Chapter Thirty One.

Chapter Thirty One.History Repeats Itself.Vane made his way straight to the rectory, with a fixed intention in his mind. The idea had been growing for days: now it was quite ripe, consequent, perhaps, on the state of mind produced by the scene at the manor.“It will be more frank and manly,” he said to himself. “He’s different to us and can’t help his temper, so I’ll look over everything, and say ‘what’s the good of our being bad friends. Shake hands and forgive me. I’m a rougher, coarser fellow than you are, and I dare say I’ve often said things that hurt you when I didn’t mean it.’”“Come, he can’t get over that,” said Vane, half-aloud, and full of eagerness to get Distin alone, he turned up the rectory lane, and came at once upon Gilmore and Macey.“Hullo, Weathercock,” cried the latter, “which way does the wind blow?”“Due east.”“That’s rectory way.”“Yes; is Distie in?”“No; what do you want with him. He doesn’t want you. Come along with us,” said Gilmore.“No, I want to see Distie—which way did he go?”“Toward the moor,” said Macey, with an air of mock mystery. “There’s something going on, old chap.”“What do you mean?”“A little girl came and waited about the gate till we were in the grounds, and then she began to signal and I went to her. But she didn’t want me. She said she wanted to give this to that tall gentleman.”“This?” said Vane. “What was this?”“A piece of stick, with notches cut in it,” said Macey.“You’re not chaffing, are you?”“Not a bit of it. I went and told Distie, and he turned red as a bubby-jock and went down to the gate, took the stick, stuck it in his pocket, and then marched off.”“Why, what does that mean?” cried Vane.“I don’t know,” said Macey. “Distie must belong to some mysterious bund or verein, as the Germans call it. Perhaps he’s a Rosicrucian, or a member of a mysterious sect, and this was a summons to a meeting.”“Get out,” cried Vane.“Well, are you coming with us? Aleck has had a big tip from home, and wants to spend it.”“Yes; do come, Vane.”“No, not to-day,” cried the lad, and he turned off and walked away sharply to avoid being tempted into staying before he had seen Distin, and “had it out,” as he termed it.“Hi! Weathercock!” shouted Macey, “better stop. I’ve invented something—want your advice.”“Not to be gammoned,” shouted back Vane; and he went off at a sharp trot, leaped a stile and went on across the fields, his only aim being to get away from his companions, but as soon as he was out of sight, he hesitated, stopped, and then went sharply off to his left.“I’ll follow Distie,” he muttered. “The moor’s a good place for a row. He can shout at me there, and get in a passion. Then he’ll cool down, and we shall be all right again—and a good job too,” he added. “It is so stupid for two fellows studying together to be bad friends.”By making a few short cuts, and getting over and through hedges, Vane managed to take a bee-line for the moor, and upon reaching it, he had a good look round, but there was no sign of Distin.“He may be lying down somewhere,” thought Vane, as he strode on, making his way across the moor in the direction of the wood, but still there was no sign of Distin, even after roaming about for an hour, at times scanning the surface of the long wild steep, at others following the line of drooping trees at the chalk-bank edge, but for the most part forgetting all about the object of his search, as his attention was taken up by the flowers and plants around. There was, too, so much to think about in the scene at home, that afternoon, and as he recalled it all, Vane set his teeth, and asked himself whether the time was not coming when he must set aside boyish things, and begin to think seriously of his future as a man.He went on and on, so used to the moor that it seemed as if his legs required no guidance, but left his brain at liberty to think of other things than the course he was taking, while he wondered how long it would be before he left Greythorpe, and whether he should have to go to London or some one of the big manufacturing towns.There was Mr Deering, too, ready to take up a good deal of his thought. And now it seemed cruel that this man should have come amongst them to disturb the current of a serene and peaceful life.“I think he ought to be told so, too,” said Vane to himself; “but I suppose that it ought not to come from me.”He had to pause for a few moments to extricate himself from a tangle of brambles consequent upon his having trusted his legs too much, and, looking up then, he found that he was a very short distance from the edge of the beech-wood, and a second glance showed him that he was very near the spot where he had dug for the truffles, and then encountered the two gipsy lads.A feeling of desire sprang up at once in him to see the spot again, and, meaning to go in among the trees till he had passed over the ground on his way along the edge of the wood to where he could strike across to the deep lane, he waded over the pebbles of the little stream, dried his boots in the soft, white sand on the other side, and ran lightly up the bank, to step at once in among the leaves and beech-mast.It was delightfully cool and shady after the hot sunshine of the moor, and he was winding in and out among the great, smooth tree-trunks, looking for the spot where he had had his struggle, when he fancied that he heard the murmur of voices not far away.“Fancy—or wood pigeons,” he said to himself; and, involuntarily imitating the soft, sweettoo roochetty coo rooof the birds, he went on, but only to be convinced directly after that those were voices which he had heard; and, as he still went on in his course, he knew that, after all, he was going to encounter Distin, for it was undoubtedly his voice, followed by a heavy, dull utterance, like a thick, hoarse whisper.Vane bore off a little to the left. His curiosity was deeply stirred, for he knew that Distin had received some kind of message, and he had followed him, but it was with the idea of meeting him on his return. For he could not play the eavesdropper; and, feeling that he had inadvertently come upon business that was not his, he increased his pace, only to be arrested by an angry cry, followed by these words, distinctly heard from among the trees:“No, not another sixpence; so do your worst!”The voice was Distin’s, undoubtedly; and, as no more was said, Vane began to hurry away. He had nothing to do with Distin’s money matters, and he was walking fast when there was the rapid beat of feet away to his right, but parallel with the way he was going. Then there was a rush, a shout, a heavy fall, and a half-smothered voice cried “Help!”That did seem to be Vane’s business, and he struck off to the right directly, to bear through a denser part of the wood, and come to an opening, which struck him at once as being the one where he had had his encounter with the gipsy lads.The very next moment, with every nerve tingling, he was running toward where he could see his two enemies kneeling upon someone they had got down; and, though he could not see the face, he knew it was Distin whom they were both thumping with all their might.“Now will you?” he heard, as he rushed forward toward the group, all of whose constituents were so much excited by their struggle that they did not hear his approach.“No,” shouted Vane, throwing himself upon them, but not so cleverly as he had meant, for his toe caught in a protruding root, and he pitched forward more like a skittle-ball than a boy, knocking over the two gipsy lads, and himself rolling over amongst the beech-mast and dead leaves.Distin’s two assailants were so startled and astonished that they, too, rolled over and over hurriedly several times before they scrambled to their feet, and dived in among the trees.But Vane was up, too, on the instant.“Here, Dis!” he shouted; “help me take them.”Distin had risen, too, very pale everywhere in the face but about the nose, which was very ruddy, for reasons connected with a blow, but, as Vane ran on, he did not follow.“Do you hear? Come on!” cried Vane, looking back. “Help me, and we can take them both.”But Distin only glanced round for a way of retreat, and, seeing that Vane was alone, the two gipsy lads dodged behind a tree, and cleverly kept it between them as he rushed on, and then sprang out at him, taking him in the rear, and getting a couple of blows home as he turned to defend himself.“History repeats itself,” he muttered, through his set teeth; “but they haven’t got any sticks;” and, determined now to make a prisoner of one of them, he attacked fiercely, bringing to bear all the strength and skill he possessed, for there was no sign of shrinking on the part of the two lads, who came at him savagely, as if enraged at his robbing them of their prey.There were no sticks now, as Vane had said; it was an attack with nature’s weapons, but the two gipsy lads had had their tempers whetted in their encounter with Distin, and, after the first fright caused by Vane’s sudden attack, they met him furiously.They were no mean adversaries, so long as spirit nerved them, for they were active and hard as cats, and had had a long experience in giving and taking blows. So that, full of courage and indignation as he was, Vane soon began to find that he was greatly overmatched, and, in the midst of his giving and taking, he looked about anxiously for Distin, but for some time looked in vain.All at once, though, as he stepped back to avoid a blow he saw Distin peering round the trunk of one of the trees.“Oh, there you are,” he panted, “come on and help me.”Distin did not stir, and one of the gipsy lads burst into a hoarse laugh.“Not he,” cried the lad. “Why, he give us money to leather you before.”Distin made an angry gesture, but checked himself.“Take that for your miserable lie,” cried Vane, and his gift was a stinging blow in the lad’s mouth, which made him shrink away, and make room for his brother, who seized the opportunity of Vane’s arm and body being extended, to strike him full in the ear, and make him lose his balance.“’Tarn’t a lie,” cried this latter. “He did give us three shillin’ apiece to leather you.”The lad speaking followed up his words with blows, and Vane was pretty hard set, while a conscious feeling of despair came over him on hearing of Distin’s treachery.But he forced himself not to credit it, and struck out with all his might.“I don’t believe it,” he roared, “a gentleman wouldn’t do such a thing.”“But he aren’t a gent,” said the first lad, coming on again, with his lips bleeding. “Promised to pay us well, and he weant.”“Come and show them it’s all a lie, Dis,” cried Vane, breathlessly. “Come and help me.”But Distin never stirred. He only stood glaring at the scene before him, his lips drawn from his white teeth, and his whole aspect betokening that he was fascinated by the fight.“Do you hear?” roared Vane at last, hoarsely. “You’re never going to be such a coward as to let them serve me as they did before.”Still Distin did not stir, and a burst of rage made the blood flush to Vane’s temples, as he ground his teeth and raged out with:“You miserable, contemptible cur!”He forgot everything now. All sense of fear—all dread of being beaten by two against one—was gone, and as if he had suddenly become possessed with double his former strength, he watchfully put aside several of the fierce blows struck at him, and dodged others, letting his opponents weary themselves, while he husbanded his strength.It was hard work, though, to keep from exposing himself in some fit of blind fury, for the lads, by helping each other, kept on administering stinging blows, every one of which made Vane grind his teeth, and long to rush in and close with one or the other of his adversaries.But he mastered the desire, knowing that it would be fatal to success, for the gipsies were clever wrestlers, and would have the advantage, besides which, one of them could easily close and hold while the other punished him.“I wouldn’t have believed it. I wouldn’t have believed it,” he kept on muttering as he caught sight of Distin’s pallid face again and again, while avoiding the dodges and attempts to close on the part of the gipsies.At last, feeling that this could not go on, and weakened by his efforts, Vane determined to try, and, by a sudden rush, contrive to render one of his adversarieshors de combat, when, to his great delight, they both drew off, either for a few minutes’ rest, or to concoct some fresh mode of attack.Whatever it might be, the respite was welcome to Vane, who took advantage of it to throw off his Norfolk jacket; but watching his adversaries the while, lest they should make a rush while he was comparatively helpless.But they did not, and tossing the jacket aside he rapidly rolled up his sleeves, and tightened the band of his trousers, feeling refreshed and strengthened by every breath he drew.“Now,” he said to himself as the gipsies whispered together, “let them come on.”But they did not attack, one of them standing ready to make a rush, while the other went to the edge of the wood to reconnoitre.“It means fighting to the last then,” thought Vane, and a shiver ran through him as he recalled his last encounter.Perhaps it was this, and the inequality of the match which made him turn to where Distin still stood motionless.“I say, Dis,” he cried, appealingly, “I won’t believe all they said. We’ll be friends, when it’s all over, but don’t leave me in the lurch like this.”Distin looked at him wildly, but still neither spoke nor stirred, and Vane did not realise that he was asking his fellow-pupil that which he was not likely to give. For the latter was thinking,—“Even if he will not believe it, others will,” and he stared wildly at Vane’s bruised and bleeding face with a curious feeling of envy at his prowess.“Right,” shouted the gipsy lad who had been on the look-out, and running smartly forward, he dashed at Vane, followed by his brother, and the fight recommenced.“If they would only come on fairly, I wouldn’t care,” thought Vane, as he did his best to combat the guerilla-like warfare his enemies kept up, for he did not realise that wearisome as all their feinting, dodging and dropping to avoid blows, and their clever relief of each other might be, a bold and vigorous closing with them would have been fatal. And, oddly enough, though they had sought to do this at first, during the latter part of the encounter they had kept aloof, though perhaps it was no wonder, for Vane had given some telling blows, such as they did not wish to suffer again.“I shall have to finish it, somehow,” thought Vane, as he felt that he was growing weaker; and throwing all the vigour and skill into his next efforts, he paid no heed whatever to the blows given him by one of the lads, but pressed the other heavily, following him up, and at last, when he felt nearly done, aiming a tremendous left-handed blow at his cheek.As if to avoid the blow, the lad dropped on his hands and knees, but this time he was a little too late; the blow took effect, and his falling was accelerated so that he rolled over and over, while unable to stop himself, Vane’s body followed his fist and he, too, fell with a heavy thud, full on his adversary’s chest.Vane was conscious of both his knees coming heavily upon the lad, and he only saved his face from coming in contact with the ground by throwing up his head.Then, he sprang up, as, for the first time during the encounter, Distin uttered a warning cry.It warned Vane, who avoided the second lad’s onslaught, and gave him a smart crack on the chest and another on the nose.This gave him time to glance at his fallen enemy, who did not try to get up.It was only a momentary glance, and then he was fighting desperately, for the second boy seemed to be maddened by the fate of the first. Casting off all feinting now, he dashed furiously at Vane, giving and receiving blows till the lads closed in a fierce wrestling match, in which Vane’s superior strength told, and in another moment or two, he would have thrown his adversary, had not the lad lying unconscious on the dead leaves, lent his brother unexpected aid. For he was right in Vane’s way, so that he tripped over him, fell heavily with the second gipsy lad upon his chest, holding him down with his knees and one hand in his collar, while he raised the other, and was about to strike him heavily in the face, when there was a dull sound and he fell over upon his brother, leaving Vane free.“Thankye, Dis,” he panted, as he struggled to his knees; “that crack of yours was just in time,” and the rector’s two pupils looked each other in the face.It was only for a moment, though, and then Vane seated himself to recover breath on the uppermost of his fallen foes.

