, well, it’s all over now.”
“What’s all over?”
“My life here, Jem. I shall go right away.”
“Go? What?”
“Right away. Abroad, I think.”
“And what’ll your mother do?”
“Forget me, I hope. I always was an unlucky fellow Jem.”
“What d’yer mean? Run away?”
“Yes, I shall go away.”
“Well, that’s clever, that is. Why, that’s just the way to make ’em think you did it. Tshah! You stop like a man and face it out.”
“When everybody believes me guilty?”
“Don’t be so precious aggrawatin’, my lad,” cried Jem, plaintively. “Don’t I keep on a-telling you that I don’t believe you guilty. Why, I’d just as soon believe that I stole our sugar and sold bundles of tobacco-leaves to the marine store shops.”
Don shook his head.
“Well, of all the aggrawatin’ chaps I ever did see, you’re ’bout the worst, Mas’ Don. Don’t I tell you it’ll be all right?”
“No, Jem, it will not be all right. I shall have to go before the magistrates.”
“Well, what of that?”
“What of that?” cried Don, passionately. “Why, that scoundrel Mike will keep to his story.”
“Let him!” cried Jem, contemptuously. “Why, who’d ever believe him i’ preference to you?”
“My uncle—my mother—my cousin.”
“Not they, my boy. They don’t believe it. They only think they do. They’re sore just now, while it’s all fresh. To-morrow by this time they will be a-hanging o’ themselves round about your neck, and a-askin’ of your pardon, and kissin’ of you.”
“No, Jem, no.”
“Well, I don’t mean as your uncle will be kissin’ of you, of course; but he’ll be sorry too, and a-shaking of your hand.”
Don shook his head.
“There, don’t get wagging your head like a Chinee figger, my lad. Take it like a man.”
“It seems that the only thing for me to do, Jem, is to tie up a bundle and take a stick, and go and try my luck somewhere else.”
“And you free and independent! Why, what would you say if you was me, tied up and married, and allus getting into trouble at home.”
“Not such trouble as this, Jem.”
“Not such trouble as this, my lad? Worser ever so much, for you don’t deserve it, and I do, leastwise, my Sally says I do, and I suppose I do for being such a fool as to marry her.”
“You ought to be ashamed to talk like that, Jem.”
“So ought you, Mas’ Don. I’ve often felt as if I should like to do as you say and run right off, but I don’t do it.”
“You have felt like that, Jem?” cried Don, eagerly.
“Yes, often, my lad.”
“Then let’s go, Jem. Nobody cares for us here. Let’s go right away to one of the beautiful foreign countries Mike told me about, and begin a new life.”
“Shall us, Mas’ Don?”
“Yes; why not? Get a passage in some ship, and stop where we like. He has told me of dozens of places that must be glorious.”
“Then we won’t go,” said Jem, decidedly. “If Mike Bannock says they’re fine spots, don’t you believe him; they’re bad ’uns.”
“Then let’s go and select a place for ourselves,” cried Don.
“Lor! I do wonder at you, Mas’ Don, wantin’ to leave such a mother as you’ve got, and asking me to leave my wife. Why, what would they do?”
“I don’t know,” said Don, sadly. “They care very little for us now. You can do as you like; I shall go.”
“Nay, nay, you won’t, my lad.”
“Yes, Jem, I think I shall.”
“Ah, that’s better! Think about it.”
“I should have thought that you’d be glad to come with me, Jem.”
“So I should, my lad; but there’s a some’at as they calls dooty as allus seems to have hold on me tight. You wait a bit, and see how things turn out.”
“But I shall have to appear before the magistrates, and be called a thief.”
“Ah, well, that won’t be pleasant, my lad, of course; but wait.”
“Then you wouldn’t go with me, Jem?”
“Don’t tempt a man, Mas’ Don, because I should like to go with you, and course I shouldn’t like to go with you, because I shouldn’t like you to go. There, I must get on with my work.”
At that very moment came the call of a shrill voice—
“Jem!”
“There I told you so. She see me come in here, and she’s after me because I haven’t got on with my casks. Oh, how sharp she is!”
Jem gave Don an intelligent nod of the head, and moved out, while the lad stood gazing at the opposite window and listened to the sharp voice addressing the foreman of the yard.
“Poor Jem! He isn’t happy either!” said Don, sadly, as the voices died away. “We might go right off abroad, and they’d be sorry then and think better of us. I wish I was ten thousand miles away.”
He seated himself slowly on his stool, and rested his arms upon the desk, folding them across his chest; and then, looking straight before him at the door, his mental gaze went right through the panels, and he saw silver rivers flowing over golden sands, while trees of the most glorious foliage drooped their branches, and dipped the ends in the glancing water. The bright sun shone overhead; the tendrils and waving grass were gay with blossoms; birds of lovely plumage sang sweetly; and in the distance, on the one hand, fading away into nothingness, were the glorious blue mountains, and away to his right a shimmering sea.
Don Lavington had a fertile brain, and on the canvas of his imagination he painted panorama after panorama, all bright and beautiful. There were no clouds, no storms, no noxious creatures, no trials and dangers. All was as he thought it ought to be, and about as different from the reality as could be supposed. But Don did not know that in his youthful ignorance, and as he sat and gazed before him, he asked himself whether he had not better make up his mind to go right away.
“Yes, I will go!” he said, excitedly, as he started up in his seat.
“No,” he said directly after, as in imagination now he seemed to be gazing into his mother’s reproachful eyes, “it would be too cowardly; I could not go.”
