CHAPTER XXVIHOWLIE AND LLEWELLYN UNDERSTAND EACH OTHERHOWLIESEABORNE, who liked to get his money’s worth out of things, was anxious to see the performance through. He did not pay his neighbour of the black silk bonnet so much as the tribute of a glance as she pushed her way out behind the ex-sheep-stealer.He had still a respectable amount of coppers in his pocket, and while this held out, he had no thoughts of going home.The spectacle was assuming a very spirited character, for the blue muslin victim was beginning to realize her situation and the Dragon to writhe horribly. Popular interest was consequently rising to high-water-mark. Behind the stage St. George had mounted a spare-looking pony and was drawing a pasteboard sword. Bloodshed, in the spectators’ opinion, was the only thing left to be desired.Just behind Howlie stood two men who had been busy in the same part of the fair as Bumpett, and were now stopping for a minute to cast amused eyes on the realistic splendours of St. George. Squire Fenton and Llewellyn had finished their business and were on their way to the Bell Inn, where they had left their gig, but the hisses of the reptile gaping on the stage made them pause to see the end of the drama. Both recognized Howlie, for he had become something of a celebrity since the Rebecca riot, and they had also seen him at Crishowell Vicarage.The hoofs of the Saint’s steed were to be heard clattering onthe slanting board up which he had to ride to the platform, for the spare-looking pony was new to the work and seemed disinclined to go on. He had been borrowed to replace another animal which was sick and could not appear in the scene, and his rider, who, in a rough way, was something of a horseman, had to use a good deal of persuasion. At last, after some difficulty, he rode triumphantly forward to where the Dragon breathed forth fire and slaughter.The Dragon, like many of us, was made of different stuff inside from what one might have supposed. His interior was nothing less than two small boys, one of whom formed his head and fore-parts, while the other represented his tail; they were enclosed in padded straw covered with sacking roughly painted to represent scales, and the front boy had a little store of squibs and crackers which he fired out of the monster’s mouth as he went along.After being persuaded to get upon the stage, the pony moved forward a few steps, while his rider waved his sword, challenging the reptile loudly and advancing past the Princess to meet him. As soon as they came close together a perfect volcano of squibs flew out in the astonished beast’s face, and he reared up so suddenly that the Saint, who was lunging at his foe, almost lost his balance. The sword stuck in a crevice of the Dragon’s hide, and, though the blade was pasteboard, the stuff, being rotten, was ripped open, and a great patch of straw bulged out. Mr. Fenton and Llewellyn laughed, but the audience, which had little sense of incongruity, was as serious as ever. The Dragon, pleased to his inmost parts by his success, blew out another shower. One red spark settled on the straw, then another, and another. There was a crackle, an exclamation; the pony turned and jumped off the low platform into the middle of the people, depositing its rider at their feet, and the terrible scream of childish agony rose from the two poor little prisoners in their shroud of living flame.Women shrieked, the men made inarticulate noises andstared open-eyed. One or two moved in the irresolution of stupidity. The Squire caught at his son’s arm, unconsciously revealing that dependence of which he had never been suspected. But there was none to read the sign.Before any one could make up his mind what to do, Llewellyn Fenton had bounded on to the platform and was stooping over the blazing mass that writhed upon the boards, tearing with his strong hands a great opening in the fore-part of the Dragon. The smoke was blinding, and the oil and paint which coated the sacking gave substance to the flames. He had got fast hold of one of the boys and was dragging him free; through the reek he could see that his face was uninjured. But the fire was spreading its venomous tongues down towards the tail which contained another human life. One cannot do two things at once. He looked round in desperation and saw Howlie’s rabbit face at his side.