Vane made his way straight to the rectory, with a fixed intention in his mind. The idea had been growing for days: now it was quite ripe, consequent, perhaps, on the state of mind produced by the scene at the manor.

“It will be more frank and manly,” he said to himself. “He’s different to us and can’t help his temper, so I’ll look over everything, and say ‘what’s the good of our being bad friends. Shake hands and forgive me. I’m a rougher, coarser fellow than you are, and I dare say I’ve often said things that hurt you when I didn’t mean it.’”

“Come, he can’t get over that,” said Vane, half-aloud, and full of eagerness to get Distin alone, he turned up the rectory lane, and came at once upon Gilmore and Macey.

“Hullo, Weathercock,” cried the latter, “which way does the wind blow?”

“Due east.”

“That’s rectory way.”

“Yes; is Distie in?”

“No; what do you want with him. He doesn’t want you. Come along with us,” said Gilmore.

“No, I want to see Distie—which way did he go?”

“Toward the moor,” said Macey, with an air of mock mystery. “There’s something going on, old chap.”

“What do you mean?”

“A little girl came and waited about the gate till we were in the grounds, and then she began to signal and I went to her. But she didn’t want me. She said she wanted to give this to that tall gentleman.”

“This?” said Vane. “What was this?”

“A piece of stick, with notches cut in it,” said Macey.

“You’re not chaffing, are you?”

“Not a bit of it. I went and told Distie, and he turned red as a bubby-jock and went down to the gate, took the stick, stuck it in his pocket, and then marched off.”

“Why, what does that mean?” cried Vane.

“I don’t know,” said Macey. “Distie must belong to some mysterious bund or verein, as the Germans call it. Perhaps he’s a Rosicrucian, or a member of a mysterious sect, and this was a summons to a meeting.”

“Get out,” cried Vane.

“Well, are you coming with us? Aleck has had a big tip from home, and wants to spend it.”

“Yes; do come, Vane.”

“No, not to-day,” cried the lad, and he turned off and walked away sharply to avoid being tempted into staying before he had seen Distin, and “had it out,” as he termed it.

“Hi! Weathercock!” shouted Macey, “better stop. I’ve invented something—want your advice.”

“Not to be gammoned,” shouted back Vane; and he went off at a sharp trot, leaped a stile and went on across the fields, his only aim being to get away from his companions, but as soon as he was out of sight, he hesitated, stopped, and then went sharply off to his left.

“I’ll follow Distie,” he muttered. “The moor’s a good place for a row. He can shout at me there, and get in a passion. Then he’ll cool down, and we shall be all right again—and a good job too,” he added. “It is so stupid for two fellows studying together to be bad friends.”

By making a few short cuts, and getting over and through hedges, Vane managed to take a bee-line for the moor, and upon reaching it, he had a good look round, but there was no sign of Distin.

“He may be lying down somewhere,” thought Vane, as he strode on, making his way across the moor in the direction of the wood, but still there was no sign of Distin, even after roaming about for an hour, at times scanning the surface of the long wild steep, at others following the line of drooping trees at the chalk-bank edge, but for the most part forgetting all about the object of his search, as his attention was taken up by the flowers and plants around. There was, too, so much to think about in the scene at home, that afternoon, and as he recalled it all, Vane set his teeth, and asked himself whether the time was not coming when he must set aside boyish things, and begin to think seriously of his future as a man.

He went on and on, so used to the moor that it seemed as if his legs required no guidance, but left his brain at liberty to think of other things than the course he was taking, while he wondered how long it would be before he left Greythorpe, and whether he should have to go to London or some one of the big manufacturing towns.

There was Mr Deering, too, ready to take up a good deal of his thought. And now it seemed cruel that this man should have come amongst them to disturb the current of a serene and peaceful life.

“I think he ought to be told so, too,” said Vane to himself; “but I suppose that it ought not to come from me.”

He had to pause for a few moments to extricate himself from a tangle of brambles consequent upon his having trusted his legs too much, and, looking up then, he found that he was a very short distance from the edge of the beech-wood, and a second glance showed him that he was very near the spot where he had dug for the truffles, and then encountered the two gipsy lads.

A feeling of desire sprang up at once in him to see the spot again, and, meaning to go in among the trees till he had passed over the ground on his way along the edge of the wood to where he could strike across to the deep lane, he waded over the pebbles of the little stream, dried his boots in the soft, white sand on the other side, and ran lightly up the bank, to step at once in among the leaves and beech-mast.

It was delightfully cool and shady after the hot sunshine of the moor, and he was winding in and out among the great, smooth tree-trunks, looking for the spot where he had had his struggle, when he fancied that he heard the murmur of voices not far away.

“Fancy—or wood pigeons,” he said to himself; and, involuntarily imitating the soft, sweettoo roochetty coo rooof the birds, he went on, but only to be convinced directly after that those were voices which he had heard; and, as he still went on in his course, he knew that, after all, he was going to encounter Distin, for it was undoubtedly his voice, followed by a heavy, dull utterance, like a thick, hoarse whisper.

Vane bore off a little to the left. His curiosity was deeply stirred, for he knew that Distin had received some kind of message, and he had followed him, but it was with the idea of meeting him on his return. For he could not play the eavesdropper; and, feeling that he had inadvertently come upon business that was not his, he increased his pace, only to be arrested by an angry cry, followed by these words, distinctly heard from among the trees:

“No, not another sixpence; so do your worst!”

The voice was Distin’s, undoubtedly; and, as no more was said, Vane began to hurry away. He had nothing to do with Distin’s money matters, and he was walking fast when there was the rapid beat of feet away to his right, but parallel with the way he was going. Then there was a rush, a shout, a heavy fall, and a half-smothered voice cried “Help!”

That did seem to be Vane’s business, and he struck off to the right directly, to bear through a denser part of the wood, and come to an opening, which struck him at once as being the one where he had had his encounter with the gipsy lads.The very next moment, with every nerve tingling, he was running toward where he could see his two enemies kneeling upon someone they had got down; and, though he could not see the face, he knew it was Distin whom they were both thumping with all their might.

“Now will you?” he heard, as he rushed forward toward the group, all of whose constituents were so much excited by their struggle that they did not hear his approach.

“No,” shouted Vane, throwing himself upon them, but not so cleverly as he had meant, for his toe caught in a protruding root, and he pitched forward more like a skittle-ball than a boy, knocking over the two gipsy lads, and himself rolling over amongst the beech-mast and dead leaves.

Distin’s two assailants were so startled and astonished that they, too, rolled over and over hurriedly several times before they scrambled to their feet, and dived in among the trees.

But Vane was up, too, on the instant.

“Here, Dis!” he shouted; “help me take them.”

Distin had risen, too, very pale everywhere in the face but about the nose, which was very ruddy, for reasons connected with a blow, but, as Vane ran on, he did not follow.

“Do you hear? Come on!” cried Vane, looking back. “Help me, and we can take them both.”

But Distin only glanced round for a way of retreat, and, seeing that Vane was alone, the two gipsy lads dodged behind a tree, and cleverly kept it between them as he rushed on, and then sprang out at him, taking him in the rear, and getting a couple of blows home as he turned to defend himself.

“History repeats itself,” he muttered, through his set teeth; “but they haven’t got any sticks;” and, determined now to make a prisoner of one of them, he attacked fiercely, bringing to bear all the strength and skill he possessed, for there was no sign of shrinking on the part of the two lads, who came at him savagely, as if enraged at his robbing them of their prey.

There were no sticks now, as Vane had said; it was an attack with nature’s weapons, but the two gipsy lads had had their tempers whetted in their encounter with Distin, and, after the first fright caused by Vane’s sudden attack, they met him furiously.

They were no mean adversaries, so long as spirit nerved them, for they were active and hard as cats, and had had a long experience in giving and taking blows. So that, full of courage and indignation as he was, Vane soon began to find that he was greatly overmatched, and, in the midst of his giving and taking, he looked about anxiously for Distin, but for some time looked in vain.

All at once, though, as he stepped back to avoid a blow he saw Distin peering round the trunk of one of the trees.

“Oh, there you are,” he panted, “come on and help me.”

Distin did not stir, and one of the gipsy lads burst into a hoarse laugh.

“Not he,” cried the lad. “Why, he give us money to leather you before.”

Distin made an angry gesture, but checked himself.

“Take that for your miserable lie,” cried Vane, and his gift was a stinging blow in the lad’s mouth, which made him shrink away, and make room for his brother, who seized the opportunity of Vane’s arm and body being extended, to strike him full in the ear, and make him lose his balance.

“’Tarn’t a lie,” cried this latter. “He did give us three shillin’ apiece to leather you.”

The lad speaking followed up his words with blows, and Vane was pretty hard set, while a conscious feeling of despair came over him on hearing of Distin’s treachery.

But he forced himself not to credit it, and struck out with all his might.

“I don’t believe it,” he roared, “a gentleman wouldn’t do such a thing.”

“But he aren’t a gent,” said the first lad, coming on again, with his lips bleeding. “Promised to pay us well, and he weant.”

“Come and show them it’s all a lie, Dis,” cried Vane, breathlessly. “Come and help me.”

But Distin never stirred. He only stood glaring at the scene before him, his lips drawn from his white teeth, and his whole aspect betokening that he was fascinated by the fight.

“Do you hear?” roared Vane at last, hoarsely. “You’re never going to be such a coward as to let them serve me as they did before.”

Still Distin did not stir, and a burst of rage made the blood flush to Vane’s temples, as he ground his teeth and raged out with:

“You miserable, contemptible cur!”

He forgot everything now. All sense of fear—all dread of being beaten by two against one—was gone, and as if he had suddenly become possessed with double his former strength, he watchfully put aside several of the fierce blows struck at him, and dodged others, letting his opponents weary themselves, while he husbanded his strength.

It was hard work, though, to keep from exposing himself in some fit of blind fury, for the lads, by helping each other, kept on administering stinging blows, every one of which made Vane grind his teeth, and long to rush in and close with one or the other of his adversaries.

But he mastered the desire, knowing that it would be fatal to success, for the gipsies were clever wrestlers, and would have the advantage, besides which, one of them could easily close and hold while the other punished him.

“I wouldn’t have believed it. I wouldn’t have believed it,” he kept on muttering as he caught sight of Distin’s pallid face again and again, while avoiding the dodges and attempts to close on the part of the gipsies.

At last, feeling that this could not go on, and weakened by his efforts, Vane determined to try, and, by a sudden rush, contrive to render one of his adversarieshors de combat, when, to his great delight, they both drew off, either for a few minutes’ rest, or to concoct some fresh mode of attack.

Whatever it might be, the respite was welcome to Vane, who took advantage of it to throw off his Norfolk jacket; but watching his adversaries the while, lest they should make a rush while he was comparatively helpless.

But they did not, and tossing the jacket aside he rapidly rolled up his sleeves, and tightened the band of his trousers, feeling refreshed and strengthened by every breath he drew.

“Now,” he said to himself as the gipsies whispered together, “let them come on.”

But they did not attack, one of them standing ready to make a rush, while the other went to the edge of the wood to reconnoitre.