Chapter Seven.Don and Jem go home to Tea.It required no little effort on Don’s part to go home that afternoon to the customary meat tea which was the main meal of the day at his uncle’s home.He felt how it would be—that his uncle would not speak to him beyond saying a few distant words, such as were absolutely necessary. Kitty would avert her eyes, and his mother keep giving him reproachful looks, every one of which was a silent prayer to him to speak.The afternoon had worn away, and he had done little work for thinking. His uncle had not been back, and at last Jem’s footstep was heard outside, and he passed the window to tap lightly on the door and then open it.“Come, Mas’ Don,” he said, cheerily, “going to work all night?”“No, Jem, no. I was just thinking of going.”“That’s right, my lad, because it’s past shutting-up time. Feel better now, don’t you?”“No, Jem, I feel worse.”“Are you going to keep the yard open all the evening, Jem?” cried a shrill voice. “Why don’t you lock-up and come in to tea?”“There! Hear that!” said Jem, anxiously. “Do go, Mas’ Don, or I sha’n’t get to the end on it. ’Nuff to make a man talk as you do.”“Jem!”“Here, I’m a-coming, arn’t I?” he cried, giving the door a thump with his fist. “Don’t shout the ware’us down!”“Jem!”“Now did you ever hear such a aggrawatin’ woman?” cried Jem. “She’s such a little un that I could pick her up, same as you do a kitten, Mas’ Don—nothing on her as you may say; but the works as is inside her is that strong that I’m ’fraid of her.”“Jem!”He opened the door with a rush.“Ya–a–a–as!” he roared; “don’t you know as Mas’ Don arn’t gone?”Little Mrs Wimble, who was coming fiercely up, flounced round, and the wind of her skirts whirled up a dust of scraps of matting and cooper’s chips as she went back to the cottage.“See that, Mas’ Don? Now you think you’ve all the trouble in the world on your shoulders, but look at me. Talk about a woman’s temper turning the milk sour in a house. Why, just now there’s about three hundred hogsheads o’ sugar in our ware’us—two hundred and ninety-three, and four damages not quite full, which is as good as saying three hundred—see the books whether I arn’t right. Well, Mas’ Don, I tell you for the truth that I quite frights it—I do, indeed—as she’ll turn all that there sweetness into sour varjus ’fore she’s done. Going, sir?”“Yes, Jem, I’m going—home,” said Don; and then to himself, “Ah, I wish I had a home.”“Poor Mas’ Don!” said Jem, as he watched the lad go out through the gate; “he’s down in the dumps now, and no mistake; and dumps is the lot o’ all on us, more or less.”Then Jem went in to his tea, and Don went slowly home to his, and matters were exactly as he had foreseen. His uncle was scarcely polite; Kitty gave him sharp, indignant glances when their eyes met, and then averted hers; and from time to time his mother looked at him in so pitiful and imploring a manner that one moment he felt as if he were an utter scoundrel, and the next that he would do anything to take her in his arms and try and convince her that he was not so bad as she thought.It was a curious mental encounter between pride, obstinacy, and the better feelings of his nature; and unfortunately the former won, for soon after the meal was over he hurried out of the room.“I can’t bear it,” he cried to himself, as he went up to his own little chamber,—“I can’t bear it, and I will not. Every one’s against me. If I stop I shall be punished, and I can’t face all that to-morrow. Good-bye, mother. Some day you’ll think differently, and be sorry for all this injustice, and then—”A tear moistened Don’s eye as he thought of his mother and her tender, loving ways, and of what a pity it was that they ever came there to his uncle’s, and it was not the tear that made Don see so blindly.“I can’t stand it, and I will not,” he cried, passionately. “Uncle hates me, and Mike Bannock’s right, scoundrel as he is. Uncle has robbed me, and I’ll go and fight for myself in the world, and when I get well off I’ll come back and seize him by the throat and make him give up all he has taken.”Don talked to himself a good deal more of this nonsense, and then, with his mind fully made up, he went to the chest of drawers, took out a handkerchief, spread it open upon the bed, and placed in it a couple of clean shirts and three or four pairs of stockings.“There,” he said, as he tied them up tightly as small as he could, “I won’t have any more. I’ll go and start fair, so that I can be independent and be beholden to nobody.”Tucking the bundle under his arm, he could not help feeling that it was a very prominent-looking package—the great checked blue and white handkerchief seeming to say, “This boy’s going to seek his fortune!” and he wished that he was not obliged to take it.But, setting his teeth, he left the room with the drawers open, and his best suit, which he had felt disposed to take, tossed on a chair, and then began to descend.It was a glorious summer evening, and though he was in dirty, smoky Bristol, everything seemed to look bright and attractive, and to produce a sensation of low-spiritedness such as he had never felt before.He descended and passed his mother’s room, and then went down more slowly, for he could hear the murmur of voices in the dining-room, which he had to pass to reach the front door, outside which he did not care what happened; but now he had to pass that dining-room, and go along the passage and by the stand upon which his cocked hat hung.It was nervous work, but he went on down the first flight, running his hand slowly along the hand-balustrade, all down which he had so often slid while Kitty looked on laughing, and yet alarmed lest he should fall. And what a long time ago that seemed!He had just reached the bottom flight, and was wondering what to say if the door should open and his uncle meet him with the blue bundle under his arm, when the dining-room door did open, and he dashed back to the landing and stood in the doorway of his mother’s room, listening as a step was heard upon the stairs.“Kitty!” he said to himself, as he thrust against the door, which yielded to his pressure, and he backed in softly till he could push the door to, and stand inside, watching through the crack.There was the light, soft step coming up and up, and his heart began to beat, he knew not why, till something seemed to rise in his throat, and made his breath come short and painfully.His mother!She was coming to her room, and in another moment she would be there, and would find him with the bundle under his arm, about to run away.Quick as thought he looked sharply round, bundle in hand, when, obeying the first impulse, he was about to push it beneath the bedclothes, but cast aside the plan because he felt that it would be noticed, and quick as thought he tossed the light bundle up on the top of the great canopy of the old-fashioned bedstead, to lie among the gathering of flue and dust.By that time the footsteps were at the door.“What shall I say?” Don asked himself; “she will want to know why I am here.”He felt confused, and rack his brains as he would, no excuse would come.But it was not wanted, for the light footstep with the rustle of silk passed on upstairs, and Don opened the door slightly to listen. His breath came thickly with emotion as he realised where his mother had gone. It was to his bedroom door, and as he listened he heard her tap lightly.“Don! Don, my boy!” came in low, gentle tones.For one moment the boy’s heart prompted him to rush up and fling himself in her arms, but again his worse half suggested that he was to be scolded and disbelieved, and mentally thrusting his fingers into his ears, he stepped out, glided down the staircase in the old boyish fashion of sliding down the banister, snatched his hat from the stand, and softly stole out to hurry down the street as hard as he could go.He had been walking swiftly some five minutes, moved by only one desire—that of getting away from the house—when he awoke to the fact that he was going straight towards the constable’s quarters and the old-fashioned lock-up where Mike must be lying, getting rid of the consequences of his holiday-making that morning.Don turned sharply round in another direction, one which led him towards the wharves where the shipping lay.While this was taking place, Jem Wimble had been banging the doors and rattling his keys as he locked up the various stores, feeling particularly proud and self-satisfied with the confidence placed in him.After this was done he had a wash at the pump, fetching a piece of soap from a ledge inside the workshop where the cooper’s tools were kept, and when he had duly rubbed and scrubbed and dried his face and hands, he went indoors to stare with astonishment, for his little wife was making the most of her size by sitting very upright as she finished her tea.Jem plumped himself indignantly down, and began his. This was a new annoyance. Sally had scolded times out of number, and found fault with him for being so late, but this was the first time that she had ever begun a meal without his being present, and he felt bitterly hurt.“As if I could help it,” he said, half aloud. “A man has his work to do, and he must do it.”“Five o’clock’s tea-time, and you ought to have been here.”“And if I wasn’t here, it was your dooty to wait for me, marm.”“Was it?” cried Sally; “then I wasn’t going to. I’m not going to be ordered about and ill-treated, Jem; you always said you liked your tea ready at five o’clock. I had it ready at five o’clock, and I waited till half-past, and it’s now five-and-twenty to six.”“I don’t care if it’s five-and-twenty to nineteen!” cried Jem angrily. “It’s your dooty to wait, same as it’s mine to shut up.”“You might have shut up after tea.”“Then I wasn’t going to, marm.”“Then you may have your tea by yourself, for I’ve done, and I’m not going to be trampled upon by you.”Sally had risen in the loudness of her voice, in her temper, and in her person, for she had got up from her chair; but neither elevation was great; in fact, the personal height was very small, and there was something very kittenish and comic in her appearance, as she crossed the bright little kitchen to the door at the flight of stairs, and passing through, banged it behind her, and went up to her room.“Very well,” said Jem, as he sat staring at the door; “very well, marm. So this is being married. My father used to say that if two people as is married can’t agree, they ought to divide the house between ’em, but one ought to take the outside and t’other the in. That’s what I’m a-going to do, only, seeing what a bit of a doll of a thing you are, and being above it, I’m going to take the outside myself. There’s coffee bags enough to make a man a good bed up in the ware’us, and it won’t be the first time I’ve shifted for myself, so I shall stop away till you fetches me back. Do you hear?”“Oh, yes, I can hear,” replied Sally from the top of the stairs, Jem having shouted his last speech.“All right, then,” said Jem: “so now we understands each other and can go ahead.”Tightening up his lips, Jem rinsed out the slop-basin, shovelled in a good heap of sugar, and then proceeded to empty the teapot, holding the lid in its place with one fat finger the while.This done, he emptied the little milk jug also, stirred all well up together, and left it for a few minutes to cool, what time he took the cottage loaf from the white, well-scrubbed trencher, pulled it in two, took a handful of bread out of one half, and raising the lump of fresh Somersetshire butter on the point of a knife, he dabbed it into the hole he had made in the centre, shut it up by replacing the other half of the bread, and then taking out his handkerchief spread it upon his knee and tied the loaf tightly therein. Then for a moment or two he hesitated about taking the knife, but finally concluding that the clasp knife in his pocket would do, he laid the blade on the table, gave his tea a final stir, gulped down the basinful, tucked the loaf in the handkerchief under his left arm, his hat very much on one side, and then walked out and through the gate, which he closed with a loud bang.“Oh!” ejaculated Sally, who had run to the bedroom window, “he has gone!”Sally was quite right, Jem, her husband, was gone away to his favourite place for smoking a pipe, down on the West Main wharf, where he seated himself on a stone mooring post, placed the bundle containing the loaf beside him, and then began to eat heartily? Nothing of the kind. Jem was thinking very hard about home and his little petulant, girlish wife.Then he started and stared.“Hullo, Jem, you here?”“Why, Mas’ Don, I thought you was at home having your tea.”“I thought you were having yours, Jem.”“No, Mas’ Don,” said Jem sadly; “there’s my tea”—and he pointed to the bundle handkerchief; “there’s my tea; leastwise I will tell the truth, o’ course—there’s part on it; t’other part’s inside, for I couldn’t tie that up, or I’d ha’ brought it same ways to have down here and look at the ships.”“Then why don’t you eat it, man?”“’Cause I can’t, sir. I’ve had so much o’ my Sally that I don’t want no wittals.”Don said nothing, but sat down by Jem Wimble to look at the ships.