“Tear it open!” he cried. “Tear it open!”A fresh burst of flame was blowing in his eyes.The boy he had rescued was on his feet, but the fire had caught his shirt and he was trying to break away in the madness of his terror.By this time Mr. Fenton had come close to the stage; he pulled off the thick coat he wore and tossed it up to Llewellyn. The young man smothered the child in its close folds, throwing him down and rolling him over as though he were fighting with a wild beast.The boy who played the other half of the Dragon was almost safe, thanks to Howlie’s efforts. He had broken out of his prison uninjured and was free, all but one leg which was held fast.In order that the monster might lash its tail properly there was a curious arrangement of steel wire at the point at which it began to narrow, and in this the victim’s foot had caught. The fire was approaching it and his cries increased; his struggles were pitiful to see. As Llewellyn had prevailed and wassupporting one boy, more frightened than hurt, the crowd’s horrified attention was now fixed on the other. It did not notice Howlie Seaborne, whose arms were plunged up to the elbows in the Dragon’s carcase. In each hand he grasped a piece of the steel-trap which he was forcing doggedly apart. His face was growing grey and his eyes stared; for almost the first time in his life his mouth was shut. This was because he was grinding his teeth together.The thing which takes so many words to say had happened all in a moment, and St. George had barely had time to extricate himself from his stirrup and to run behind the scenes. He now returned with a bucket of water, which he held upside down over the burning tail just as Howlie had bent the wires enough to set the prisoner free. The water hissed and the steam rose in a column.A few people from the crowd had come up and pressed in a little circle round the two children; the blue muslin lady was weeping tempestuously. The showman, in his costume of St. George, began, with Mr. Fenton, to examine the burnt foot. The boy was crying with pain, but the injuries did not seem extensive.“Well done, boy!” said Llewellyn, as he came up to Howlie, very white and smelling dreadfully of smoke.The words raised a ghost of the vertical smile, but it faded so strangely that he looked down lower than the rabbit face. “My God!” he cried, as he saw the arms and hands.The circle of onlookers turned round, and Mr. Fenton made an exclamation.“Is it very bad?” he asked with some futility.“Moight be worse, a’ suppose,” replied Howlie, as he fainted into Llewellyn’s arms.The little group was becoming the centre of a dense mass.People who stood in their places while they might have been of some use, now thrust their bodies between the fresh air and those who needed it, after the manner of crowds.It was very evident that, of the two sufferers, Howlie was the worst; pain was bringing him again to consciousness, and he lay back against Mr. Fenton’s shoulder, his face looking strangely unfamiliar; nothing seemed to remain the same but a certain stubbornness. Llewellyn was on his way to fetch his father’s gig, and, as he went, he pulled off the fragments of the dogskin driving-gloves which he had, by good fortune, been wearing when the accident occurred. A man was dispatched to the nearest doctor’s house. The Squire adjured the bystanders to summon the police, a request of which they naturally took no count, being disinclined to have themselves dispersed. Two or three talked about the Infirmary.Howlie’s eyes sought the Squire’s.“What is it, my boy?” said he.“Toike me ’ome to Parson’s,” said Howlie faintly.“Ah, the Infirmary; that be the place for he,” chimed in a man who had lately refused to go there himself when a drunken fight had laid his head open.The eyes kept their direction and the lips moved.On his way back Llewellyn overtook the doctor, and the two drove up together.Howlie’s hands and arms were temporarily dressed; the left one was in such a state that the doctor feared it would be permanently useless; he hoped, he said, to save the use of the other. He was young and shy, and he timidly suggested that the people were pressing too near. The sufferer had fainted again.The showman and Llewellyn simply threw one or two off the platform. The act was sudden and had a good effect.Soon the world came back to Howlie—a world of agony. Llewellyn bent down to him in answer to an unspoken prayer. “Parson’s, Parson’s,” murmured the boy.“What is it? What does he want, father?” asked Llewellyn, pity in every line of his strong face.