“It means fighting to the last then,” thought Vane, and a shiver ran through him as he recalled his last encounter.

Perhaps it was this, and the inequality of the match which made him turn to where Distin still stood motionless.

“I say, Dis,” he cried, appealingly, “I won’t believe all they said. We’ll be friends, when it’s all over, but don’t leave me in the lurch like this.”

Distin looked at him wildly, but still neither spoke nor stirred, and Vane did not realise that he was asking his fellow-pupil that which he was not likely to give. For the latter was thinking,—

“Even if he will not believe it, others will,” and he stared wildly at Vane’s bruised and bleeding face with a curious feeling of envy at his prowess.

“Right,” shouted the gipsy lad who had been on the look-out, and running smartly forward, he dashed at Vane, followed by his brother, and the fight recommenced.

“If they would only come on fairly, I wouldn’t care,” thought Vane, as he did his best to combat the guerilla-like warfare his enemies kept up, for he did not realise that wearisome as all their feinting, dodging and dropping to avoid blows, and their clever relief of each other might be, a bold and vigorous closing with them would have been fatal. And, oddly enough, though they had sought to do this at first, during the latter part of the encounter they had kept aloof, though perhaps it was no wonder, for Vane had given some telling blows, such as they did not wish to suffer again.

“I shall have to finish it, somehow,” thought Vane, as he felt that he was growing weaker; and throwing all the vigour and skill into his next efforts, he paid no heed whatever to the blows given him by one of the lads, but pressed the other heavily, following him up, and at last, when he felt nearly done, aiming a tremendous left-handed blow at his cheek.

As if to avoid the blow, the lad dropped on his hands and knees, but this time he was a little too late; the blow took effect, and his falling was accelerated so that he rolled over and over, while unable to stop himself, Vane’s body followed his fist and he, too, fell with a heavy thud, full on his adversary’s chest.

Vane was conscious of both his knees coming heavily upon the lad, and he only saved his face from coming in contact with the ground by throwing up his head.

Then, he sprang up, as, for the first time during the encounter, Distin uttered a warning cry.

It warned Vane, who avoided the second lad’s onslaught, and gave him a smart crack on the chest and another on the nose.

This gave him time to glance at his fallen enemy, who did not try to get up.

It was only a momentary glance, and then he was fighting desperately, for the second boy seemed to be maddened by the fate of the first. Casting off all feinting now, he dashed furiously at Vane, giving and receiving blows till the lads closed in a fierce wrestling match, in which Vane’s superior strength told, and in another moment or two, he would have thrown his adversary, had not the lad lying unconscious on the dead leaves, lent his brother unexpected aid. For he was right in Vane’s way, so that he tripped over him, fell heavily with the second gipsy lad upon his chest, holding him down with his knees and one hand in his collar, while he raised the other, and was about to strike him heavily in the face, when there was a dull sound and he fell over upon his brother, leaving Vane free.

“Thankye, Dis,” he panted, as he struggled to his knees; “that crack of yours was just in time,” and the rector’s two pupils looked each other in the face.

It was only for a moment, though, and then Vane seated himself to recover breath on the uppermost of his fallen foes.

Chapter Thirty Two.Having it out.“Now,” said Vane, after sitting, panting for a few minutes, “I came out to-day on purpose to find you, and ask you to shake hands. Glad I got here in time to help you. Shake hands, now.”“No,” said Distin, slowly; “I can’t do that.”“Nonsense! I say these two have got it. Why not?”“Because,” said Distin, with almost a groan, “I’m not fit. My hands are not clean.”“Wash ’em then, or never mind.”“You know what I mean,” said Distin. “What they said was true.”Vane stared at him in astonishment.“Yes, it’s quite true,” said Distin, bitterly. “I’ve behaved like a blackguard.”Just at that moment, the top gipsy began to struggle, and Vane gave him a tremendous clout on the ear.“Lie still or I’ll knock your head off,” he cried, fiercely.“You don’t mean to say you set these two brutes to knock me about with sticks?”“Yes, he did,” cried the top boy.“Yes, I did,” said Distin, after making an effort as if to swallow something. “I paid them, and they have pestered me for money ever since. They sent to me to-day to come out to them, and I gave them more, but they were not satisfied and were knocking me about when you came.”The lower prisoner now began to complain, and with cause, for his brother was lying across his chest, so that he had the weight of two to bear; but Vane reached down suddenly and placed his fist on the lad’s nose, with a heavy grinding motion.“You dare to move, that’s all,” he growled, threateningly, and the lad drew a deep breath, and lay still, while Distin went on as if something within him were forcing this confession.“There,” he said, “it’s all over now. They’ve kept out of sight of the police all this time, and sent messages to me from where they were in hiding, and I’ve had to come and pay them. I’ve been like a slave to them, and they’ve degraded me till I’ve felt as if I couldn’t bear it.”“And all for what?” said Vane, angrily. “I never did you any harm.”“I couldn’t help it,” said Distin. “I hated you, I suppose. I tell you, I’ve behaved like a blackguard, and I suppose I shall be punished for it, but I’d rather it was so than go on like I have lately.”“Look here,” cried Vane, savagely, and he raised himself up a little as if he were riding on horseback, and then nipped his human steed with his knees, and bumped himself down so heavily that both the gipsy lads yelled. “Yes, I meant to hurt you. I say, look here, I know what you both mean. You are going to try and heave me off, and run for it, but don’t you try it, my lads, or it will be the worse for you. It’s my turn this time, and you don’t get away, so be still. Do you hear? Lie still!”Vane’s voice sounded so deep and threatening that the lads lay perfectly quiescent, and Distin went on.“Better get out your handkerchief,” he said, taking out his own, “and we’ll tie their hands behind them, and march them to Bates’ place.”“You’ll help me then?” said Vane.“Yes.”“Might as well have helped me before, and then I shouldn’t have been so knocked about.”Distin shook his head, and began to roll up his pocket-handkerchief to form a cord.“There’s no hurry,” said Vane, thoughtfully. “I want a rest.”The lowermost boy uttered a groan, for his imprisonment was painful.“Better let’s get it over,” said Distin, advancing and planting a foot on a prisoner who looked as if he were meditating an attempt to escape.“No hurry,” said Vane, quietly, “you haven’t been fighting and got pumped out. Besides, it wants thinking about. I don’t quite understand it yet. I can’t see why you should do what you did. It was so cowardly.”“Don’t I know all that,” cried Distin, fiercely. “Hasn’t it been eating into me? I’m supposed to be a gentleman, and I’ve acted toward you like a miserable cad, and disgraced myself forever. It’s horrible and I want to get it over.”“I don’t,” said Vane, slowly.“Can’t you see how maddening it is. I’ve got to go with you to take these beasts—no, I will not call them that, for I tempted them with money to do it all, and they have turned and bitten me.”“Yes: that was being hoist with your own petard, Mr Engineer,” cried Vane, merrily.“Don’t laugh at me,” cried Distin with a stamp of the foot. “Can’t you see how I’m degraded; how bitter a sting it was to see you, whom I tried to injure, come to my help. Isn’t it all a judgment on me?”“Don’t know,” said Vane looking at him stolidly and then frowning and administering a sounding punch in the ribs to his restive seat, with the effect that there was another yell.“You make light of it,” continued Distin, “for you cannot understand what I feel. I have, I say, to take these brutes up to the police—”“No, no,” cried the two lads, piteously.”—And then go straight to Syme, and confess everything, and of course he’ll expel me. Nice preparation for a college life; and what will they say at home?”“Yes,” said Vane, echoing the other’s words; “what will they say at home? You mean over in Trinidad?”Distin bowed his head, his nervous-looking face working from the anguish he felt, and his lower lip quivering with the mental agony and shame.“Trinidad’s a long way off,” said Vane, thoughtfully.“No place is far off now,” cried Distin, passionately. “And if it were ten times as far, what then? Don’t I know it? Do you think I can ever forget it all?”“No,” said Vane; “you never will. I suppose it must have made you uncomfortable all along.”“Don’t—don’t talk about it,” cried Distin, piteously. “There, come along, you must be rested now.”“Look here,” cried one of the lads, shrilly; “if you tak’ us up to Greytrop we’ll tell all about it.”Vane gave another bump.“What’s the good of that, stupid,” he said. “Mr Distin would tell first.”“Yes,” said the young fellow firmly; and as Vane looked at his determined countenance, he felt as if he had never liked him so well before; “I shall tell first. Come what may, Vane Lee, you shan’t have it against me that I did not speak out openly. Now, come.”“Not yet,” said Vane, stubbornly. “I’m resting.”There was a pause, and one of the gipsy lads began to snivel.“Oh, pray, good, kind gen’l’man, let us go this time, and we’ll never do so any more. Do, please, good gen’l’man, let us go.”“If you don’t stop that miserable, pitiful, cowardly howling, you cur,” cried Vane so savagely that the lad stared at him with his mouth open, “I’ll gag that mouth of yours with moss. Lie still!”Vane literally yelled this last order at the lad, and the mouth shut with a snap, while its owner stared at him in dismay.“I only wish I could have you standing up and lying down too,” cried Vane, “or that it wasn’t cowardly to punch your wretched heads now you are down.”There was another pause, during which the lowermost boy began to groan, but he ceased upon Vane giving a fresh bump.“I shall be obliged now, Mr Lee,” said Distin, quickly, “by your helping to tie those two scoundrels.”“No more a scoundrel than you are,” said the lowermost boy fiercely; and Vane gave another bump.“Don’t hurt him,” said Distin. “He only spoke the truth. Come, let’s turn this one over.”Vane did not stir, but sat staring hard in Distin’s face.“Look here,” he said at last; “you mean what you say about the police and Mr Syme?”“Yes, of course.”“And you understand what will follow?”Distin bowed as he drew his breath hard through his teeth.“You will not be able to stop at the rectory even if that busybody Bates doesn’t carry it over to the magistrates.”“I know everything,” said Distin, firmly, and he drew a long breath now of relief. “I am set upon it, even if I never hold up my head again.”“All right,” said Vane in his peculiar, hard, stubborn way. “You’ve made up your mind; then I’ve made up mine.”“What do you mean?” said Distin.“Wait and see,” said Vane, shortly.“But I wish to get it over.”“I know you do. But you’re all right. Look at me, I can’t see, but expect my face is all puffy; and look at my knuckles. These fellows have got heads like wood.”“I am sorry, very sorry,” said Distin, sadly; “but I want to make all the reparation I can.”“Give me that handkerchief,” said Vane sharply; and he snatched it from Distin’s hand. “No, no, keep back. I’ll do what there is to do. They’re not fit to touch. Ah, would you!”The top boy had suddenly thrown up his head in an effort to free himself. But his forehead came in contact with Vane’s fist and he dropped back with a groan.“Hurt, did it!” said Vane, bending down, and whispering a few words. Then aloud, as he rose. “Now, then, get up and let me tie your hands behind you.”The lad rose slowly and painfully.“Turn round and put your hands behind you,” cried Vane.The lad obeyed, and then as if shot from a bow he leaped over his prostrate brother with a loud whoop and dashed off among the trees.“No, no, it’s of no use,” cried Vane as Distin started in pursuit; “you might just as well try to catch a hare. Now you, sir, up with you.”The second lad rose, groaning as if lame and helpless, turning his eyes piteously upon his captor; and then, quick as lightning, he too started off.“Loo, loo, loo!” shouted Vane, clapping his hands as if cheering on a greyhound. “I say, Distie, how the beggars can run.”A defiant shout answered him, and Vane clapped his hands to his mouth and yelled:“Po-lice—if you ever come again.”“Yah!” came back from the wood, and Distin cried, angrily:“You let them go on purpose.”“Of course I did,” said Vane. “Here’s your handkerchief. You don’t suppose I would take them up, and hand them over to the police, and let you lower yourself like you said, do you?”“Yes—yes,” cried Distin, speaking like a hysterical girl. “I will tell everything now; how I was tempted, and how I fell.”“Bother!” cried Vane, gruffly. “That isn’t like an English lad should speak. You did me a cowardly, dirty trick, and you confessed to me that you were sorry for it. Do you think I’m such a mean beast that I want to take revenge upon you!”“But it is my duty—I feel bound—I must speak,” cried Distin, in a choking voice.“Nonsense! It’s all over. I’m the person injured, and I say I won’t have another word said. I came out this afternoon to ask you to make friends, and to shake hands. There’s mine, and let the past be dead.”Vane stood holding out his hand, but it was not taken.“Do you hear?” he cried. “Shake hands.”“I can’t,” groaned Distin, with a piteous look. “I told you before mine are not clean.”“Mine are,” said Vane, meaning, of course, metaphorically; “and perhaps—no, there is no perhaps—mine will clean yours.”Vane took the young Creole’s hand almost by force, and gave it a painful grip, releasing it at last for Distin to turn to the nearest tree, lay his arm upon the trunk, and then lean his forehead against it in silence.Vane stood looking at him, hesitating as to what he should say or do. Then, with a satisfied nod to himself, he said, cheerily:“I’m going down to the stream to have a wash. Come on soon.”It was a bit of natural delicacy, and the sensitive lad, born in a tropic land, felt it as he stood there with his brain filled with bitterness and remorse, heaping self-reproaches upon himself, and more miserable than he had ever before been in his life.“I do believe he’s crying,” thought Vane, as he hurried out of the woodland shade, and down to the water’s edge, where, kneeling down by a little crystal pool, he washed his stained and bleeding hands, and then began to bathe his face and temples.“Not quite so hot as I was,” he muttered; “but, oh, what a mess I’m in! I shan’t be fit to show myself, and must stop out till it’s dark. What would poor aunt say if she saw me! Frighten her nearly into fits.”He was scooping up the fresh, cool water, and holding it to his bruises, which pained him a good deal, but, in spite of all his sufferings, he burst into a hearty fit of laughter at last, and, as his eyes were closed, he did not notice that a shadow was cast over him, right on to the water.It was Distin, for he had come quietly down the bank, and was standing just behind him.“Are you laughing at me?” he said, bitterly.“Eh? You there?” cried Vane, raising his head. “No, I was grinning at the way those two fellows scuttled off. They made sure they were going to be in the lock-up to-night.”“Where they ought to have been,” said Distin.“Oh, I don’t know. They’re half-wild sort of fellows—very cunning, and all that sort of thing. I daresay I should have done as they did if I had been a gipsy. But, never mind that now. They’ll keep away from Greythorpe for long enough to come.”He began dabbing his face with his handkerchief, and looking merrily at Distin.“I say,” he cried; “I didn’t know I could fight like that. Is my face very queer?”“It is bruised and swollen,” said Distin, with an effort. “I’m afraid it will be worse to-morrow.”“So am I, but we can’t help it. Never mind, it will be a bit of a holiday for me till the bruises don’t show; and I can sit and think out something else. Come and see me sometimes.”“I can’t, Vane, I can’t,” cried Distin, wildly. “Do you think I have no feeling?”“Too much, I should say,” cried Vane. “There, why don’t you let it go? Uncle says life isn’t long enough for people to quarrel or make enemies. That’s all over; and, I say, I feel ever so much more comfortable now. Haven’t got such a thing as a tumbler in your pocket, have you?”Distin looked in the bruised and battered face before him, wondering at the lad’s levity, as Vane continued:“No, I suppose you haven’t, and my silver cup is on the sideboard. Never mind: here goes. Just stand close to me, and shout if you see any leeches coming.”As he spoke, he lay down on his chest, reaching over another clear portion of the stream.“I must drink like a horse,” he cried; and, placing his lips to the surface, he took a long draught, rose, wiped his lips, drew a deep breath, and exclaimed, “Hah! That was good.”Then he reeled, caught at the air, and would have fallen, but Distin seized him, and lowered him to the ground, where he lay, looking very ghastly, for a few minutes.“Only a bit giddy,” he said, faintly. “It will soon go off.”“I’ll run and fetch help,” cried Distin, excitedly.“Nonsense! What for? I’m getting better. There: that’s it.”He sat up, and, with Distin’s help, struggled to his feet.“How stupid of me!” he said, with a faint laugh. “I suppose it was leaning over the water so long. I’m all right now.”He made a brave effort, and the two lads walked toward the lane, but, before they had gone many yards, Vane reeled again.This time the vertigo was slighter, and, taking Distin’s arm, he kept his feet.“Let’s walk on,” he said. “I daresay the buzzy noise and singing in my head will soon pass off.”He was right: it did, and they progressed slowly till they reached the lane, where the walking was better, but Vane was still glad to retain Distin’s help, and so it happened that, when they were about a mile from the rectory, Gilmore and Macey, who were in search of them, suddenly saw something which made them stare.“I say,” cried Macey; “’tisn’t real, is it? Wait till I’ve rubbed my eyes.”“Why, they’ve made it up,” cried Gilmore. “I say, Aleck, don’t say a word.”“Why not?”“I mean don’t chaff them or Dis may go off like powder. You know what he is.”“I won’t speak a word, but, I say, it’s Weathercock’s doing. He has invented some decoction to charm creoles, and henceforth old Dis will be quite tame.”As they drew nearer, Gilmore whispered:“They’ve been having it out.”“Yes, and Weathercock has had an awful licking; look at his phiz.”“No,” said Gilmore. “Vane has licked; and it’s just like him, he hasn’t hit Dis in the face once. Don’t notice it.”“Not I.”They were within speaking distance now; and Distin’s sallow countenance showed two burning red spots in the cheeks.“Hullo!” cried Vane. “Come to meet us?”“Yes,” said Gilmore; “we began to think you were lost.”“Oh, no,” said Vane, carelessly. “Been some distance and the time soon goes. I think I’ll turn off here, and get home across the meadows. Good-evening, you two. Good-night, Dis, old chap.”“Good-night,” said Distin, huskily, as he took the bruised and slightly bleeding hand held out to him. Then turning away, he walked swiftly on.“Why, Vane, old boy,” whispered Gilmore, “what’s going on?”Vane must have read of Douglas Jerrold’s smart reply, for he said, merrily:“I am; good-night,” and he was gone.“I’m blest!” cried Macey; giving his leg a slap.“He has gone in back way so as not to be seen,” cried Gilmore.“That’s it,” cried Macey, excitedly. “Well, of all the old Weathercocks that ever did show which way the wind blew—”He did not finish that sentence, but repeated his former words—“I’m blest!”