It required no little effort on Don’s part to go home that afternoon to the customary meat tea which was the main meal of the day at his uncle’s home.
He felt how it would be—that his uncle would not speak to him beyond saying a few distant words, such as were absolutely necessary. Kitty would avert her eyes, and his mother keep giving him reproachful looks, every one of which was a silent prayer to him to speak.
The afternoon had worn away, and he had done little work for thinking. His uncle had not been back, and at last Jem’s footstep was heard outside, and he passed the window to tap lightly on the door and then open it.
“Come, Mas’ Don,” he said, cheerily, “going to work all night?”
“No, Jem, no. I was just thinking of going.”
“That’s right, my lad, because it’s past shutting-up time. Feel better now, don’t you?”
“No, Jem, I feel worse.”
“Are you going to keep the yard open all the evening, Jem?” cried a shrill voice. “Why don’t you lock-up and come in to tea?”
“There! Hear that!” said Jem, anxiously. “Do go, Mas’ Don, or I sha’n’t get to the end on it. ’Nuff to make a man talk as you do.”
“Jem!”
“Here, I’m a-coming, arn’t I?” he cried, giving the door a thump with his fist. “Don’t shout the ware’us down!”
“Jem!”
“Now did you ever hear such a aggrawatin’ woman?” cried Jem. “She’s such a little un that I could pick her up, same as you do a kitten, Mas’ Don—nothing on her as you may say; but the works as is inside her is that strong that I’m ’fraid of her.”
“Jem!”
He opened the door with a rush.
“Ya–a–a–as!” he roared; “don’t you know as Mas’ Don arn’t gone?”
Little Mrs Wimble, who was coming fiercely up, flounced round, and the wind of her skirts whirled up a dust of scraps of matting and cooper’s chips as she went back to the cottage.
“See that, Mas’ Don? Now you think you’ve all the trouble in the world on your shoulders, but look at me. Talk about a woman’s temper turning the milk sour in a house. Why, just now there’s about three hundred hogsheads o’ sugar in our ware’us—two hundred and ninety-three, and four damages not quite full, which is as good as saying three hundred—see the books whether I arn’t right. Well, Mas’ Don, I tell you for the truth that I quite frights it—I do, indeed—as she’ll turn all that there sweetness into sour varjus ’fore she’s done. Going, sir?”
“Yes, Jem, I’m going—home,” said Don; and then to himself, “Ah, I wish I had a home.”
“Poor Mas’ Don!” said Jem, as he watched the lad go out through the gate; “he’s down in the dumps now, and no mistake; and dumps is the lot o’ all on us, more or less.”
Then Jem went in to his tea, and Don went slowly home to his, and matters were exactly as he had foreseen. His uncle was scarcely polite; Kitty gave him sharp, indignant glances when their eyes met, and then averted hers; and from time to time his mother looked at him in so pitiful and imploring a manner that one moment he felt as if he were an utter scoundrel, and the next that he would do anything to take her in his arms and try and convince her that he was not so bad as she thought.
It was a curious mental encounter between pride, obstinacy, and the better feelings of his nature; and unfortunately the former won, for soon after the meal was over he hurried out of the room.
“I can’t bear it,” he cried to himself, as he went up to his own little chamber,—“I can’t bear it, and I will not. Every one’s against me. If I stop I shall be punished, and I can’t face all that to-morrow. Good-bye, mother. Some day you’ll think differently, and be sorry for all this injustice, and then—”
A tear moistened Don’s eye as he thought of his mother and her tender, loving ways, and of what a pity it was that they ever came there to his uncle’s, and it was not the tear that made Don see so blindly.
“I can’t stand it, and I will not,” he cried, passionately. “Uncle hates me, and Mike Bannock’s right, scoundrel as he is. Uncle has robbed me, and I’ll go and fight for myself in the world, and when I get well off I’ll come back and seize him by the throat and make him give up all he has taken.”
Don talked to himself a good deal more of this nonsense, and then, with his mind fully made up, he went to the chest of drawers, took out a handkerchief, spread it open upon the bed, and placed in it a couple of clean shirts and three or four pairs of stockings.
“There,” he said, as he tied them up tightly as small as he could, “I won’t have any more. I’ll go and start fair, so that I can be independent and be beholden to nobody.”
Tucking the bundle under his arm, he could not help feeling that it was a very prominent-looking package—the great checked blue and white handkerchief seeming to say, “This boy’s going to seek his fortune!” and he wished that he was not obliged to take it.
But, setting his teeth, he left the room with the drawers open, and his best suit, which he had felt disposed to take, tossed on a chair, and then began to descend.
It was a glorious summer evening, and though he was in dirty, smoky Bristol, everything seemed to look bright and attractive, and to produce a sensation of low-spiritedness such as he had never felt before.
He descended and passed his mother’s room, and then went down more slowly, for he could hear the murmur of voices in the dining-room, which he had to pass to reach the front door, outside which he did not care what happened; but now he had to pass that dining-room, and go along the passage and by the stand upon which his cocked hat hung.
It was nervous work, but he went on down the first flight, running his hand slowly along the hand-balustrade, all down which he had so often slid while Kitty looked on laughing, and yet alarmed lest he should fall. And what a long time ago that seemed!
He had just reached the bottom flight, and was wondering what to say if the door should open and his uncle meet him with the blue bundle under his arm, when the dining-room door did open, and he dashed back to the landing and stood in the doorway of his mother’s room, listening as a step was heard upon the stairs.
“Kitty!” he said to himself, as he thrust against the door, which yielded to his pressure, and he backed in softly till he could push the door to, and stand inside, watching through the crack.
There was the light, soft step coming up and up, and his heart began to beat, he knew not why, till something seemed to rise in his throat, and made his breath come short and painfully.
His mother!
She was coming to her room, and in another moment she would be there, and would find him with the bundle under his arm, about to run away.