“Poor little fellow, he wants to go back to Crishowell instead of to the Infirmary.”The dumb look grew more intense.Mr. Fenton seemed irresolute.“Parson’s, sir, Parson’s.” Tears which the pain had not brought were starting from Howlie’s eyes.“What will Lewis say? Llewellyn, do you hear?” said the Squire.There was a pause. The blue muslin princess, who had left the platform, was being consoled by Signora Louisa inside the tent; their high-pitched chatter flowed like a thin stream behind the canvas.“Eh, Llewellyn? Can’t you answer?” said Mr. Fenton testily.“Take him, father.”“But Lewis?”“I’ll go bail for him,” replied his son.“But who’s to look after him? Who’s to sit up with him? He’ll want that, doctor, won’t he?”“He will,” said the doctor gravely.Howlie’s eyes spoke again.“I shall,” said Llewellyn. “Father, you can spare me.”“Yes, yes. It isn’t that. But where are you to live, I should like to know? Lewis’ house must be full.”“Anywhere. The stable,” replied his son, with decision.“Nonsense, boy.”“You had better get him away,” hazarded the doctor; “the sooner he’s in bed the better.”With infinite gentleness, Llewellyn lifted Howlie and carried him to the gig.“You must drive, father,” he remarked.A gig is not a comfortable vehicle in which to carry an injured person, and Llewellyn, who had no support for his back, had great difficulty in keeping his charge from being shaken as they drove over the cobbled streets. Howlie laystill, but he moaned faintly now and then, and it was evident that he suffered much. Llewellyn’s arms ached, one side of his face was smeared with black, and his throat was sore from the smoke; a round blister just inside his wrist which he had not noticed before began to make itself felt, and the boy’s weight seemed to rest exactly upon the spot. He made landmarks as they went, and mentally checked off each as it passed. “The crooked elm,” “the turning to Brecon,” “the bridge,” “the laburnum tree,” and so on. His father talked continually about the folly of his staying at Crishowell to nurse Howlie, but he trusted to silence, that mighty weapon which so few of us are strong enough to wield. His mind was made up, and he knew that the Vicar would uphold him.“It’s very tiresome of you, Llewellyn, going against me in this way. What am I to do, I should like to know? I haven’t any one to see to the little things I chance to forget. Harry’s at home, certainly, but what use is he?”“Harry’s no fool,” replied his son, moved to speech by this.“I’m not so sure, with this senseless business about Miss Ridgeway. It’s all nonsense, I know,” said the Squire, who was apt to treat things he disliked as if they had not occurred, “but he came bothering me about it a couple of days ago. I told him I hadn’t time to talk to him, and I haven’t said a word to your mother yet. I supposeyouknow all about it?”“I thought it might happen,” admitted Llewellyn.“Then you should have told me,” said Mr. Fenton, with that forgetfulness of the unwritten code of youth which comes to so many when they have left it behind. “You and Harry give me more trouble in a year than Tom and Bob have in all their lives.”For a man of recognized good character the Squire told a wonderful number of untruths.His son smiled, but not obviously.“Surely this niece can look after him,” he continued, looking down at Howlie.Llewellyn shook his head; his trust in Isoline was small. He had sat up many nights with sick cows and horses and he knew what it was like.“And why not, pray?”“Oh, she’s not strong enough. She’s very young, father.”“And what are you, eh?”“Well, I’m a man, at least,” said Llewellyn.“A man!” Mr. Fenton snorted sarcastically. There was room for sarcasm, certainly, only he saw it in the wrong place.They had passed the church and were driving up to the Vicarage gate. Mr. Lewis was standing with Isoline in the garden, while a man put up some bee-hives on a wooden trestle. That suggestiveness which surrounds a wounded figure drew his eyes to the limp-looking bundle Llewellyn held so carefully. He came forward quickly and opened the gate.“There has been an accident,” said Mr. Fenton. “It’s your boy—the boy that works here.”“He’s badly burnt,” explained Llewellyn.Isoline had gone into the house when she had seen who the arrivals were.“Howell, my poor lad!” exclaimed the Vicar, coming up close to the cart. “Is he conscious?”Howlie’s voice muttered something indistinguishable.“I don’t know what you’ll say, Lewis. Hewouldcome here. Llewellyn is responsible,” said the Squire.