“Now,” said Vane, after sitting, panting for a few minutes, “I came out to-day on purpose to find you, and ask you to shake hands. Glad I got here in time to help you. Shake hands, now.”

“No,” said Distin, slowly; “I can’t do that.”

“Nonsense! I say these two have got it. Why not?”

“Because,” said Distin, with almost a groan, “I’m not fit. My hands are not clean.”

“Wash ’em then, or never mind.”

“You know what I mean,” said Distin. “What they said was true.”

Vane stared at him in astonishment.

“Yes, it’s quite true,” said Distin, bitterly. “I’ve behaved like a blackguard.”

Just at that moment, the top gipsy began to struggle, and Vane gave him a tremendous clout on the ear.

“Lie still or I’ll knock your head off,” he cried, fiercely.

“You don’t mean to say you set these two brutes to knock me about with sticks?”

“Yes, he did,” cried the top boy.

“Yes, I did,” said Distin, after making an effort as if to swallow something. “I paid them, and they have pestered me for money ever since. They sent to me to-day to come out to them, and I gave them more, but they were not satisfied and were knocking me about when you came.”

The lower prisoner now began to complain, and with cause, for his brother was lying across his chest, so that he had the weight of two to bear; but Vane reached down suddenly and placed his fist on the lad’s nose, with a heavy grinding motion.

“You dare to move, that’s all,” he growled, threateningly, and the lad drew a deep breath, and lay still, while Distin went on as if something within him were forcing this confession.

“There,” he said, “it’s all over now. They’ve kept out of sight of the police all this time, and sent messages to me from where they were in hiding, and I’ve had to come and pay them. I’ve been like a slave to them, and they’ve degraded me till I’ve felt as if I couldn’t bear it.”

“And all for what?” said Vane, angrily. “I never did you any harm.”

“I couldn’t help it,” said Distin. “I hated you, I suppose. I tell you, I’ve behaved like a blackguard, and I suppose I shall be punished for it, but I’d rather it was so than go on like I have lately.”

“Look here,” cried Vane, savagely, and he raised himself up a little as if he were riding on horseback, and then nipped his human steed with his knees, and bumped himself down so heavily that both the gipsy lads yelled. “Yes, I meant to hurt you. I say, look here, I know what you both mean. You are going to try and heave me off, and run for it, but don’t you try it, my lads, or it will be the worse for you. It’s my turn this time, and you don’t get away, so be still. Do you hear? Lie still!”

Vane’s voice sounded so deep and threatening that the lads lay perfectly quiescent, and Distin went on.

“Better get out your handkerchief,” he said, taking out his own, “and we’ll tie their hands behind them, and march them to Bates’ place.”

“You’ll help me then?” said Vane.

“Yes.”

“Might as well have helped me before, and then I shouldn’t have been so knocked about.”

Distin shook his head, and began to roll up his pocket-handkerchief to form a cord.

“There’s no hurry,” said Vane, thoughtfully. “I want a rest.”

The lowermost boy uttered a groan, for his imprisonment was painful.

“Better let’s get it over,” said Distin, advancing and planting a foot on a prisoner who looked as if he were meditating an attempt to escape.

“No hurry,” said Vane, quietly, “you haven’t been fighting and got pumped out. Besides, it wants thinking about. I don’t quite understand it yet. I can’t see why you should do what you did. It was so cowardly.”

“Don’t I know all that,” cried Distin, fiercely. “Hasn’t it been eating into me? I’m supposed to be a gentleman, and I’ve acted toward you like a miserable cad, and disgraced myself forever. It’s horrible and I want to get it over.”

“I don’t,” said Vane, slowly.

“Can’t you see how maddening it is. I’ve got to go with you to take these beasts—no, I will not call them that, for I tempted them with money to do it all, and they have turned and bitten me.”

“Yes: that was being hoist with your own petard, Mr Engineer,” cried Vane, merrily.

“Don’t laugh at me,” cried Distin with a stamp of the foot. “Can’t you see how I’m degraded; how bitter a sting it was to see you, whom I tried to injure, come to my help. Isn’t it all a judgment on me?”

“Don’t know,” said Vane looking at him stolidly and then frowning and administering a sounding punch in the ribs to his restive seat, with the effect that there was another yell.

“You make light of it,” continued Distin, “for you cannot understand what I feel. I have, I say, to take these brutes up to the police—”

“No, no,” cried the two lads, piteously.

”—And then go straight to Syme, and confess everything, and of course he’ll expel me. Nice preparation for a college life; and what will they say at home?”

“Yes,” said Vane, echoing the other’s words; “what will they say at home? You mean over in Trinidad?”

Distin bowed his head, his nervous-looking face working from the anguish he felt, and his lower lip quivering with the mental agony and shame.

“Trinidad’s a long way off,” said Vane, thoughtfully.

“No place is far off now,” cried Distin, passionately. “And if it were ten times as far, what then? Don’t I know it? Do you think I can ever forget it all?”

“No,” said Vane; “you never will. I suppose it must have made you uncomfortable all along.”

“Don’t—don’t talk about it,” cried Distin, piteously. “There, come along, you must be rested now.”

“Look here,” cried one of the lads, shrilly; “if you tak’ us up to Greytrop we’ll tell all about it.”

Vane gave another bump.

“What’s the good of that, stupid,” he said. “Mr Distin would tell first.”

“Yes,” said the young fellow firmly; and as Vane looked at his determined countenance, he felt as if he had never liked him so well before; “I shall tell first. Come what may, Vane Lee, you shan’t have it against me that I did not speak out openly. Now, come.”

“Not yet,” said Vane, stubbornly. “I’m resting.”

There was a pause, and one of the gipsy lads began to snivel.

“Oh, pray, good, kind gen’l’man, let us go this time, and we’ll never do so any more. Do, please, good gen’l’man, let us go.”

“If you don’t stop that miserable, pitiful, cowardly howling, you cur,” cried Vane so savagely that the lad stared at him with his mouth open, “I’ll gag that mouth of yours with moss. Lie still!”

Vane literally yelled this last order at the lad, and the mouth shut with a snap, while its owner stared at him in dismay.

“I only wish I could have you standing up and lying down too,” cried Vane, “or that it wasn’t cowardly to punch your wretched heads now you are down.”

There was another pause, during which the lowermost boy began to groan, but he ceased upon Vane giving a fresh bump.

“I shall be obliged now, Mr Lee,” said Distin, quickly, “by your helping to tie those two scoundrels.”

“No more a scoundrel than you are,” said the lowermost boy fiercely; and Vane gave another bump.

“Don’t hurt him,” said Distin. “He only spoke the truth. Come, let’s turn this one over.”

Vane did not stir, but sat staring hard in Distin’s face.

“Look here,” he said at last; “you mean what you say about the police and Mr Syme?”

“Yes, of course.”