Quick as thought he looked sharply round, bundle in hand, when, obeying the first impulse, he was about to push it beneath the bedclothes, but cast aside the plan because he felt that it would be noticed, and quick as thought he tossed the light bundle up on the top of the great canopy of the old-fashioned bedstead, to lie among the gathering of flue and dust.
By that time the footsteps were at the door.
“What shall I say?” Don asked himself; “she will want to know why I am here.”
He felt confused, and rack his brains as he would, no excuse would come.
But it was not wanted, for the light footstep with the rustle of silk passed on upstairs, and Don opened the door slightly to listen. His breath came thickly with emotion as he realised where his mother had gone. It was to his bedroom door, and as he listened he heard her tap lightly.
“Don! Don, my boy!” came in low, gentle tones.
For one moment the boy’s heart prompted him to rush up and fling himself in her arms, but again his worse half suggested that he was to be scolded and disbelieved, and mentally thrusting his fingers into his ears, he stepped out, glided down the staircase in the old boyish fashion of sliding down the banister, snatched his hat from the stand, and softly stole out to hurry down the street as hard as he could go.
He had been walking swiftly some five minutes, moved by only one desire—that of getting away from the house—when he awoke to the fact that he was going straight towards the constable’s quarters and the old-fashioned lock-up where Mike must be lying, getting rid of the consequences of his holiday-making that morning.
Don turned sharply round in another direction, one which led him towards the wharves where the shipping lay.
While this was taking place, Jem Wimble had been banging the doors and rattling his keys as he locked up the various stores, feeling particularly proud and self-satisfied with the confidence placed in him.
After this was done he had a wash at the pump, fetching a piece of soap from a ledge inside the workshop where the cooper’s tools were kept, and when he had duly rubbed and scrubbed and dried his face and hands, he went indoors to stare with astonishment, for his little wife was making the most of her size by sitting very upright as she finished her tea.
Jem plumped himself indignantly down, and began his. This was a new annoyance. Sally had scolded times out of number, and found fault with him for being so late, but this was the first time that she had ever begun a meal without his being present, and he felt bitterly hurt.
“As if I could help it,” he said, half aloud. “A man has his work to do, and he must do it.”
“Five o’clock’s tea-time, and you ought to have been here.”
“And if I wasn’t here, it was your dooty to wait for me, marm.”
“Was it?” cried Sally; “then I wasn’t going to. I’m not going to be ordered about and ill-treated, Jem; you always said you liked your tea ready at five o’clock. I had it ready at five o’clock, and I waited till half-past, and it’s now five-and-twenty to six.”
“I don’t care if it’s five-and-twenty to nineteen!” cried Jem angrily. “It’s your dooty to wait, same as it’s mine to shut up.”
“You might have shut up after tea.”
“Then I wasn’t going to, marm.”
“Then you may have your tea by yourself, for I’ve done, and I’m not going to be trampled upon by you.”
Sally had risen in the loudness of her voice, in her temper, and in her person, for she had got up from her chair; but neither elevation was great; in fact, the personal height was very small, and there was something very kittenish and comic in her appearance, as she crossed the bright little kitchen to the door at the flight of stairs, and passing through, banged it behind her, and went up to her room.
“Very well,” said Jem, as he sat staring at the door; “very well, marm. So this is being married. My father used to say that if two people as is married can’t agree, they ought to divide the house between ’em, but one ought to take the outside and t’other the in. That’s what I’m a-going to do, only, seeing what a bit of a doll of a thing you are, and being above it, I’m going to take the outside myself. There’s coffee bags enough to make a man a good bed up in the ware’us, and it won’t be the first time I’ve shifted for myself, so I shall stop away till you fetches me back. Do you hear?”
“Oh, yes, I can hear,” replied Sally from the top of the stairs, Jem having shouted his last speech.
“All right, then,” said Jem: “so now we understands each other and can go ahead.”
Tightening up his lips, Jem rinsed out the slop-basin, shovelled in a good heap of sugar, and then proceeded to empty the teapot, holding the lid in its place with one fat finger the while.
This done, he emptied the little milk jug also, stirred all well up together, and left it for a few minutes to cool, what time he took the cottage loaf from the white, well-scrubbed trencher, pulled it in two, took a handful of bread out of one half, and raising the lump of fresh Somersetshire butter on the point of a knife, he dabbed it into the hole he had made in the centre, shut it up by replacing the other half of the bread, and then taking out his handkerchief spread it upon his knee and tied the loaf tightly therein. Then for a moment or two he hesitated about taking the knife, but finally concluding that the clasp knife in his pocket would do, he laid the blade on the table, gave his tea a final stir, gulped down the basinful, tucked the loaf in the handkerchief under his left arm, his hat very much on one side, and then walked out and through the gate, which he closed with a loud bang.
“Oh!” ejaculated Sally, who had run to the bedroom window, “he has gone!”
Sally was quite right, Jem, her husband, was gone away to his favourite place for smoking a pipe, down on the West Main wharf, where he seated himself on a stone mooring post, placed the bundle containing the loaf beside him, and then began to eat heartily? Nothing of the kind. Jem was thinking very hard about home and his little petulant, girlish wife.
Then he started and stared.
“Hullo, Jem, you here?”
“Why, Mas’ Don, I thought you was at home having your tea.”
“I thought you were having yours, Jem.”
“No, Mas’ Don,” said Jem sadly; “there’s my tea”—and he pointed to the bundle handkerchief; “there’s my tea; leastwise I will tell the truth, o’ course—there’s part on it; t’other part’s inside, for I couldn’t tie that up, or I’d ha’ brought it same ways to have down here and look at the ships.”
“Then why don’t you eat it, man?”
“’Cause I can’t, sir. I’ve had so much o’ my Sally that I don’t want no wittals.”
Don said nothing, but sat down by Jem Wimble to look at the ships.