“Of course we will take him. How are we to get him down, Llewellyn?”“He’s rather heavy,” said the young man, whose arms were stiff, “but if you would hold him while I get out, father, I might lift him.”The workman left his bee-hives, and between them they carried the sufferer in. Isoline, out of sight, watched them from over the staircase with horror in her face. Physical pain was a thing she could understand.After some discussion, it was settled that Llewellyn shouldstay and take charge of Howlie; he would take no denial, and Mr. Fenton had to give in. The boy was to have a bed in a large spare room behind the kitchen, and Llewellyn a mattress on the floor near him. Mr. Lewis made no remonstrance when he saw how his eyes followed the young man.“I’ll take care of him entirely,” said Llewellyn; “you need have no trouble, sir. I’ve looked after sick things often enough. You won’t mind letting me stay a day or two?”“I should even like it,” replied the Vicar, laying his hand on his shoulder.The cook was making things ready to get Howlie to bed, and Mr. Fenton was anxious to start for home; it was long past noon, and he had to send his son’s things over from Waterchurch. The doctor, who was coming out to Crishowell, was to call late in the afternoon.Isoline kept herself carefully out of the way; a meeting with Mr. Fenton would be extremely awkward, and she had no desire to see Llewellyn at any time. Her uncle felt sorry for her, though he mentally applauded her good sense in remaining up-stairs, and he slipped away for a moment to tell her what had happened.She was sitting by the window of her room as he entered, looking rather worried; anything was unwelcome which recalled to her the entanglement of which she longed so heartily to be free. The gig stood outside at the end of the garden; it was by no means new, and though the Squire looked carefully after everything connected with the stable, it was a shabby article. Her glance wandered over it with distaste.She was startled by his entrance, half fearing that he had come to summon her to an interview with Mr. Fenton. She wanted time to think. She had not made up her mind whether she would see Harry again, or write to him, or whether she would ask her uncle to tell him of her decision. The latter course would be the pleasantest of the three, but there were difficulties even there.The way Mr. Lewis had taken the matter had complicated it. He had seemed unable to imagine that an accurate knowledge of Harry’s prospects could make any difference to her feelings, and if her lover should wring a consent from his father, there would be nothing she could do short of breaking with him on her own initiative. She would be able to give no reason but the real one, and that she hardly liked to do. She dared not say, “I thought you were rich, but I find you are poor, so I will not marry you.”Her uncle might certainly make the objection for her with some propriety, but how was she to ask him to do so? Though she had no love for him, a certain respect had crept into her secret soul which made her hesitate to lay it bare before his eyes; he took too much for granted. She knew that her deliverance lay in the Squire’s probable disapproval, and that disapproval would make a suitable meekness becoming in herself. Meanwhile she would neither see Harry nor any one belonging to him. But it was all harassing enough. Her heart jumped as the Vicar came in.“You may be wondering what has happened, Isoline. Poor Howell has had a dreadful accident. It seems there was a play going on at Llangarth Fair, and something caught fire; Llewellyn Fenton and he put it out together, and saved the lives of two children. Howell’s hands and arms are badly burnt, brave boy that he is.”“Fancy Howell doing that! I should never have believed it of him,” exclaimed the girl, whose estimate of human nature was entirely feminine. To dislike a person was to prove him incapable of a high action.“Mr. Fenton will be gone in a few minutes. It is wise of you, my dear, to stay in your room. You are a good girl.”She did not reply, but looked out of the window. The Vicar felt rather chilled.“You are all right up here?” he asked awkwardly.“Yes, thank you.”He went out. At the foot of the stairs stood the Squire, hat in hand.“I’m off, Lewis; it’s getting late,” he said.“You don’t want any talk with me?” asked the Vicar, rather surprised.“I do, I do—but I will write,” said Mr. Fenton, as he opened the front door hurriedly.