“And you understand what will follow?”

Distin bowed as he drew his breath hard through his teeth.

“You will not be able to stop at the rectory even if that busybody Bates doesn’t carry it over to the magistrates.”

“I know everything,” said Distin, firmly, and he drew a long breath now of relief. “I am set upon it, even if I never hold up my head again.”

“All right,” said Vane in his peculiar, hard, stubborn way. “You’ve made up your mind; then I’ve made up mine.”

“What do you mean?” said Distin.

“Wait and see,” said Vane, shortly.

“But I wish to get it over.”

“I know you do. But you’re all right. Look at me, I can’t see, but expect my face is all puffy; and look at my knuckles. These fellows have got heads like wood.”

“I am sorry, very sorry,” said Distin, sadly; “but I want to make all the reparation I can.”

“Give me that handkerchief,” said Vane sharply; and he snatched it from Distin’s hand. “No, no, keep back. I’ll do what there is to do. They’re not fit to touch. Ah, would you!”

The top boy had suddenly thrown up his head in an effort to free himself. But his forehead came in contact with Vane’s fist and he dropped back with a groan.

“Hurt, did it!” said Vane, bending down, and whispering a few words. Then aloud, as he rose. “Now, then, get up and let me tie your hands behind you.”

The lad rose slowly and painfully.

“Turn round and put your hands behind you,” cried Vane.

The lad obeyed, and then as if shot from a bow he leaped over his prostrate brother with a loud whoop and dashed off among the trees.

“No, no, it’s of no use,” cried Vane as Distin started in pursuit; “you might just as well try to catch a hare. Now you, sir, up with you.”

The second lad rose, groaning as if lame and helpless, turning his eyes piteously upon his captor; and then, quick as lightning, he too started off.

“Loo, loo, loo!” shouted Vane, clapping his hands as if cheering on a greyhound. “I say, Distie, how the beggars can run.”

A defiant shout answered him, and Vane clapped his hands to his mouth and yelled:

“Po-lice—if you ever come again.”

“Yah!” came back from the wood, and Distin cried, angrily:

“You let them go on purpose.”

“Of course I did,” said Vane. “Here’s your handkerchief. You don’t suppose I would take them up, and hand them over to the police, and let you lower yourself like you said, do you?”

“Yes—yes,” cried Distin, speaking like a hysterical girl. “I will tell everything now; how I was tempted, and how I fell.”

“Bother!” cried Vane, gruffly. “That isn’t like an English lad should speak. You did me a cowardly, dirty trick, and you confessed to me that you were sorry for it. Do you think I’m such a mean beast that I want to take revenge upon you!”

“But it is my duty—I feel bound—I must speak,” cried Distin, in a choking voice.

“Nonsense! It’s all over. I’m the person injured, and I say I won’t have another word said. I came out this afternoon to ask you to make friends, and to shake hands. There’s mine, and let the past be dead.”

Vane stood holding out his hand, but it was not taken.

“Do you hear?” he cried. “Shake hands.”

“I can’t,” groaned Distin, with a piteous look. “I told you before mine are not clean.”

“Mine are,” said Vane, meaning, of course, metaphorically; “and perhaps—no, there is no perhaps—mine will clean yours.”

Vane took the young Creole’s hand almost by force, and gave it a painful grip, releasing it at last for Distin to turn to the nearest tree, lay his arm upon the trunk, and then lean his forehead against it in silence.

Vane stood looking at him, hesitating as to what he should say or do. Then, with a satisfied nod to himself, he said, cheerily:

“I’m going down to the stream to have a wash. Come on soon.”

It was a bit of natural delicacy, and the sensitive lad, born in a tropic land, felt it as he stood there with his brain filled with bitterness and remorse, heaping self-reproaches upon himself, and more miserable than he had ever before been in his life.

“I do believe he’s crying,” thought Vane, as he hurried out of the woodland shade, and down to the water’s edge, where, kneeling down by a little crystal pool, he washed his stained and bleeding hands, and then began to bathe his face and temples.

“Not quite so hot as I was,” he muttered; “but, oh, what a mess I’m in! I shan’t be fit to show myself, and must stop out till it’s dark. What would poor aunt say if she saw me! Frighten her nearly into fits.”

He was scooping up the fresh, cool water, and holding it to his bruises, which pained him a good deal, but, in spite of all his sufferings, he burst into a hearty fit of laughter at last, and, as his eyes were closed, he did not notice that a shadow was cast over him, right on to the water.

It was Distin, for he had come quietly down the bank, and was standing just behind him.

“Are you laughing at me?” he said, bitterly.

“Eh? You there?” cried Vane, raising his head. “No, I was grinning at the way those two fellows scuttled off. They made sure they were going to be in the lock-up to-night.”

“Where they ought to have been,” said Distin.

“Oh, I don’t know. They’re half-wild sort of fellows—very cunning, and all that sort of thing. I daresay I should have done as they did if I had been a gipsy. But, never mind that now. They’ll keep away from Greythorpe for long enough to come.”

He began dabbing his face with his handkerchief, and looking merrily at Distin.

“I say,” he cried; “I didn’t know I could fight like that. Is my face very queer?”

“It is bruised and swollen,” said Distin, with an effort. “I’m afraid it will be worse to-morrow.”

“So am I, but we can’t help it. Never mind, it will be a bit of a holiday for me till the bruises don’t show; and I can sit and think out something else. Come and see me sometimes.”

“I can’t, Vane, I can’t,” cried Distin, wildly. “Do you think I have no feeling?”

“Too much, I should say,” cried Vane. “There, why don’t you let it go? Uncle says life isn’t long enough for people to quarrel or make enemies. That’s all over; and, I say, I feel ever so much more comfortable now. Haven’t got such a thing as a tumbler in your pocket, have you?”

Distin looked in the bruised and battered face before him, wondering at the lad’s levity, as Vane continued:

“No, I suppose you haven’t, and my silver cup is on the sideboard. Never mind: here goes. Just stand close to me, and shout if you see any leeches coming.”

As he spoke, he lay down on his chest, reaching over another clear portion of the stream.

“I must drink like a horse,” he cried; and, placing his lips to the surface, he took a long draught, rose, wiped his lips, drew a deep breath, and exclaimed, “Hah! That was good.”

Then he reeled, caught at the air, and would have fallen, but Distin seized him, and lowered him to the ground, where he lay, looking very ghastly, for a few minutes.

“Only a bit giddy,” he said, faintly. “It will soon go off.”

“I’ll run and fetch help,” cried Distin, excitedly.

“Nonsense! What for? I’m getting better. There: that’s it.”

He sat up, and, with Distin’s help, struggled to his feet.

“How stupid of me!” he said, with a faint laugh. “I suppose it was leaning over the water so long. I’m all right now.”

He made a brave effort, and the two lads walked toward the lane, but, before they had gone many yards, Vane reeled again.

This time the vertigo was slighter, and, taking Distin’s arm, he kept his feet.

“Let’s walk on,” he said. “I daresay the buzzy noise and singing in my head will soon pass off.”

He was right: it did, and they progressed slowly till they reached the lane, where the walking was better, but Vane was still glad to retain Distin’s help, and so it happened that, when they were about a mile from the rectory, Gilmore and Macey, who were in search of them, suddenly saw something which made them stare.

“I say,” cried Macey; “’tisn’t real, is it? Wait till I’ve rubbed my eyes.”

“Why, they’ve made it up,” cried Gilmore. “I say, Aleck, don’t say a word.”

“Why not?”

“I mean don’t chaff them or Dis may go off like powder. You know what he is.”

“I won’t speak a word, but, I say, it’s Weathercock’s doing. He has invented some decoction to charm creoles, and henceforth old Dis will be quite tame.”

As they drew nearer, Gilmore whispered:

“They’ve been having it out.”

“Yes, and Weathercock has had an awful licking; look at his phiz.”

“No,” said Gilmore. “Vane has licked; and it’s just like him, he hasn’t hit Dis in the face once. Don’t notice it.”

“Not I.”

They were within speaking distance now; and Distin’s sallow countenance showed two burning red spots in the cheeks.

“Hullo!” cried Vane. “Come to meet us?”

“Yes,” said Gilmore; “we began to think you were lost.”

“Oh, no,” said Vane, carelessly. “Been some distance and the time soon goes. I think I’ll turn off here, and get home across the meadows. Good-evening, you two. Good-night, Dis, old chap.”

“Good-night,” said Distin, huskily, as he took the bruised and slightly bleeding hand held out to him. Then turning away, he walked swiftly on.

“Why, Vane, old boy,” whispered Gilmore, “what’s going on?”

Vane must have read of Douglas Jerrold’s smart reply, for he said, merrily:

“I am; good-night,” and he was gone.

“I’m blest!” cried Macey; giving his leg a slap.

“He has gone in back way so as not to be seen,” cried Gilmore.

“That’s it,” cried Macey, excitedly. “Well, of all the old Weathercocks that ever did show which way the wind blew—”

He did not finish that sentence, but repeated his former words—

“I’m blest!”

Chapter Thirty Three.In Hiding.Vane meant to slip in by the back after crossing the meadows, but as a matter of course he met Bruff half-way down the garden, later than he had been there for years.“Why, Master Vane!” he cried, “you been at it again.”“Hush! Don’t say anything,” cried the lad. But Bruff’s exclamation had brought Martha to the kitchen-door; and as she caught sight of Vane’s face, she uttered a cry which brought out Eliza, who shrieked and ran to tell Aunt Hannah, who heard the cry, and came round from the front, where, with the doctor, she had been watching for the truant, the doctor being petulant and impatient about his evening meal.Then the murder was out, and Vane was hurried into the little drawing-room, where Aunt Hannah strove gently to get him upon the couch.“No, no, no,” cried Vane. “Uncle, tell Bruff and those two that they are not to speak about it.”The doctor nodded and gave the order, but muttered, “Only make them talk.”“But what has happened, my dear? Where have you been?”“Don’t bother him,” said the doctor, testily. “Here, boy, let’s look at your injuries.”“They’re nothing, uncle,” cried Vane. “Give me some tea, aunt, and I’m as hungry as a hunter. What have you got?”“Oh, my dear!” cried Aunt Hannah; “how can you, and with a face like that.”“Nothing the matter with him,” said the doctor, “only been fighting like a young blackguard.”“Couldn’t help it, uncle,” said Vane. “You wouldn’t have had me lie down and be thrashed without hitting back.”“Oh, my dear!” cried Aunt Hannah, “you shouldn’t fight.”“Of course not,” said the doctor, sternly. “It is a low, vulgar, contemptible, disgraceful act for one who is the son of a gentleman—to—to— Did you win?”“Yes, uncle,” cried Vane; and he lay back in the easy chair into which he had been forced by Aunt Hannah, and laughed till the tears rolled down his cheeks.Aunt Hannah seized him and held him.“Oh, my love,” she cried to the doctor, “pray give him something: sal-volatile or brandy: he’s hysterical.”“Nonsense!” cried the doctor. “Here—Vane—idiot, you leave off laughing, sir?”“I can’t, uncle,” cried Vane, piteously; “and it does hurt so. Oh my! oh my! You should have seen the beggars run.”“Beggars? You’ve been fighting beggars, Vane!” cried Aunt Hannah. “Oh, my dear! my dear!”“Will you hold your tongue, Hannah,” cried the doctor, sternly. “Here, Vane, who ran? Some tramps?”“No, uncle: those two gipsy lads.”“What! who attacked you before?”“Yes, and they tried it again. Aunt, they got the worst of it this time.”“You—you thrashed them?” cried the doctor, excitedly.“Yes, uncle.”“Alone?”“Oh, yes: only with someone looking on.”“But you beat them alone; gave them a thorough good er—er—licking, as you call it, sir?”“Yes, uncle; awful.”“Quite beat them?”“Knocked them into smithereens; had them both down, one on the other, and sat on the top for half an hour.”The doctor caught Vane’s right hand in his left, held it out, and brought his own right down upon it with a sounding spank, gripped it, and shook the bruised member till Vane grinned with pain.“Oh, my dear!” remonstrated Aunt Hannah, “you are hurting him, and you are encouraging him in a practice that—”“Makes perfect,” cried the doctor, excitedly. “By George! I wish I had been there!”“My dear!”“I do, Hannah. It makes me feel quite young again. But come and have your tea, you young dog—you young Roman—you Trojan, you—well done, Alexander. But stop!—those two young scoundrels. Hi! where’s Bruff?”“Stop, uncle,” cried Vane, leaping up and seizing the doctor’s coat-tails. “What are you going to do?”“Send Bruff for Bates, and set him on the young scoundrels’ track. I shan’t rest till I get them in jail.”“No, no, uncle, sit down,” said Vane, with a quiver in his voice. “We can’t do that.”Then he told them all.As Vane ended his narrative, with the doctor pacing up and down the room, and Martha fussing because the delicate cutlets she had prepared were growing cold, Aunt Hannah was seated on the carpet by her nephew’s chair, holding one of his bruised hands against her cheek, and weeping silently as she whispered, “My own brave boy!”As she spoke, she reached up to press her lips to his, but Vane shrank away.“No, no, aunt dear,” he said, “I’m not fit to kiss.”“Oh, my own brave, noble boy,” she cried; and passing her arms about his neck, she kissed him fondly.“Who’s encouraging the boy in fighting now?” cried the doctor, sharply.“But, how could he help it, my dear?” said Aunt Hannah.“Of course; how could he help it.” Then changing his manner, he laid his hand upon Vane’s shoulder.“You are quite right, Vane, lad. Let them call you Weathercock if they like, but you do always point to fair weather, my boy, and turn your back on foul. No: there must be no police business. The young scoundrels have had their punishment—the right sort; and Mr Distin has got his in a way such a proud, sensitive fellow will never forget.”“But ought not Vane to have beaten him, too?” said Aunt Hannah, naïvely.“What!” cried the doctor, in mock horror. “Woman! You are a very glutton at revenge. Three in one afternoon? But to be serious. He was beaten, then, my dear—with forgiveness. Coals of fire upon his enemy’s head, and given him a lesson such as may form a turning point in his life. God bless you, my boy! You’ve done a finer thing to-day than it is in your power yet to grasp. You’ll think more deeply of it some day, and— Hannah, my darling, are you going to stand preaching at this poor boy all the evening, when you see he is nearly starved?”Aunt Hannah laughed and cried together, as she fondled Vane.“I’ll go and fetch you a cup of tea, my dear. Don’t move.”The doctor took a step forward, and gave Vane a slap on the back.“Cup of tea—brought for him. Come along, boy. Aunt would spoil us both if she could, but we’re too good stuff, eh? Now, prize-fighter, give your aunt your arm, and I’ll put some big black patches on your nose and forehead after tea.”Vane jumped up and held out his arm, but Aunt Hannah looked at him wildly.“You don’t think, dear, that black patches—oh!”“No, I don’t,” said the doctor gaily; “but we must have some pleasant little bit of fiction to keep him at home for a few days. Little poorly or—I know. Note to the rectory asking Syme to forgive me, and we’ll have the pony-carriage at six in the morning, and go down to Scarboro’ for a week, till he is fit to be seen.”“Yes,” said Aunt Hannah, eagerly, “the very thing;” and to her great delight, save that his mouth was stiff and sore, Vane ate and drank as if nothing whatever had been the matter. The next morning they started for their long drive, to catch the train.“Third-class now, my boy,” said the doctor, sadly; “economising has begun.”“And I had forgotten it all,” thought Vane. “Poor uncle!—poor aunt! I must get better, and go to work.”