Chapter Eight.Kitty Christmas sits up.“My dear Laura,” said Uncle Josiah that same evening, “you misjudge me; Lindon’s welfare is as dear to me as that of my little Kitty.”“But you seemed to be so hard and stern with him.”“That is your weak womanly way of looking at it, my dear I may have been stern, but no more so than the matter warranted. No, my dear sister, can you not see that I mean all this as a lesson for Lindon? You know how discontented he has been with his lot, like many more boys at his time of life, when they do not judge very well as to whether they are well off.”“Yes, he has been unsettled lately.”“Exactly, and this is due to his connection with that ne’er-do-weel scoundrel, for whom the boy has displayed an unconquerable liking. Lindon has begged the man on again four times after he had been discharged from the yard for drunkenness and neglect.”“I did not know this,” said Mrs Lavington. “No, I do not bring all my business troubles home. I consented because I wished Lindon to realise for himself the kind of man whose cause he advocated; but I never expected that it would be brought home to him so severely as this.”“Then indeed, Josiah, you do not think Lindon guilty?”“Bah! Of course not, you foolish little woman. The boy is too frank and manly, too much of a gentleman to degrade himself in such a way. Guilty? Nonsense! Guilty of being proud and obstinate and stubborn. Guilty of neglecting his work to listen to that idle scoundrel’s romancing about places he has never seen.”“He is so young.”“Young? Old enough to know better.”“But if you could bring it home to him more gently.”“I think the present way is an admirable one for showing the boy his folly. The bird who kept company with the jackdaws had his neck wrung, innocent as he was. I want Lindon to see how very near he has been to having his neck wrung through keeping company with a jackdaw. Now, my dear Laura, leave it to me. The magistrates will grasp the case at once, and Master Lindon will receive a severe admonition from some one else, which will bring him to his senses, and then we shall go on quite smoothly again.”“You cannot tell how happy you have made me feel,” said Mrs Lavington, as she wept silently.“Well,” said Uncle Josiah, “I want to make you happy, you poor timid little bird. Now, then, try to believe that I am acting for the best.”“And you will not be so stern with him?”“As far as my lights will illumine me, I will do what is right by my sister’s boy, Laura—the lad I want to see grow up into a straightforward Englishman, proud of his name. There, can I say more fairly than that?”“No. I only beg that you will think of Lindon as a high-spirited boy, who, though he does not always do as you wish, is still extremely sensitive.”“Proud and stubborn, eh, Laura?”“I will say no more, my own brother, only leave myself in your hands.”“Yes, you may well look at the clock,” said Uncle Josiah, laughing, as he put his arm round his sister, and kissed her very tenderly; “the young dog is unconscionably late.”“You do not think—after what I said?”“Think? Nonsense. No, no. Lindon is too manly for that. Here, I am sure that you have a terrible headache, and you are worn out. Go to bed, and I’ll sit up for the young rascal, and have a talk to him when he comes in.”“No, no!” exclaimed Mrs Lavington excitedly; “I do not like you to sit up for him. I will.”“Not you. Too tired out as it is. No, my dear, you shall go to bed, and I will sit up for him.”“Then let neither of us sit up.”“Afraid I shall scold him, eh?”“I cannot help being afraid of something of the kind, dear.”“Very well, then we will both go, and let Jessie sit up.”The maid was rung for, and entered.“We are going to bed, Jessie. Master Lindon has not returned yet. You will sit up until he comes in.”“Yes, sir.”The maid left the room, and brother and sister sat looking at each other.“Did you speak, Josiah?” said Mrs Lavington.“No; I was only thinking that I do not trust you and you don’t trust me.”“What do you mean?” faltered the poor woman, who looked more agitated now.“You were not going to bed, but to listen for Lindon’s return, and were then going to watch whether I left my room to talk to him.”Mrs Lavington was silent.“Guilty,” said Uncle Josiah, smiling. “Come now, fair play. Will you go to your room and promise to stay there till breakfast time to-morrow morning, if I give you my word to do the same?”“Yes,” said the shrinking woman eagerly.“That’s agreed to, then. Good-night, Laura, my dear.”“Good-night, Josiah.”Ten minutes after all was still in the house, but matters did not turn out quite as Uncle Josiah intended. For before he was undressed, a bedroom door was opened very gently, and the creak it gave produced a low ejaculation of dismay.Then there was five minutes’ interval before a slight little figure stole gently downstairs and glided into the kitchen, where round red-faced Jessie was seated in a window, her chair being opposite to what looked like a lady’s back, making the most careful bows from time to time, to which the lady made no response, for it was only Jessie’s cloak hanging on a peg with her old bonnet just above.The slight little figure stood in the kitchen doorway listening, and then Jessie seemed to be bowing her head to the fresh comer, who did take some notice of the courtesy, for, crossing the kitchen rapidly, there was a quick sharp whisper.“Jessie, Jessie!”No reply.“Jessie, Jessie!”“Two new and one stale,” said the maid.“Oh, how tiresome! Jessie, Jessie!”“Slack baked.”“Jessie!” and this time there was a shake of the maid’s shoulder, and she jumped up, looking startled.“Lor, Miss Kitty, how you frightened me!”“You were asleep.”“Sleep? Me, miss? That I’m sure I wasn’t.”“You were, Jessie, and I heard father tell you to sit up till Cousin Lindon came home.”“Well, that’s what I’m a-doin’ of, miss, as plain as I can,” said Jessie.She spoke in an ill-used tone, for it had been a busy day consequent upon a certain amount of extra cleaning, but Kitty did not notice it.“I shall stay till I hear my cousin’s knock,” she said; “and then run upstairs. I hope he will not be long.”“So do I, Miss Kitty,” said the woman with a yawn. “What’s made him so late? Is it because of the trouble at the yard?”“Yes, Jessie; but you must not talk about it.”“But I heerd as Master Don took some money.”“He did not, Jessie!” cried Kitty indignantly. “There isn’t a word of truth in it. My Cousin Lindon couldn’t have done such a thing. It’s all a mistake, and I want to see him come in, poor boy, and tell him that I don’t believe it I’ll whisper it to him just as he’s going up to bed, and it will make him happy, for I know he thinks I have gone against him, and I only made believe that I did.”Snurrrg!The sound was very gentle, and Kitty did not hear it, for she was looking intently toward the door in the belief that she had heard Don’s footstep.But it was only that of some passer on his way home, and Kitty went on,—“You mustn’t talk about it, Jessie, for it is a great trouble, and aunt is nearly heart-broken, and—”Snurg-urg!This time there was so loud and gurgling a sound that Kitty turned sharply upon the maid, who, after emitting a painful snore, made her young mistress the most polite of bows.“Jessie! You’re asleep.”Snurrg! And a bow.“Oh, Jessie, you’re asleep again. How can you be so tiresome?”Snurrg! Gurgled Jessie again, and Kitty gave an impatient stamp of her little foot.“How can any one sleep at a time like this?” she half sobbed. “It’s too bad, that it is.”Jessie bowed to her politely, and her head went up and down as if it were fixed at the end of a very easy moving spring, but when Kitty reproached her the words had not the slightest effect, and a dull stupid stare was given, of so irritating a nature that some people would have felt disposed to awaken the sleeper by administering a sound slap upon the hard round cheek.One hour, two hours, three hours passed away, and still no Don; and at last, unable to bear the company of the snoring woman longer, Kitty left her and went into the drawing-room, where, kneeling down at the end of the couch under the window, she remained watching the dark street, waiting for him who did not come.Kitty watched till the street began to look less dark and gloomy, and by degrees the other side became so plain that she could make out the bricks on the opposite walls.Then they grew plainer and plainer, and there was a bright light in the sky, for the sun was near to its rising.Then they grew less plain, then quite indistinct, for Kitty was crying bitterly, and she found herself wondering whether Don could have come in and gone to bed.A little thought told her that this was impossible, and the tears fell faster still.Where could he be? What could he be doing? Ought she to awaken her aunt?Kitty could not answer these self-imposed questions, and as her misery and despair grew greater it seemed as if the morning was growing very cold and the bricks of the houses opposite more and more obscure, and then soon after they were quite invisible, for she saw them not.
“My dear Laura,” said Uncle Josiah that same evening, “you misjudge me; Lindon’s welfare is as dear to me as that of my little Kitty.”
“But you seemed to be so hard and stern with him.”
“That is your weak womanly way of looking at it, my dear I may have been stern, but no more so than the matter warranted. No, my dear sister, can you not see that I mean all this as a lesson for Lindon? You know how discontented he has been with his lot, like many more boys at his time of life, when they do not judge very well as to whether they are well off.”
“Yes, he has been unsettled lately.”
“Exactly, and this is due to his connection with that ne’er-do-weel scoundrel, for whom the boy has displayed an unconquerable liking. Lindon has begged the man on again four times after he had been discharged from the yard for drunkenness and neglect.”
“I did not know this,” said Mrs Lavington. “No, I do not bring all my business troubles home. I consented because I wished Lindon to realise for himself the kind of man whose cause he advocated; but I never expected that it would be brought home to him so severely as this.”
“Then indeed, Josiah, you do not think Lindon guilty?”
“Bah! Of course not, you foolish little woman. The boy is too frank and manly, too much of a gentleman to degrade himself in such a way. Guilty? Nonsense! Guilty of being proud and obstinate and stubborn. Guilty of neglecting his work to listen to that idle scoundrel’s romancing about places he has never seen.”