HOWLIESEABORNE, who liked to get his money’s worth out of things, was anxious to see the performance through. He did not pay his neighbour of the black silk bonnet so much as the tribute of a glance as she pushed her way out behind the ex-sheep-stealer.
He had still a respectable amount of coppers in his pocket, and while this held out, he had no thoughts of going home.
The spectacle was assuming a very spirited character, for the blue muslin victim was beginning to realize her situation and the Dragon to writhe horribly. Popular interest was consequently rising to high-water-mark. Behind the stage St. George had mounted a spare-looking pony and was drawing a pasteboard sword. Bloodshed, in the spectators’ opinion, was the only thing left to be desired.
Just behind Howlie stood two men who had been busy in the same part of the fair as Bumpett, and were now stopping for a minute to cast amused eyes on the realistic splendours of St. George. Squire Fenton and Llewellyn had finished their business and were on their way to the Bell Inn, where they had left their gig, but the hisses of the reptile gaping on the stage made them pause to see the end of the drama. Both recognized Howlie, for he had become something of a celebrity since the Rebecca riot, and they had also seen him at Crishowell Vicarage.
The hoofs of the Saint’s steed were to be heard clattering onthe slanting board up which he had to ride to the platform, for the spare-looking pony was new to the work and seemed disinclined to go on. He had been borrowed to replace another animal which was sick and could not appear in the scene, and his rider, who, in a rough way, was something of a horseman, had to use a good deal of persuasion. At last, after some difficulty, he rode triumphantly forward to where the Dragon breathed forth fire and slaughter.
The Dragon, like many of us, was made of different stuff inside from what one might have supposed. His interior was nothing less than two small boys, one of whom formed his head and fore-parts, while the other represented his tail; they were enclosed in padded straw covered with sacking roughly painted to represent scales, and the front boy had a little store of squibs and crackers which he fired out of the monster’s mouth as he went along.
After being persuaded to get upon the stage, the pony moved forward a few steps, while his rider waved his sword, challenging the reptile loudly and advancing past the Princess to meet him. As soon as they came close together a perfect volcano of squibs flew out in the astonished beast’s face, and he reared up so suddenly that the Saint, who was lunging at his foe, almost lost his balance. The sword stuck in a crevice of the Dragon’s hide, and, though the blade was pasteboard, the stuff, being rotten, was ripped open, and a great patch of straw bulged out. Mr. Fenton and Llewellyn laughed, but the audience, which had little sense of incongruity, was as serious as ever. The Dragon, pleased to his inmost parts by his success, blew out another shower. One red spark settled on the straw, then another, and another. There was a crackle, an exclamation; the pony turned and jumped off the low platform into the middle of the people, depositing its rider at their feet, and the terrible scream of childish agony rose from the two poor little prisoners in their shroud of living flame.
Women shrieked, the men made inarticulate noises andstared open-eyed. One or two moved in the irresolution of stupidity. The Squire caught at his son’s arm, unconsciously revealing that dependence of which he had never been suspected. But there was none to read the sign.
Before any one could make up his mind what to do, Llewellyn Fenton had bounded on to the platform and was stooping over the blazing mass that writhed upon the boards, tearing with his strong hands a great opening in the fore-part of the Dragon. The smoke was blinding, and the oil and paint which coated the sacking gave substance to the flames. He had got fast hold of one of the boys and was dragging him free; through the reek he could see that his face was uninjured. But the fire was spreading its venomous tongues down towards the tail which contained another human life. One cannot do two things at once. He looked round in desperation and saw Howlie’s rabbit face at his side.
“Tear it open!” he cried. “Tear it open!”
A fresh burst of flame was blowing in his eyes.
The boy he had rescued was on his feet, but the fire had caught his shirt and he was trying to break away in the madness of his terror.
By this time Mr. Fenton had come close to the stage; he pulled off the thick coat he wore and tossed it up to Llewellyn. The young man smothered the child in its close folds, throwing him down and rolling him over as though he were fighting with a wild beast.