Vane meant to slip in by the back after crossing the meadows, but as a matter of course he met Bruff half-way down the garden, later than he had been there for years.

“Why, Master Vane!” he cried, “you been at it again.”

“Hush! Don’t say anything,” cried the lad. But Bruff’s exclamation had brought Martha to the kitchen-door; and as she caught sight of Vane’s face, she uttered a cry which brought out Eliza, who shrieked and ran to tell Aunt Hannah, who heard the cry, and came round from the front, where, with the doctor, she had been watching for the truant, the doctor being petulant and impatient about his evening meal.

Then the murder was out, and Vane was hurried into the little drawing-room, where Aunt Hannah strove gently to get him upon the couch.

“No, no, no,” cried Vane. “Uncle, tell Bruff and those two that they are not to speak about it.”

The doctor nodded and gave the order, but muttered, “Only make them talk.”

“But what has happened, my dear? Where have you been?”

“Don’t bother him,” said the doctor, testily. “Here, boy, let’s look at your injuries.”

“They’re nothing, uncle,” cried Vane. “Give me some tea, aunt, and I’m as hungry as a hunter. What have you got?”

“Oh, my dear!” cried Aunt Hannah; “how can you, and with a face like that.”

“Nothing the matter with him,” said the doctor, “only been fighting like a young blackguard.”

“Couldn’t help it, uncle,” said Vane. “You wouldn’t have had me lie down and be thrashed without hitting back.”

“Oh, my dear!” cried Aunt Hannah, “you shouldn’t fight.”

“Of course not,” said the doctor, sternly. “It is a low, vulgar, contemptible, disgraceful act for one who is the son of a gentleman—to—to— Did you win?”

“Yes, uncle,” cried Vane; and he lay back in the easy chair into which he had been forced by Aunt Hannah, and laughed till the tears rolled down his cheeks.

Aunt Hannah seized him and held him.

“Oh, my love,” she cried to the doctor, “pray give him something: sal-volatile or brandy: he’s hysterical.”

“Nonsense!” cried the doctor. “Here—Vane—idiot, you leave off laughing, sir?”

“I can’t, uncle,” cried Vane, piteously; “and it does hurt so. Oh my! oh my! You should have seen the beggars run.”

“Beggars? You’ve been fighting beggars, Vane!” cried Aunt Hannah. “Oh, my dear! my dear!”

“Will you hold your tongue, Hannah,” cried the doctor, sternly. “Here, Vane, who ran? Some tramps?”

“No, uncle: those two gipsy lads.”

“What! who attacked you before?”

“Yes, and they tried it again. Aunt, they got the worst of it this time.”

“You—you thrashed them?” cried the doctor, excitedly.

“Yes, uncle.”

“Alone?”

“Oh, yes: only with someone looking on.”

“But you beat them alone; gave them a thorough good er—er—licking, as you call it, sir?”

“Yes, uncle; awful.”

“Quite beat them?”

“Knocked them into smithereens; had them both down, one on the other, and sat on the top for half an hour.”

The doctor caught Vane’s right hand in his left, held it out, and brought his own right down upon it with a sounding spank, gripped it, and shook the bruised member till Vane grinned with pain.

“Oh, my dear!” remonstrated Aunt Hannah, “you are hurting him, and you are encouraging him in a practice that—”

“Makes perfect,” cried the doctor, excitedly. “By George! I wish I had been there!”

“My dear!”

“I do, Hannah. It makes me feel quite young again. But come and have your tea, you young dog—you young Roman—you Trojan, you—well done, Alexander. But stop!—those two young scoundrels. Hi! where’s Bruff?”

“Stop, uncle,” cried Vane, leaping up and seizing the doctor’s coat-tails. “What are you going to do?”

“Send Bruff for Bates, and set him on the young scoundrels’ track. I shan’t rest till I get them in jail.”

“No, no, uncle, sit down,” said Vane, with a quiver in his voice. “We can’t do that.”

Then he told them all.

As Vane ended his narrative, with the doctor pacing up and down the room, and Martha fussing because the delicate cutlets she had prepared were growing cold, Aunt Hannah was seated on the carpet by her nephew’s chair, holding one of his bruised hands against her cheek, and weeping silently as she whispered, “My own brave boy!”

As she spoke, she reached up to press her lips to his, but Vane shrank away.

“No, no, aunt dear,” he said, “I’m not fit to kiss.”

“Oh, my own brave, noble boy,” she cried; and passing her arms about his neck, she kissed him fondly.

“Who’s encouraging the boy in fighting now?” cried the doctor, sharply.

“But, how could he help it, my dear?” said Aunt Hannah.

“Of course; how could he help it.” Then changing his manner, he laid his hand upon Vane’s shoulder.

“You are quite right, Vane, lad. Let them call you Weathercock if they like, but you do always point to fair weather, my boy, and turn your back on foul. No: there must be no police business. The young scoundrels have had their punishment—the right sort; and Mr Distin has got his in a way such a proud, sensitive fellow will never forget.”

“But ought not Vane to have beaten him, too?” said Aunt Hannah, naïvely.

“What!” cried the doctor, in mock horror. “Woman! You are a very glutton at revenge. Three in one afternoon? But to be serious. He was beaten, then, my dear—with forgiveness. Coals of fire upon his enemy’s head, and given him a lesson such as may form a turning point in his life. God bless you, my boy! You’ve done a finer thing to-day than it is in your power yet to grasp. You’ll think more deeply of it some day, and— Hannah, my darling, are you going to stand preaching at this poor boy all the evening, when you see he is nearly starved?”

Aunt Hannah laughed and cried together, as she fondled Vane.

“I’ll go and fetch you a cup of tea, my dear. Don’t move.”

The doctor took a step forward, and gave Vane a slap on the back.

“Cup of tea—brought for him. Come along, boy. Aunt would spoil us both if she could, but we’re too good stuff, eh? Now, prize-fighter, give your aunt your arm, and I’ll put some big black patches on your nose and forehead after tea.”

Vane jumped up and held out his arm, but Aunt Hannah looked at him wildly.

“You don’t think, dear, that black patches—oh!”

“No, I don’t,” said the doctor gaily; “but we must have some pleasant little bit of fiction to keep him at home for a few days. Little poorly or—I know. Note to the rectory asking Syme to forgive me, and we’ll have the pony-carriage at six in the morning, and go down to Scarboro’ for a week, till he is fit to be seen.”

“Yes,” said Aunt Hannah, eagerly, “the very thing;” and to her great delight, save that his mouth was stiff and sore, Vane ate and drank as if nothing whatever had been the matter. The next morning they started for their long drive, to catch the train.

“Third-class now, my boy,” said the doctor, sadly; “economising has begun.”

“And I had forgotten it all,” thought Vane. “Poor uncle!—poor aunt! I must get better, and go to work.”