“He is so young.”
“Young? Old enough to know better.”
“But if you could bring it home to him more gently.”
“I think the present way is an admirable one for showing the boy his folly. The bird who kept company with the jackdaws had his neck wrung, innocent as he was. I want Lindon to see how very near he has been to having his neck wrung through keeping company with a jackdaw. Now, my dear Laura, leave it to me. The magistrates will grasp the case at once, and Master Lindon will receive a severe admonition from some one else, which will bring him to his senses, and then we shall go on quite smoothly again.”
“You cannot tell how happy you have made me feel,” said Mrs Lavington, as she wept silently.
“Well,” said Uncle Josiah, “I want to make you happy, you poor timid little bird. Now, then, try to believe that I am acting for the best.”
“And you will not be so stern with him?”
“As far as my lights will illumine me, I will do what is right by my sister’s boy, Laura—the lad I want to see grow up into a straightforward Englishman, proud of his name. There, can I say more fairly than that?”
“No. I only beg that you will think of Lindon as a high-spirited boy, who, though he does not always do as you wish, is still extremely sensitive.”
“Proud and stubborn, eh, Laura?”
“I will say no more, my own brother, only leave myself in your hands.”
“Yes, you may well look at the clock,” said Uncle Josiah, laughing, as he put his arm round his sister, and kissed her very tenderly; “the young dog is unconscionably late.”
“You do not think—after what I said?”
“Think? Nonsense. No, no. Lindon is too manly for that. Here, I am sure that you have a terrible headache, and you are worn out. Go to bed, and I’ll sit up for the young rascal, and have a talk to him when he comes in.”
“No, no!” exclaimed Mrs Lavington excitedly; “I do not like you to sit up for him. I will.”
“Not you. Too tired out as it is. No, my dear, you shall go to bed, and I will sit up for him.”
“Then let neither of us sit up.”
“Afraid I shall scold him, eh?”
“I cannot help being afraid of something of the kind, dear.”
“Very well, then we will both go, and let Jessie sit up.”
The maid was rung for, and entered.
“We are going to bed, Jessie. Master Lindon has not returned yet. You will sit up until he comes in.”
“Yes, sir.”
The maid left the room, and brother and sister sat looking at each other.
“Did you speak, Josiah?” said Mrs Lavington.
“No; I was only thinking that I do not trust you and you don’t trust me.”
“What do you mean?” faltered the poor woman, who looked more agitated now.
“You were not going to bed, but to listen for Lindon’s return, and were then going to watch whether I left my room to talk to him.”
Mrs Lavington was silent.
“Guilty,” said Uncle Josiah, smiling. “Come now, fair play. Will you go to your room and promise to stay there till breakfast time to-morrow morning, if I give you my word to do the same?”
“Yes,” said the shrinking woman eagerly.
“That’s agreed to, then. Good-night, Laura, my dear.”
“Good-night, Josiah.”
Ten minutes after all was still in the house, but matters did not turn out quite as Uncle Josiah intended. For before he was undressed, a bedroom door was opened very gently, and the creak it gave produced a low ejaculation of dismay.
Then there was five minutes’ interval before a slight little figure stole gently downstairs and glided into the kitchen, where round red-faced Jessie was seated in a window, her chair being opposite to what looked like a lady’s back, making the most careful bows from time to time, to which the lady made no response, for it was only Jessie’s cloak hanging on a peg with her old bonnet just above.
The slight little figure stood in the kitchen doorway listening, and then Jessie seemed to be bowing her head to the fresh comer, who did take some notice of the courtesy, for, crossing the kitchen rapidly, there was a quick sharp whisper.
“Jessie, Jessie!”
No reply.
“Jessie, Jessie!”
“Two new and one stale,” said the maid.
“Oh, how tiresome! Jessie, Jessie!”
“Slack baked.”
“Jessie!” and this time there was a shake of the maid’s shoulder, and she jumped up, looking startled.
“Lor, Miss Kitty, how you frightened me!”
“You were asleep.”
“Sleep? Me, miss? That I’m sure I wasn’t.”
“You were, Jessie, and I heard father tell you to sit up till Cousin Lindon came home.”
“Well, that’s what I’m a-doin’ of, miss, as plain as I can,” said Jessie.
She spoke in an ill-used tone, for it had been a busy day consequent upon a certain amount of extra cleaning, but Kitty did not notice it.
“I shall stay till I hear my cousin’s knock,” she said; “and then run upstairs. I hope he will not be long.”
“So do I, Miss Kitty,” said the woman with a yawn. “What’s made him so late? Is it because of the trouble at the yard?”
“Yes, Jessie; but you must not talk about it.”
“But I heerd as Master Don took some money.”
“He did not, Jessie!” cried Kitty indignantly. “There isn’t a word of truth in it. My Cousin Lindon couldn’t have done such a thing. It’s all a mistake, and I want to see him come in, poor boy, and tell him that I don’t believe it I’ll whisper it to him just as he’s going up to bed, and it will make him happy, for I know he thinks I have gone against him, and I only made believe that I did.”
Snurrrg!
The sound was very gentle, and Kitty did not hear it, for she was looking intently toward the door in the belief that she had heard Don’s footstep.
But it was only that of some passer on his way home, and Kitty went on,—
“You mustn’t talk about it, Jessie, for it is a great trouble, and aunt is nearly heart-broken, and—”
Snurg-urg!
This time there was so loud and gurgling a sound that Kitty turned sharply upon the maid, who, after emitting a painful snore, made her young mistress the most polite of bows.
“Jessie! You’re asleep.”
Snurrg! And a bow.
“Oh, Jessie, you’re asleep again. How can you be so tiresome?”
Snurrg! Gurgled Jessie again, and Kitty gave an impatient stamp of her little foot.
“How can any one sleep at a time like this?” she half sobbed. “It’s too bad, that it is.”
Jessie bowed to her politely, and her head went up and down as if it were fixed at the end of a very easy moving spring, but when Kitty reproached her the words had not the slightest effect, and a dull stupid stare was given, of so irritating a nature that some people would have felt disposed to awaken the sleeper by administering a sound slap upon the hard round cheek.
One hour, two hours, three hours passed away, and still no Don; and at last, unable to bear the company of the snoring woman longer, Kitty left her and went into the drawing-room, where, kneeling down at the end of the couch under the window, she remained watching the dark street, waiting for him who did not come.
Kitty watched till the street began to look less dark and gloomy, and by degrees the other side became so plain that she could make out the bricks on the opposite walls.
Then they grew plainer and plainer, and there was a bright light in the sky, for the sun was near to its rising.
Then they grew less plain, then quite indistinct, for Kitty was crying bitterly, and she found herself wondering whether Don could have come in and gone to bed.
A little thought told her that this was impossible, and the tears fell faster still.
Where could he be? What could he be doing? Ought she to awaken her aunt?
Kitty could not answer these self-imposed questions, and as her misery and despair grew greater it seemed as if the morning was growing very cold and the bricks of the houses opposite more and more obscure, and then soon after they were quite invisible, for she saw them not.