The boy who played the other half of the Dragon was almost safe, thanks to Howlie’s efforts. He had broken out of his prison uninjured and was free, all but one leg which was held fast.
In order that the monster might lash its tail properly there was a curious arrangement of steel wire at the point at which it began to narrow, and in this the victim’s foot had caught. The fire was approaching it and his cries increased; his struggles were pitiful to see. As Llewellyn had prevailed and wassupporting one boy, more frightened than hurt, the crowd’s horrified attention was now fixed on the other. It did not notice Howlie Seaborne, whose arms were plunged up to the elbows in the Dragon’s carcase. In each hand he grasped a piece of the steel-trap which he was forcing doggedly apart. His face was growing grey and his eyes stared; for almost the first time in his life his mouth was shut. This was because he was grinding his teeth together.
The thing which takes so many words to say had happened all in a moment, and St. George had barely had time to extricate himself from his stirrup and to run behind the scenes. He now returned with a bucket of water, which he held upside down over the burning tail just as Howlie had bent the wires enough to set the prisoner free. The water hissed and the steam rose in a column.
A few people from the crowd had come up and pressed in a little circle round the two children; the blue muslin lady was weeping tempestuously. The showman, in his costume of St. George, began, with Mr. Fenton, to examine the burnt foot. The boy was crying with pain, but the injuries did not seem extensive.
“Well done, boy!” said Llewellyn, as he came up to Howlie, very white and smelling dreadfully of smoke.
The words raised a ghost of the vertical smile, but it faded so strangely that he looked down lower than the rabbit face. “My God!” he cried, as he saw the arms and hands.
The circle of onlookers turned round, and Mr. Fenton made an exclamation.
“Is it very bad?” he asked with some futility.
“Moight be worse, a’ suppose,” replied Howlie, as he fainted into Llewellyn’s arms.
The little group was becoming the centre of a dense mass.
People who stood in their places while they might have been of some use, now thrust their bodies between the fresh air and those who needed it, after the manner of crowds.
It was very evident that, of the two sufferers, Howlie was the worst; pain was bringing him again to consciousness, and he lay back against Mr. Fenton’s shoulder, his face looking strangely unfamiliar; nothing seemed to remain the same but a certain stubbornness. Llewellyn was on his way to fetch his father’s gig, and, as he went, he pulled off the fragments of the dogskin driving-gloves which he had, by good fortune, been wearing when the accident occurred. A man was dispatched to the nearest doctor’s house. The Squire adjured the bystanders to summon the police, a request of which they naturally took no count, being disinclined to have themselves dispersed. Two or three talked about the Infirmary.
Howlie’s eyes sought the Squire’s.
“What is it, my boy?” said he.
“Toike me ’ome to Parson’s,” said Howlie faintly.
“Ah, the Infirmary; that be the place for he,” chimed in a man who had lately refused to go there himself when a drunken fight had laid his head open.
The eyes kept their direction and the lips moved.
On his way back Llewellyn overtook the doctor, and the two drove up together.
Howlie’s hands and arms were temporarily dressed; the left one was in such a state that the doctor feared it would be permanently useless; he hoped, he said, to save the use of the other. He was young and shy, and he timidly suggested that the people were pressing too near. The sufferer had fainted again.
The showman and Llewellyn simply threw one or two off the platform. The act was sudden and had a good effect.
Soon the world came back to Howlie—a world of agony. Llewellyn bent down to him in answer to an unspoken prayer. “Parson’s, Parson’s,” murmured the boy.
“What is it? What does he want, father?” asked Llewellyn, pity in every line of his strong face.
“Poor little fellow, he wants to go back to Crishowell instead of to the Infirmary.”
The dumb look grew more intense.
Mr. Fenton seemed irresolute.
“Parson’s, sir, Parson’s.” Tears which the pain had not brought were starting from Howlie’s eyes.
“What will Lewis say? Llewellyn, do you hear?” said the Squire.