Chapter Thirty Four.The Mouse and the Lion.The stay at Scarboro’ was short, for a letter came from Aunt Hannah, announcing that Mr Deering was coming down, and adding rather pathetically that she wished he would not.The doctor tossed the letter over to Vane, who was looking out of the hotel window, making a plan for sliding bathing machines down an inclined plane; and he had mentally contrived a delightful arrangement when he was pulled up short by the thought that the very next north-east gale would send in breakers, and knock his inclined plane all to pieces.“For me to read, uncle,” he said.The doctor nodded.“Then you’ll want to go back.”“Yes, and you must stay by yourself.”Vane rose and went to the looking-glass, stared at his lips, made a grimace and returned.“I say, uncle, do I look so very horrid?” he said.“That eye’s not ornamental, my boy.”“No, but shall you mind very much?”“I? Not at all.”“Then I shall come back with you.”“Won’t be ashamed to be seen?”“Not I,” said Vane; “I don’t care, and I should like to be at home when Mr Deering comes.”“Why?”“He may be able to get me engaged somewhere in town.”“Humph!” ejaculated the doctor. “Want to run away from us then, now we are poor.”“Uncle!” shouted Vane, fiercely indignant; but he saw the grim smile on the old man’s countenance, and went close up and took his arm. “You didn’t mean that,” he continued. “It’s because I want to get to work so as to help you and aunt now, instead of being a burden to you.”“Don’t want to go, then?”Vane shook his head sadly. “No, uncle, I’ve been so happy at home, but of course should have to go some day.”“Ah, well, there is no immediate hurry. We’ll wait. I don’t think that Mr Deering is quite the man I should like to see you with in your first start in life. I’m afraid, Vane, boy, that he is reckless. Yesterday, I thought him unprincipled too, but he is behaving like a man of honour in coming down to see me, and show me how he went wrong. It’s a sad business, but I daresay we shall get used to it after a time.”The journey back was made so that they reached home after dark, Vane laughingly saying that it would screen him a little longer, and almost the first person they encountered was Mr Deering himself.“Hah, Doctor,” he said quietly, “I’m glad you’re come back. I only reached here by the last train.”The doctor hesitated a moment, and then shook hands.“Well, youngster,” said the visitor, “I suppose you have not set the Thames on fire yet.”“No,” said Vane, indignantly, for their visitor’s manner nettled him, “and when I try to, I shall set to work without help.”Deering’s eyes flashed angrily.“Vane!” said Aunt Hannah, reproachfully.“You forget that Mr Deering is our guest, Vane,” said the doctor.“Yes, uncle, I forgot that.”“Don’t reprove him,” said Deering. “I deserve it, and I invited the taunt by my manner toward your nephew.”“Dinner’s ready,” said Aunt Hannah, hastily.“Or supper,” said the doctor, and ten minutes later they were all seated at the meal, talking quietly about Scarboro’, its great cliffs and the sea, Mr Deering showing a considerable knowledge of the place. No allusion whatever was made to the cause of their guest’s visit till they had adjourned to the drawing-room, Mr Deering having stopped in the hall to take up a square tin box, and another which looked like a case made to contain rolled up plans.The doctor frowned, and seeing that some business matters were imminent, Aunt Hannah rose to leave the room, and Vane followed her example.“No, no, my dear Mrs Lee,” said Deering, “don’t leave us, and there is nothing to be said that the lad ought not to hear. It will be a lesson to him, as he is of a sanguine inventive temperament like myself, not to be too eager to place faith in his inventions.”“Look here, Deering,” said the doctor, after clearing his voice, “this has been a terrible misfortune for us, and, I believe, for you too.”“Indeed it has,” said Deering, bitterly. “I feel ten years older, and in addition to my great hopes being blasted, I know that in your eyes, and those of your wife, I must seem to have been a thoughtless, designing scoundrel, dishonest to a degree.”“No, no, Mr Deering,” said Aunt Hannah, warmly, “nobody ever thought that of you.”“Right,” said the doctor, smiling.“I have wept bitterly over it, and grieved that you should ever have come down here to disturb my poor husband in his peaceful life, where he was resting after a long laborious career. It seemed so cruel—such a terrible stroke of fate.”“Yes, madam, terrible and cruel,” said Deering, sadly and humbly.“There now, say no more about it,” said the doctor. “It is of no use to cry over spilt milk.”“No,” replied Deering, “but I do reserve to myself the right to make some explanations to you both, whom I have injured so in your worldly prospects.”“Better let it go, Deering. There, man, we forgive you, and the worst we think of you is that you were too sanguine and rash.”“Don’t say that,” cried Deering, “not till you have heard me out and seen what I want to show you; but God bless you for what you have said. Lee, you and I were boys at school together; we fought for and helped each other, and you know that I have never willingly done a dishonest act.”“Never,” said the doctor, reaching out his hand, to which the other clung. “You had proof of my faith in you when I became your bondman.”“Exactly.”“Then, now, let’s talk about something else.”“No,” said Deering, firmly. “I must show you first that I was not so rash and foolish as you think. Mrs Lee, may I clear this table?”“Oh, certainly,” said Aunt Hannah, rather stiffly. “Vane, my dear, will you move the lamp to the chimney.”Vane lifted it and placed it on the mantelpiece, while Mr Deering moved a book or two and the cloth from the round low table, and then opening a padlock at the end of the long round tin case, he drew out a great roll of plans and spread them on the table, placing books at each corner, to keep them open.“Here,” he said, growing excited, “is my invention. I want you all to look—you, in particular, Vane, for it will interest you from its similarity to a plan you had for heating your conservatory.”Vane’s attention was centred at once on the carefully drawn and coloured plans, before which, with growing eagerness, their visitor began to explain, in his usual lucid manner, so that even Aunt Hannah became interested.The idea was for warming purposes, and certainly, at first sight, complicated, but they soon grasped all the details, and understood how, by the use of a small furnace, water was to be heated, and to circulate by the law of convection, so as to supply warmth all through public buildings, or even in houses where people were ready to dispense with the ruddy glow of fire.“Yes,” said the doctor, after an hour’s examination of the drawings; “that all seems to be quite right.”“But the idea is not new,” said Vane.“Exactly. You are quite right,” said Deering; “it is only a new adaptation in which I saw fortune, for it could be used in hundreds of ways where hot-water is not applicable now. I saw large works springing up, and an engineering business in which I hoped you, Vane, would share; for with your brains, my boy, I foresaw that you would be invaluable to me, and would be making a great future for yourself. There, now, you see my plans, Lee. Do I seem so mad and reckless to you both? Have I not gone on step by step, and was I not justified in trying to get monetary help to carry out my preparations for what promised so clearly to be a grand success?”“Well, really, Deering, I can’t help saying yes,” said the doctor. “It does look right, doesn’t it, my dear?”“Yes,” said Aunt Hannah, with a sigh; “it does certainly look right.”“I would not go far till, as I thought, I had tested my plans in every way.”“That was right,” said the doctor. “Well, what’s the matter—why hasn’t it succeeded?”“Ah, why, indeed?” replied Deering. “Some law of nature, which, in spite of incessant study, I cannot grasp, has been against me.”Vane was poring over the plans, with his forehead full of lines and his mouth pursed up, and, after bringing sheet after sheet to the top, he ended by laying the fullest drawing with all its colourings and references out straight, and, lifting the lamp back upon it in the centre of the table to give a better light; and while his aunt and untie were right and left, Mr Deering was facing him, and he had his back to the fire:“But you should have made models, and tested it all thoroughly.”“I did, Lee, I did,” cried Mr Deering, passionately. “I made model after model, improving one upon the other, till I had reached, as I thought, perfection. They worked admirably, and when I was, as I thought, safe, and had obtained my details, I threw in the capital, for which you were security, started my works, and began making on a large scale. Orders came in, and I saw, as I told you, fortune in my grasp.”“Well, and what then?”“Failure. That which worked so well on a small scale was useless on a large.”Vane was the only one standing, and leaning his elbows on the great drawing, his chin upon his hands, deeply interested in the pipes, elbows, taps, furnace, and various arrangements.“But that seems strange,” said the doctor. “I should have thought you were right.”“Exactly,” said Deering, eagerly. “You would have thought I was right. I felt sure that I was right. I would have staked my life upon it. If I had had a doubt, Lee, believe me I would not have risked that money, and dragged you down as I have.”“I believe you, Deering,” said the doctor, more warmly than he had yet spoken; “but, hang it, man, I wouldn’t give up. Try again.”“I have tried again, till I feel that if I do more my brain will give way—I shall go mad. No: nature is against me, and I have made a terrible failure.”Aunt Hannah sighed.“There is nothing for me but to try and recover my shattered health, get my nerves right again, and then start at something else.”“Why not have another try at this?” said the doctor.“I cannot,” said Deering. “I have tried, and had disastrous explosions. In one moment the work of months has been shattered, and now, if I want men to work for me again, they shake their heads, and refuse. It is of no use to fence, Lee. I have staked my all, and almost my life, on that contrivance, and I have failed.”“It can’t be a failure,” said Vane, suddenly. “It must go.”Deering looked at him pityingly.“You see,” he said to Aunt Hannah, “your nephew is attracted by it, and believes in it.”“Yes,” said Aunt Hannah, with a shudder. “Roll up the plans now, my dear,” she added, huskily; “it’s getting late.”“All right, aunt. Soon,” said Vane, quietly; and then, with some show of excitement, “I tell you it must go. Why, it’s as simple as simple. Look here, uncle, the water’s heated here and runs up there and there, and out and all about, and comes back along those pipes, and gradually gets down to the coil here, and is heated again. Why, if that was properly made by good workmen, it couldn’t help answering.”Deering smiled sadly.“You didn’t have one made like that, did you?”“Yes. Six times over, and of the best material.”“Well?”“No, my boy, ill. There was a disastrous explosion each time.”Vane looked searchingly in the inventor’s face.“Why, it couldn’t explode,” cried Vane.“My dear Vane, pray do not be so stubborn,” said Aunt Hannah.“I don’t want to be, aunt, but I’ve done lots of things of this kind, and I know well enough that if you fill a kettle with water, solder down the lid, and stop up the spout, and then set it on the fire, it will burst, just as our boiler did; but this can’t. Look, uncle, here is a place where the steam and air can escape, so that it can’t go off.”“But it did, my boy, it did.”“What, made from that plan?”“No, not from that, but from the one I had down here,” said Mr Deering; and he took out his keys, opened the square tin box, and drew out a carefully folded plan, drawn on tracing linen, and finished in the most perfect way.“There,” said the inventor, as Vane lifted the lamp, and this was laid over the plan from which it had been traced; “that was the work-people’s reference—it is getting dirty now. You see it was traced from the paper.”“Yes, I see, and the men have followed every tracing mark. Well, I say that the engine or machine, or whatever you call it, could not burst.”The inventor smiled sadly, but said no more, and Vane went on poring over the coloured drawing, with all its reference letters, and sections and shadings, while the doctor began conversing in a low tone.“Then you really feel that it is hopeless?” he said.“Quite. My energies are broken. I have not the spirit to run any more risks, even if I could arrange with my creditors,” replied Deering, sadly. “Another such month as I have passed, and I should have been in a lunatic asylum.”The doctor looked at him keenly from beneath his brows, and involuntarily stretched out a hand, and took hold of his visitor’s wrist.“Yes,” he said, “you are terribly pulled down, Deering.”“Now, Vane, my dear,” said Aunt Hannah, softly; “do put away those dreadful plans.”“All right, aunt,” said the boy; “just lift up the lamp, will you?”Aunt Hannah raised the lamp, and Vane drew the soiled tracing linen from beneath, while, as the lamp was heavy, the lady replaced it directly on the spread-out papers.Vane’s face was a study, so puckered up and intent it had grown, as he stood there with the linen folded over so that he could hold it beneath the lamp-shade, and gaze at some detail, which he compared with the drawing on the paper again and again.“My dear!” whispered Aunt Hannah; “do pray put those things away now; they give me quite a cold shudder.”Vane did not answer, but drew a long breath, and fixed his eyes on one particular spot of the pencilled linen, then referred to the paper beneath the lamp, which he shifted a little, so that the bright circle of light shed by the shade was on one spot from which the tracing had been made.“Vane,” said Aunt Hannah, more loudly, “put them away now.”“Yes,” said Deering, starting; “it is quite time. They have done their work, and to-morrow they shall be burned.”“No,” yelled Vane, starting up and swinging the linen tracing round his head as he danced about the room. “Hip, hip, hip, hurray, hurray, hurray!”“Has the boy gone mad?” cried the doctor.“Vane, my dear child!” cried Aunt Hannah.“Hip, hip, hip, hurray,” roared Vane again, leaping on the couch, and waving the plan so vigorously, that a vase was swept from a bracket and was shivered to atoms.“Oh, I didn’t mean that,” he cried. “But of course it burst.”“What do you mean?” cried Deering, excitedly.“Look there, look here!” cried Vane, springing down, doubling the linen tracing quickly, so that he could get his left thumb on one particular spot, and then placing his right forefinger on the plan beneath the lamp. “See that?”“That?” cried Deering, leaning over the table a little, as he sat facing the place lately occupied by Vane. “That?” he said again, excitedly, and then changing his tone, “Oh, nonsense, boy, only a fly-spot in the plan, or a tiny speck of ink.”“Yes, smudged,” cried Vane; “but, look here,” and he doubled the tracing down on the table; “but they’ve made it into a little stop-cock here.”“What?” roared Deering.“And if that wasn’t in your machine, of course it blew up same as my waterpipes did in the conservatory, and wrecked the kitch—”Vane did not finish his sentence, for the inventor sprang up with the edge of the table in his hands, throwing up the top and sending the lamp off on to the floor with a crash, while he fell backward heavily into his chair, as if seized by a fit.

The stay at Scarboro’ was short, for a letter came from Aunt Hannah, announcing that Mr Deering was coming down, and adding rather pathetically that she wished he would not.

The doctor tossed the letter over to Vane, who was looking out of the hotel window, making a plan for sliding bathing machines down an inclined plane; and he had mentally contrived a delightful arrangement when he was pulled up short by the thought that the very next north-east gale would send in breakers, and knock his inclined plane all to pieces.

“For me to read, uncle,” he said.

The doctor nodded.

“Then you’ll want to go back.”

“Yes, and you must stay by yourself.”

Vane rose and went to the looking-glass, stared at his lips, made a grimace and returned.

“I say, uncle, do I look so very horrid?” he said.

“That eye’s not ornamental, my boy.”

“No, but shall you mind very much?”

“I? Not at all.”

“Then I shall come back with you.”

“Won’t be ashamed to be seen?”

“Not I,” said Vane; “I don’t care, and I should like to be at home when Mr Deering comes.”

“Why?”

“He may be able to get me engaged somewhere in town.”

“Humph!” ejaculated the doctor. “Want to run away from us then, now we are poor.”

“Uncle!” shouted Vane, fiercely indignant; but he saw the grim smile on the old man’s countenance, and went close up and took his arm. “You didn’t mean that,” he continued. “It’s because I want to get to work so as to help you and aunt now, instead of being a burden to you.”

“Don’t want to go, then?”

Vane shook his head sadly. “No, uncle, I’ve been so happy at home, but of course should have to go some day.”