Chapter Nine.A Social Thunderbolt.“Morning!” said Uncle Josiah, as, after a turn up and down the dining-room, he saw the door open and his sister enter, looking very pale and red-eyed. “Why, Laura, you have not been to bed.”“Yes,” she said sadly. “I kept my word, and now I feel sorry that I did, for I fell into a heavy sleep from which I did not wake till half an hour ago.”“Glad of it,” said her brother bluffly. “That’s right, my dear, make the tea; I want my breakfast, for I have plenty of work to-day.”Mrs Lavington hastily made the tea, for the urn was hissing on the table when she came down, Uncle Josiah’s orders being that it was always to be ready at eight o’clock, and woe betide Jessie if it was not there.“Have—have you seen Don this morning?”“No. And when he comes down I shall not say a word. There, try and put a better face on the matter, my dear. He will have to appear at the magistrate’s office, and there will be a few admonitions. That’s all. Isn’t Kitty late?”“Yes. Shall I send up for her?”“No; she will be down in a few minutes, I daresay, and Lindon too.”The few minutes passed, and Uncle Josiah looked stern. Then he rang for the servants, and his brow grew more heavy. Neither Kitty nor Lindon down to prayers.“Shall I send up, Josiah?”“No; they know what time we have prayers,” said the old man sternly; and upon the servants entering he read his customary chapter and the prayers, but no one stole in while the service was in progress, and when it was over the old merchant looked more severe than ever.Mrs Lavington looked more troubled as her brother grew more severe, but she did not speak, feeling that she might make matters worse.Just then Jessie brought in the ham and eggs, and as she took off the cover, and Mrs Lavington began to pour out tea, the old man said roughly,—“Go and tell Miss Kitty to come down to breakfast directly.”The maid left the room.“You did not send a message to Don, Josiah.”“No. I suppose his lordship was very late. No business to have gone out.”Uncle Josiah began his breakfast. Mrs Lavington could not taste hers.Then Jessie entered, looking startled.“If you please, sir—”“Well, if you please what?”“Miss Kitty, sir.”“Yes?”“She’s not in her room.”“Eh?” ejaculated the old merchant. “Humph! Come down and gone for a walk, I suppose. Back soon.”The breakfast went on, but there was no Kitty, no Don, and Uncle Josiah began to eat his food ferociously.At last he got up and rang the bell sharply, and Jessie responded.“What time did Master Lindon come home?” he said.“Come home, sir?”“Yes; did I not speak plainly? I said what time did Master Lindon come home?”“Please, sir, he didn’t come home at all.”“What!” roared Uncle Josiah, and Mrs Lavington nearly let her cup fall.“Please, sir, I sat in my chair waiting all the night.”“And he has not been back?”“No, sir.”“Nonsense! Go and knock at his door. Tell him to come at once.”“Excuse me, Josiah,” said Mrs Lavington excitedly; “let me go.”Uncle Josiah grunted his consent, and Mrs Lavington hurried out into the hall, and then upstairs.“Slipped in while you were half asleep,” said the old man to Jessie.“No, sir, indeed. I’ve been watching carefully all night.”“Humph! There’s half a crown for you to buy a hat ribbon, Jessie. Well,” he continued as his sister entered hastily, “what does he say?”“Josiah!” cried the trembling woman, “what does this mean? Don was out when I went up yesterday evening, and he has not been to his room all night.”“What?”“Neither has Kitty been to hers.”Uncle Josiah thrust back his chair, and left his half-eaten breakfast.“Look here,” he exclaimed in a hoarse voice; “what nonsense is this?”“No nonsense, Josiah,” cried Mrs Lavington. “I felt a presentiment.”“Felt a stuff and nonsense!” he said angrily. “Kitty not in her room? Kitty not been to bed? Here, Jessie!”“Yes, sir.”“You did go to sleep, didn’t you?”“Ye–e–e–s, sir!”“I thought as much, and,”—here tut-tut-tut—“that would not explain it. Hullo, what do you want?”This was to the cook, who tapped, opened the door, and then held up her hand as if to command silence.“Please, ’m, would you mind coming here?” she said softly. Mrs Lavington ran to the door, followed the woman across the hall, unaware of the fact that the old merchant was close at her heels.They paused as soon as they were inside the drawing-room, impressed by the scene before them, for there, half sitting, half lying, and fast asleep, with the tears on her cheeks still wet, as if she had wept as she lay there unconscious, was Kitty, for the bricks on the opposite wall had been too indistinct for her to see.“Don’t wake her,” said Uncle Josiah softly, and he signed to them to go back into the hall, where he turned to Jessie.“Did you see Miss Kitty last night?”“Ye–es, sir.”“Where?”“She comed into the kitchen, sir.”“After we had gone to bed?”“Yes, sir.”“And you said nothing just now?”“No, sir, I didn’t like to.”“That will do. Be off,” said the old man sternly. “Laura. Here!”Mrs Lavington followed her brother back into the dining-room.“The poor child must have been sitting up to watch for Lindon’s return.”“And he has not returned, Josiah,” sobbed Mrs Lavington.“Here, stop! What are you going to do?”“I am going up to his room to see,” said the sobbing woman.Uncle Josiah made no opposition, for he read the mother’s thought, and followed her upstairs, where a half-open drawer told tales, and in a few moments Mrs Lavington had satisfied herself.“I cannot say exactly,” she said piteously; “but he has made up a bundle of his things.”“The coward!” cried Uncle Josiah fiercely.“Gone! Gone! My poor boy!”“Hush!” cried the old man sternly. “He has sneaked off like a contemptible cur. No, I will not believe it of him,” he added impetuously. “Lindon has too much stuff in him to play such a despicable part. You are wrong, Laura. Come down and finish breakfast. I will not believe it of the boy.”“But he has gone, Josiah, he has gone,” sobbed his sister.“Then if he has, it is the yielding to a sudden impulse, and as soon as he comes to his senses he will return. Lindon will not be such a coward, Laura. Mark my words.”“You are saying this to comfort me,” said Mrs Lavington sadly.“I am saying what I think,” cried her brother. “If I thought he had gone right off, I would say so, but I do not think anything of the kind. He may have thought of doing so last night, but this morning he will repent and come back.”He took his sister’s hand gently, and led her downstairs, making her resume her place at the table, and taking his own again, as he made a pretence of going on with his breakfast; but before he had eaten his second mouthful there was a dull heavy thump at the front door.“There!” cried the old man; “what did I say? Here he is.”Before the front door could be opened, Kitty, who had been awakened by the knock, came in looking scared and strange.“Don,” she said; “I have been asleep. Has he come back?”“Yes I think this is he,” said the old man gently. “Come here, my pet; don’t shrink like that. I’m not angry.”“If you please, sir,” said Jessie, “here’s a woman from the yard.”“Mrs Wimble?”“Yes, sir; and can she speak to you a minute?”“Yes, I’ll come—no, show her in here. News. An ambassador, Laura,” said the old man with a grim smile, as Jessie went out. “There, Kitty, my dear, don’t cry. It will be all right soon.”At that moment little Mrs Wimble entered, white cheeked, red-eyed, limp and miserable looking, the very opposite of the trim little Sally who lorded it over her patient husband.“Mrs Wimble!” cried Mrs Lavington, catching the little woman’s arm excitedly; “you have brought some news about my son.”“No,” moaned Sally, with a passionate burst of sobs. “Went out tea-time, and never come back all night.”“Yes, yes, we know that,” said Uncle Josiah sternly; “but how did you know?”“Know, sir? I’ve been sitting up for him all this dreadful night.”“What, for my nephew?”“No, sir, for my Jem.”“Lindon—James Wimble!” said Uncle Josiah, as he sank back in his seat. “Impossible! It can’t be true.”
“Morning!” said Uncle Josiah, as, after a turn up and down the dining-room, he saw the door open and his sister enter, looking very pale and red-eyed. “Why, Laura, you have not been to bed.”
“Yes,” she said sadly. “I kept my word, and now I feel sorry that I did, for I fell into a heavy sleep from which I did not wake till half an hour ago.”