There was a pause. The blue muslin princess, who had left the platform, was being consoled by Signora Louisa inside the tent; their high-pitched chatter flowed like a thin stream behind the canvas.
“Eh, Llewellyn? Can’t you answer?” said Mr. Fenton testily.
“Take him, father.”
“But Lewis?”
“I’ll go bail for him,” replied his son.
“But who’s to look after him? Who’s to sit up with him? He’ll want that, doctor, won’t he?”
“He will,” said the doctor gravely.
Howlie’s eyes spoke again.
“I shall,” said Llewellyn. “Father, you can spare me.”
“Yes, yes. It isn’t that. But where are you to live, I should like to know? Lewis’ house must be full.”
“Anywhere. The stable,” replied his son, with decision.
“Nonsense, boy.”
“You had better get him away,” hazarded the doctor; “the sooner he’s in bed the better.”
With infinite gentleness, Llewellyn lifted Howlie and carried him to the gig.
“You must drive, father,” he remarked.
A gig is not a comfortable vehicle in which to carry an injured person, and Llewellyn, who had no support for his back, had great difficulty in keeping his charge from being shaken as they drove over the cobbled streets. Howlie laystill, but he moaned faintly now and then, and it was evident that he suffered much. Llewellyn’s arms ached, one side of his face was smeared with black, and his throat was sore from the smoke; a round blister just inside his wrist which he had not noticed before began to make itself felt, and the boy’s weight seemed to rest exactly upon the spot. He made landmarks as they went, and mentally checked off each as it passed. “The crooked elm,” “the turning to Brecon,” “the bridge,” “the laburnum tree,” and so on. His father talked continually about the folly of his staying at Crishowell to nurse Howlie, but he trusted to silence, that mighty weapon which so few of us are strong enough to wield. His mind was made up, and he knew that the Vicar would uphold him.
“It’s very tiresome of you, Llewellyn, going against me in this way. What am I to do, I should like to know? I haven’t any one to see to the little things I chance to forget. Harry’s at home, certainly, but what use is he?”
“Harry’s no fool,” replied his son, moved to speech by this.
“I’m not so sure, with this senseless business about Miss Ridgeway. It’s all nonsense, I know,” said the Squire, who was apt to treat things he disliked as if they had not occurred, “but he came bothering me about it a couple of days ago. I told him I hadn’t time to talk to him, and I haven’t said a word to your mother yet. I supposeyouknow all about it?”
“I thought it might happen,” admitted Llewellyn.
“Then you should have told me,” said Mr. Fenton, with that forgetfulness of the unwritten code of youth which comes to so many when they have left it behind. “You and Harry give me more trouble in a year than Tom and Bob have in all their lives.”
For a man of recognized good character the Squire told a wonderful number of untruths.
His son smiled, but not obviously.
“Surely this niece can look after him,” he continued, looking down at Howlie.
Llewellyn shook his head; his trust in Isoline was small. He had sat up many nights with sick cows and horses and he knew what it was like.
“And why not, pray?”
“Oh, she’s not strong enough. She’s very young, father.”
“And what are you, eh?”
“Well, I’m a man, at least,” said Llewellyn.
“A man!” Mr. Fenton snorted sarcastically. There was room for sarcasm, certainly, only he saw it in the wrong place.
They had passed the church and were driving up to the Vicarage gate. Mr. Lewis was standing with Isoline in the garden, while a man put up some bee-hives on a wooden trestle. That suggestiveness which surrounds a wounded figure drew his eyes to the limp-looking bundle Llewellyn held so carefully. He came forward quickly and opened the gate.
“There has been an accident,” said Mr. Fenton. “It’s your boy—the boy that works here.”
“He’s badly burnt,” explained Llewellyn.
Isoline had gone into the house when she had seen who the arrivals were.
“Howell, my poor lad!” exclaimed the Vicar, coming up close to the cart. “Is he conscious?”
Howlie’s voice muttered something indistinguishable.