“Ah, well, there is no immediate hurry. We’ll wait. I don’t think that Mr Deering is quite the man I should like to see you with in your first start in life. I’m afraid, Vane, boy, that he is reckless. Yesterday, I thought him unprincipled too, but he is behaving like a man of honour in coming down to see me, and show me how he went wrong. It’s a sad business, but I daresay we shall get used to it after a time.”

The journey back was made so that they reached home after dark, Vane laughingly saying that it would screen him a little longer, and almost the first person they encountered was Mr Deering himself.

“Hah, Doctor,” he said quietly, “I’m glad you’re come back. I only reached here by the last train.”

The doctor hesitated a moment, and then shook hands.

“Well, youngster,” said the visitor, “I suppose you have not set the Thames on fire yet.”

“No,” said Vane, indignantly, for their visitor’s manner nettled him, “and when I try to, I shall set to work without help.”

Deering’s eyes flashed angrily.

“Vane!” said Aunt Hannah, reproachfully.

“You forget that Mr Deering is our guest, Vane,” said the doctor.

“Yes, uncle, I forgot that.”

“Don’t reprove him,” said Deering. “I deserve it, and I invited the taunt by my manner toward your nephew.”

“Dinner’s ready,” said Aunt Hannah, hastily.

“Or supper,” said the doctor, and ten minutes later they were all seated at the meal, talking quietly about Scarboro’, its great cliffs and the sea, Mr Deering showing a considerable knowledge of the place. No allusion whatever was made to the cause of their guest’s visit till they had adjourned to the drawing-room, Mr Deering having stopped in the hall to take up a square tin box, and another which looked like a case made to contain rolled up plans.

The doctor frowned, and seeing that some business matters were imminent, Aunt Hannah rose to leave the room, and Vane followed her example.

“No, no, my dear Mrs Lee,” said Deering, “don’t leave us, and there is nothing to be said that the lad ought not to hear. It will be a lesson to him, as he is of a sanguine inventive temperament like myself, not to be too eager to place faith in his inventions.”

“Look here, Deering,” said the doctor, after clearing his voice, “this has been a terrible misfortune for us, and, I believe, for you too.”

“Indeed it has,” said Deering, bitterly. “I feel ten years older, and in addition to my great hopes being blasted, I know that in your eyes, and those of your wife, I must seem to have been a thoughtless, designing scoundrel, dishonest to a degree.”

“No, no, Mr Deering,” said Aunt Hannah, warmly, “nobody ever thought that of you.”

“Right,” said the doctor, smiling.

“I have wept bitterly over it, and grieved that you should ever have come down here to disturb my poor husband in his peaceful life, where he was resting after a long laborious career. It seemed so cruel—such a terrible stroke of fate.”

“Yes, madam, terrible and cruel,” said Deering, sadly and humbly.

“There now, say no more about it,” said the doctor. “It is of no use to cry over spilt milk.”

“No,” replied Deering, “but I do reserve to myself the right to make some explanations to you both, whom I have injured so in your worldly prospects.”

“Better let it go, Deering. There, man, we forgive you, and the worst we think of you is that you were too sanguine and rash.”

“Don’t say that,” cried Deering, “not till you have heard me out and seen what I want to show you; but God bless you for what you have said. Lee, you and I were boys at school together; we fought for and helped each other, and you know that I have never willingly done a dishonest act.”

“Never,” said the doctor, reaching out his hand, to which the other clung. “You had proof of my faith in you when I became your bondman.”

“Exactly.”

“Then, now, let’s talk about something else.”

“No,” said Deering, firmly. “I must show you first that I was not so rash and foolish as you think. Mrs Lee, may I clear this table?”

“Oh, certainly,” said Aunt Hannah, rather stiffly. “Vane, my dear, will you move the lamp to the chimney.”

Vane lifted it and placed it on the mantelpiece, while Mr Deering moved a book or two and the cloth from the round low table, and then opening a padlock at the end of the long round tin case, he drew out a great roll of plans and spread them on the table, placing books at each corner, to keep them open.

“Here,” he said, growing excited, “is my invention. I want you all to look—you, in particular, Vane, for it will interest you from its similarity to a plan you had for heating your conservatory.”

Vane’s attention was centred at once on the carefully drawn and coloured plans, before which, with growing eagerness, their visitor began to explain, in his usual lucid manner, so that even Aunt Hannah became interested.

The idea was for warming purposes, and certainly, at first sight, complicated, but they soon grasped all the details, and understood how, by the use of a small furnace, water was to be heated, and to circulate by the law of convection, so as to supply warmth all through public buildings, or even in houses where people were ready to dispense with the ruddy glow of fire.

“Yes,” said the doctor, after an hour’s examination of the drawings; “that all seems to be quite right.”

“But the idea is not new,” said Vane.

“Exactly. You are quite right,” said Deering; “it is only a new adaptation in which I saw fortune, for it could be used in hundreds of ways where hot-water is not applicable now. I saw large works springing up, and an engineering business in which I hoped you, Vane, would share; for with your brains, my boy, I foresaw that you would be invaluable to me, and would be making a great future for yourself. There, now, you see my plans, Lee. Do I seem so mad and reckless to you both? Have I not gone on step by step, and was I not justified in trying to get monetary help to carry out my preparations for what promised so clearly to be a grand success?”

“Well, really, Deering, I can’t help saying yes,” said the doctor. “It does look right, doesn’t it, my dear?”

“Yes,” said Aunt Hannah, with a sigh; “it does certainly look right.”

“I would not go far till, as I thought, I had tested my plans in every way.”

“That was right,” said the doctor. “Well, what’s the matter—why hasn’t it succeeded?”

“Ah, why, indeed?” replied Deering. “Some law of nature, which, in spite of incessant study, I cannot grasp, has been against me.”

Vane was poring over the plans, with his forehead full of lines and his mouth pursed up, and, after bringing sheet after sheet to the top, he ended by laying the fullest drawing with all its colourings and references out straight, and, lifting the lamp back upon it in the centre of the table to give a better light; and while his aunt and untie were right and left, Mr Deering was facing him, and he had his back to the fire:

“But you should have made models, and tested it all thoroughly.”

“I did, Lee, I did,” cried Mr Deering, passionately. “I made model after model, improving one upon the other, till I had reached, as I thought, perfection. They worked admirably, and when I was, as I thought, safe, and had obtained my details, I threw in the capital, for which you were security, started my works, and began making on a large scale. Orders came in, and I saw, as I told you, fortune in my grasp.”

“Well, and what then?”

“Failure. That which worked so well on a small scale was useless on a large.”

Vane was the only one standing, and leaning his elbows on the great drawing, his chin upon his hands, deeply interested in the pipes, elbows, taps, furnace, and various arrangements.

“But that seems strange,” said the doctor. “I should have thought you were right.”

“Exactly,” said Deering, eagerly. “You would have thought I was right. I felt sure that I was right. I would have staked my life upon it. If I had had a doubt, Lee, believe me I would not have risked that money, and dragged you down as I have.”

“I believe you, Deering,” said the doctor, more warmly than he had yet spoken; “but, hang it, man, I wouldn’t give up. Try again.”

“I have tried again, till I feel that if I do more my brain will give way—I shall go mad. No: nature is against me, and I have made a terrible failure.”

Aunt Hannah sighed.

“There is nothing for me but to try and recover my shattered health, get my nerves right again, and then start at something else.”

“Why not have another try at this?” said the doctor.

“I cannot,” said Deering. “I have tried, and had disastrous explosions. In one moment the work of months has been shattered, and now, if I want men to work for me again, they shake their heads, and refuse. It is of no use to fence, Lee. I have staked my all, and almost my life, on that contrivance, and I have failed.”

“It can’t be a failure,” said Vane, suddenly. “It must go.”

Deering looked at him pityingly.

“You see,” he said to Aunt Hannah, “your nephew is attracted by it, and believes in it.”

“Yes,” said Aunt Hannah, with a shudder. “Roll up the plans now, my dear,” she added, huskily; “it’s getting late.”

“All right, aunt. Soon,” said Vane, quietly; and then, with some show of excitement, “I tell you it must go. Why, it’s as simple as simple. Look here, uncle, the water’s heated here and runs up there and there, and out and all about, and comes back along those pipes, and gradually gets down to the coil here, and is heated again. Why, if that was properly made by good workmen, it couldn’t help answering.”

Deering smiled sadly.

“You didn’t have one made like that, did you?”

“Yes. Six times over, and of the best material.”

“Well?”

“No, my boy, ill. There was a disastrous explosion each time.”

Vane looked searchingly in the inventor’s face.

“Why, it couldn’t explode,” cried Vane.

“My dear Vane, pray do not be so stubborn,” said Aunt Hannah.

“I don’t want to be, aunt, but I’ve done lots of things of this kind, and I know well enough that if you fill a kettle with water, solder down the lid, and stop up the spout, and then set it on the fire, it will burst, just as our boiler did; but this can’t. Look, uncle, here is a place where the steam and air can escape, so that it can’t go off.”

“But it did, my boy, it did.”

“What, made from that plan?”

“No, not from that, but from the one I had down here,” said Mr Deering; and he took out his keys, opened the square tin box, and drew out a carefully folded plan, drawn on tracing linen, and finished in the most perfect way.

“There,” said the inventor, as Vane lifted the lamp, and this was laid over the plan from which it had been traced; “that was the work-people’s reference—it is getting dirty now. You see it was traced from the paper.”

“Yes, I see, and the men have followed every tracing mark. Well, I say that the engine or machine, or whatever you call it, could not burst.”

The inventor smiled sadly, but said no more, and Vane went on poring over the coloured drawing, with all its reference letters, and sections and shadings, while the doctor began conversing in a low tone.

“Then you really feel that it is hopeless?” he said.

“Quite. My energies are broken. I have not the spirit to run any more risks, even if I could arrange with my creditors,” replied Deering, sadly. “Another such month as I have passed, and I should have been in a lunatic asylum.”

The doctor looked at him keenly from beneath his brows, and involuntarily stretched out a hand, and took hold of his visitor’s wrist.

“Yes,” he said, “you are terribly pulled down, Deering.”

“Now, Vane, my dear,” said Aunt Hannah, softly; “do put away those dreadful plans.”

“All right, aunt,” said the boy; “just lift up the lamp, will you?”

Aunt Hannah raised the lamp, and Vane drew the soiled tracing linen from beneath, while, as the lamp was heavy, the lady replaced it directly on the spread-out papers.

Vane’s face was a study, so puckered up and intent it had grown, as he stood there with the linen folded over so that he could hold it beneath the lamp-shade, and gaze at some detail, which he compared with the drawing on the paper again and again.

“My dear!” whispered Aunt Hannah; “do pray put those things away now; they give me quite a cold shudder.”

Vane did not answer, but drew a long breath, and fixed his eyes on one particular spot of the pencilled linen, then referred to the paper beneath the lamp, which he shifted a little, so that the bright circle of light shed by the shade was on one spot from which the tracing had been made.

“Vane,” said Aunt Hannah, more loudly, “put them away now.”

“Yes,” said Deering, starting; “it is quite time. They have done their work, and to-morrow they shall be burned.”

“No,” yelled Vane, starting up and swinging the linen tracing round his head as he danced about the room. “Hip, hip, hip, hurray, hurray, hurray!”

“Has the boy gone mad?” cried the doctor.

“Vane, my dear child!” cried Aunt Hannah.

“Hip, hip, hip, hurray,” roared Vane again, leaping on the couch, and waving the plan so vigorously, that a vase was swept from a bracket and was shivered to atoms.

“Oh, I didn’t mean that,” he cried. “But of course it burst.”

“What do you mean?” cried Deering, excitedly.

“Look there, look here!” cried Vane, springing down, doubling the linen tracing quickly, so that he could get his left thumb on one particular spot, and then placing his right forefinger on the plan beneath the lamp. “See that?”

“That?” cried Deering, leaning over the table a little, as he sat facing the place lately occupied by Vane. “That?” he said again, excitedly, and then changing his tone, “Oh, nonsense, boy, only a fly-spot in the plan, or a tiny speck of ink.”

“Yes, smudged,” cried Vane; “but, look here,” and he doubled the tracing down on the table; “but they’ve made it into a little stop-cock here.”

“What?” roared Deering.

“And if that wasn’t in your machine, of course it blew up same as my waterpipes did in the conservatory, and wrecked the kitch—”

Vane did not finish his sentence, for the inventor sprang up with the edge of the table in his hands, throwing up the top and sending the lamp off on to the floor with a crash, while he fell backward heavily into his chair, as if seized by a fit.

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