“Glad of it,” said her brother bluffly. “That’s right, my dear, make the tea; I want my breakfast, for I have plenty of work to-day.”
Mrs Lavington hastily made the tea, for the urn was hissing on the table when she came down, Uncle Josiah’s orders being that it was always to be ready at eight o’clock, and woe betide Jessie if it was not there.
“Have—have you seen Don this morning?”
“No. And when he comes down I shall not say a word. There, try and put a better face on the matter, my dear. He will have to appear at the magistrate’s office, and there will be a few admonitions. That’s all. Isn’t Kitty late?”
“Yes. Shall I send up for her?”
“No; she will be down in a few minutes, I daresay, and Lindon too.”
The few minutes passed, and Uncle Josiah looked stern. Then he rang for the servants, and his brow grew more heavy. Neither Kitty nor Lindon down to prayers.
“Shall I send up, Josiah?”
“No; they know what time we have prayers,” said the old man sternly; and upon the servants entering he read his customary chapter and the prayers, but no one stole in while the service was in progress, and when it was over the old merchant looked more severe than ever.
Mrs Lavington looked more troubled as her brother grew more severe, but she did not speak, feeling that she might make matters worse.
Just then Jessie brought in the ham and eggs, and as she took off the cover, and Mrs Lavington began to pour out tea, the old man said roughly,—
“Go and tell Miss Kitty to come down to breakfast directly.”
The maid left the room.
“You did not send a message to Don, Josiah.”
“No. I suppose his lordship was very late. No business to have gone out.”
Uncle Josiah began his breakfast. Mrs Lavington could not taste hers.
Then Jessie entered, looking startled.
“If you please, sir—”
“Well, if you please what?”
“Miss Kitty, sir.”
“Yes?”
“She’s not in her room.”
“Eh?” ejaculated the old merchant. “Humph! Come down and gone for a walk, I suppose. Back soon.”
The breakfast went on, but there was no Kitty, no Don, and Uncle Josiah began to eat his food ferociously.
At last he got up and rang the bell sharply, and Jessie responded.
“What time did Master Lindon come home?” he said.
“Come home, sir?”
“Yes; did I not speak plainly? I said what time did Master Lindon come home?”
“Please, sir, he didn’t come home at all.”
“What!” roared Uncle Josiah, and Mrs Lavington nearly let her cup fall.
“Please, sir, I sat in my chair waiting all the night.”
“And he has not been back?”
“No, sir.”
“Nonsense! Go and knock at his door. Tell him to come at once.”
“Excuse me, Josiah,” said Mrs Lavington excitedly; “let me go.”
Uncle Josiah grunted his consent, and Mrs Lavington hurried out into the hall, and then upstairs.
“Slipped in while you were half asleep,” said the old man to Jessie.
“No, sir, indeed. I’ve been watching carefully all night.”
“Humph! There’s half a crown for you to buy a hat ribbon, Jessie. Well,” he continued as his sister entered hastily, “what does he say?”
“Josiah!” cried the trembling woman, “what does this mean? Don was out when I went up yesterday evening, and he has not been to his room all night.”
“What?”
“Neither has Kitty been to hers.”
Uncle Josiah thrust back his chair, and left his half-eaten breakfast.
“Look here,” he exclaimed in a hoarse voice; “what nonsense is this?”
“No nonsense, Josiah,” cried Mrs Lavington. “I felt a presentiment.”
“Felt a stuff and nonsense!” he said angrily. “Kitty not in her room? Kitty not been to bed? Here, Jessie!”
“Yes, sir.”
“You did go to sleep, didn’t you?”
“Ye–e–e–s, sir!”
“I thought as much, and,”—here tut-tut-tut—“that would not explain it. Hullo, what do you want?”
This was to the cook, who tapped, opened the door, and then held up her hand as if to command silence.
“Please, ’m, would you mind coming here?” she said softly. Mrs Lavington ran to the door, followed the woman across the hall, unaware of the fact that the old merchant was close at her heels.
They paused as soon as they were inside the drawing-room, impressed by the scene before them, for there, half sitting, half lying, and fast asleep, with the tears on her cheeks still wet, as if she had wept as she lay there unconscious, was Kitty, for the bricks on the opposite wall had been too indistinct for her to see.
“Don’t wake her,” said Uncle Josiah softly, and he signed to them to go back into the hall, where he turned to Jessie.
“Did you see Miss Kitty last night?”
“Ye–es, sir.”
“Where?”
“She comed into the kitchen, sir.”
“After we had gone to bed?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you said nothing just now?”
“No, sir, I didn’t like to.”
“That will do. Be off,” said the old man sternly. “Laura. Here!”
Mrs Lavington followed her brother back into the dining-room.
“The poor child must have been sitting up to watch for Lindon’s return.”
“And he has not returned, Josiah,” sobbed Mrs Lavington.
“Here, stop! What are you going to do?”
“I am going up to his room to see,” said the sobbing woman.
Uncle Josiah made no opposition, for he read the mother’s thought, and followed her upstairs, where a half-open drawer told tales, and in a few moments Mrs Lavington had satisfied herself.
“I cannot say exactly,” she said piteously; “but he has made up a bundle of his things.”
“The coward!” cried Uncle Josiah fiercely.
“Gone! Gone! My poor boy!”
“Hush!” cried the old man sternly. “He has sneaked off like a contemptible cur. No, I will not believe it of him,” he added impetuously. “Lindon has too much stuff in him to play such a despicable part. You are wrong, Laura. Come down and finish breakfast. I will not believe it of the boy.”
“But he has gone, Josiah, he has gone,” sobbed his sister.
“Then if he has, it is the yielding to a sudden impulse, and as soon as he comes to his senses he will return. Lindon will not be such a coward, Laura. Mark my words.”
“You are saying this to comfort me,” said Mrs Lavington sadly.
“I am saying what I think,” cried her brother. “If I thought he had gone right off, I would say so, but I do not think anything of the kind. He may have thought of doing so last night, but this morning he will repent and come back.”
He took his sister’s hand gently, and led her downstairs, making her resume her place at the table, and taking his own again, as he made a pretence of going on with his breakfast; but before he had eaten his second mouthful there was a dull heavy thump at the front door.
“There!” cried the old man; “what did I say? Here he is.”
Before the front door could be opened, Kitty, who had been awakened by the knock, came in looking scared and strange.
“Don,” she said; “I have been asleep. Has he come back?”
“Yes I think this is he,” said the old man gently. “Come here, my pet; don’t shrink like that. I’m not angry.”
“If you please, sir,” said Jessie, “here’s a woman from the yard.”
“Mrs Wimble?”
“Yes, sir; and can she speak to you a minute?”
“Yes, I’ll come—no, show her in here. News. An ambassador, Laura,” said the old man with a grim smile, as Jessie went out. “There, Kitty, my dear, don’t cry. It will be all right soon.”
At that moment little Mrs Wimble entered, white cheeked, red-eyed, limp and miserable looking, the very opposite of the trim little Sally who lorded it over her patient husband.
“Mrs Wimble!” cried Mrs Lavington, catching the little woman’s arm excitedly; “you have brought some news about my son.”
“No,” moaned Sally, with a passionate burst of sobs. “Went out tea-time, and never come back all night.”
“Yes, yes, we know that,” said Uncle Josiah sternly; “but how did you know?”
“Know, sir? I’ve been sitting up for him all this dreadful night.”
“What, for my nephew?”
“No, sir, for my Jem.”
“Lindon—James Wimble!” said Uncle Josiah, as he sank back in his seat. “Impossible! It can’t be true.”