“I don’t know what you’ll say, Lewis. Hewouldcome here. Llewellyn is responsible,” said the Squire.
“Of course we will take him. How are we to get him down, Llewellyn?”
“He’s rather heavy,” said the young man, whose arms were stiff, “but if you would hold him while I get out, father, I might lift him.”
The workman left his bee-hives, and between them they carried the sufferer in. Isoline, out of sight, watched them from over the staircase with horror in her face. Physical pain was a thing she could understand.
After some discussion, it was settled that Llewellyn shouldstay and take charge of Howlie; he would take no denial, and Mr. Fenton had to give in. The boy was to have a bed in a large spare room behind the kitchen, and Llewellyn a mattress on the floor near him. Mr. Lewis made no remonstrance when he saw how his eyes followed the young man.
“I’ll take care of him entirely,” said Llewellyn; “you need have no trouble, sir. I’ve looked after sick things often enough. You won’t mind letting me stay a day or two?”
“I should even like it,” replied the Vicar, laying his hand on his shoulder.
The cook was making things ready to get Howlie to bed, and Mr. Fenton was anxious to start for home; it was long past noon, and he had to send his son’s things over from Waterchurch. The doctor, who was coming out to Crishowell, was to call late in the afternoon.
Isoline kept herself carefully out of the way; a meeting with Mr. Fenton would be extremely awkward, and she had no desire to see Llewellyn at any time. Her uncle felt sorry for her, though he mentally applauded her good sense in remaining up-stairs, and he slipped away for a moment to tell her what had happened.
She was sitting by the window of her room as he entered, looking rather worried; anything was unwelcome which recalled to her the entanglement of which she longed so heartily to be free. The gig stood outside at the end of the garden; it was by no means new, and though the Squire looked carefully after everything connected with the stable, it was a shabby article. Her glance wandered over it with distaste.
She was startled by his entrance, half fearing that he had come to summon her to an interview with Mr. Fenton. She wanted time to think. She had not made up her mind whether she would see Harry again, or write to him, or whether she would ask her uncle to tell him of her decision. The latter course would be the pleasantest of the three, but there were difficulties even there.
The way Mr. Lewis had taken the matter had complicated it. He had seemed unable to imagine that an accurate knowledge of Harry’s prospects could make any difference to her feelings, and if her lover should wring a consent from his father, there would be nothing she could do short of breaking with him on her own initiative. She would be able to give no reason but the real one, and that she hardly liked to do. She dared not say, “I thought you were rich, but I find you are poor, so I will not marry you.”
Her uncle might certainly make the objection for her with some propriety, but how was she to ask him to do so? Though she had no love for him, a certain respect had crept into her secret soul which made her hesitate to lay it bare before his eyes; he took too much for granted. She knew that her deliverance lay in the Squire’s probable disapproval, and that disapproval would make a suitable meekness becoming in herself. Meanwhile she would neither see Harry nor any one belonging to him. But it was all harassing enough. Her heart jumped as the Vicar came in.
“You may be wondering what has happened, Isoline. Poor Howell has had a dreadful accident. It seems there was a play going on at Llangarth Fair, and something caught fire; Llewellyn Fenton and he put it out together, and saved the lives of two children. Howell’s hands and arms are badly burnt, brave boy that he is.”
“Fancy Howell doing that! I should never have believed it of him,” exclaimed the girl, whose estimate of human nature was entirely feminine. To dislike a person was to prove him incapable of a high action.
“Mr. Fenton will be gone in a few minutes. It is wise of you, my dear, to stay in your room. You are a good girl.”
She did not reply, but looked out of the window. The Vicar felt rather chilled.
“You are all right up here?” he asked awkwardly.
“Yes, thank you.”
He went out. At the foot of the stairs stood the Squire, hat in hand.
“I’m off, Lewis; it’s getting late,” he said.
“You don’t want any talk with me?” asked the Vicar, rather surprised.
“I do, I do—but I will write,” said Mr. Fenton, as he opened the front door hurriedly.