Chapter Twenty Six.Sympathy.Those were sad and weary hours at the Little Manor, and when Vane’s delirium was at its height and he was talking most rapidly, Doctor Lee for almost the first time in his life felt doubtful of his own knowledge and ability to treat his patient. He was troubled with a nervous depression, which tempted him to send for help, and he turned to white-faced, red-eyed Aunt Hannah.“I’m afraid I’m not treating him correctly,” he whispered. “I think I will send Bruff over to the station to telegraph for help.”But Aunt Hannah shook her head.“If you cannot cure him, dear,” she said firmly, “no one can. No, do not send.”“But he is so very bad,” whispered the doctor; “and when this fever passes off he will be as weak as a babe.”“Then we must nurse him back to strength,” said Aunt Hannah. “No, dear, don’t send. It is not a case of doubt. You know exactly what is the matter, and of course how to treat him for the best.”The doctor was silenced and stood at the foot of the bed, while Aunt Hannah laid her cool, soft hand upon the sufferer’s burning brow.Neither aunt nor uncle troubled to think much about the causes of the boy’s injuries; their thoughts were directed to the nursing and trying to allay the feverish symptoms, for the doctor was compelled to own that his nephew’s condition was grave, the injuries being bad enough alone without the exposure to the long hours of a misty night just on the margin of a moor.It was not alone in the chamber that sympathetic conversation went on, for work was almost at a standstill in house and garden. For the three servants talked together, as they found out how much Vane had had to do with their daily life, and what a blank his absence on a bed of sickness had caused.“Oh, dear!” sighed Martha, “poor, poor fellow!”The tears were rolling down her cheeks, and to keep up an ample supply of those signs of sorrow she took a very long sip of warm tea, for the pot had been kept going almost incessantly since Vane had been borne up to his bed.“Yes, it is.—Oh, dear,” sighed Eliza. “Poor dear! Only to think of it and him only as you may say yesterday alive and well.”“Ay, and so it is, and so it always will be,” said Bruff, who was standing by the kitchen-door turning some ale round and round in the bottom of a mug.“Ah!” sighed Martha.“Ah, indeed!” sighed Eliza.“And me so ready to make a fuss about the poor dear because he’d made a litter sometimes with his ingenuous proceedings.”“And me too,” sighed Eliza, “and ready to bite my very tongue off now for saying the things I did.”“Yes, as Mr Syme says, we’re a many of us in black darkness,” muttered Bruff. “Why, that there hot-water apparatus is a boon and a blessin’ to men, as the song says.”“About the pens?” added Eliza.“You can most see the things grow.”“Ah,” sighed Martha.“He weer as reight as reight. It was all them turning off the scape-yokes.”“And Missus forgetting to tell Martha about not lighting the fire.”“And if he’d only get well again,” sobbed Martha, wiping her eyes, “the biler might be busted once a week, and not a word would I say.”“No,” sighed Bruff giving his ale another twist round and slowly pouring it down his throat. “There’s a rose tree in the garden as he budded hisself, though I always pretended it was one of my doing, and sorry I am now.”“Ah,” sighed Martha, “we all repents when it’s too late.”Pop!A cinder flew out of the fire on to the strip of carpet lying across the hearth, and a pungent odour of burning wool arose. But Bruff stooped down and using his hardened fingers as tongs, picked up the cinder and tossed it inside the fender.Martha started as the cinder flew out and looked aghast at Eliza, her ruddy face growing mottled, while the housemaid’s cheeks were waxen as the maids gave themselves up to the silly superstition that, like many more, does not die hard but absolutely refuses to die at all.“Oh, my poor dear!” cried Martha, sobbing aloud, while Eliza buried her face in her apron, and the reason thereof suddenly began to dawn upon Bruff, who turned to the fireplace again, stooped down and carefully picked up the exploded bubble of coke and gas, turned it over two or three times, and then by a happy inspiration giving it a shake and producing a tiny tinkling noise.Bruff’s face expanded into a grin.“Why, it aren’t,” he cried holding out the cinder; “it’s a puss o’ money.”“No, no,” sighed Martha, “that isn’t the one.”“That it is,” cried Bruff, sturdily. “I’m sure on it. Look ’Liza.”The apron was slowly drawn away from the girl’s white face and she fixed her eyes on the hollow cinder, but full of doubt.“It is. Hark!” cried Bruff, and he shook the cinder close to Eliza’s ear. “Can’t you hear?”“It does tinkle,” she said. “But are you sure that’s the one?”“Of course I am, and it’s a sign as he’ll get well again, and be rich and happy.”“No, no; that isn’t the one, that isn’t the one,” sobbed Martha.“Tell you it is,” cried Bruff so fiercely that the cook doubtingly took the piece of cinder, shook it, and by degrees a smile spread over her countenance and she rose and put the scrap on the chimney-piece between two bright brass candlesticks.“For luck,” she said; and this time she wiped her eyes dry and examined a saucepan of beef tea which she had stewed down. “In case it’s wanted,” she said confidentially, though there was not the slightest likelihood thereof for some time to come.“Well,” said Bruff at last, “I suppose I had better go out to work.”But he only looked out of the kitchen window at the garden and shook his head.“Don’t seem to hev no ’art in it,” he said, looking from one to the other, as if this were quite a new condition for him to be in. “Seems to miss him so, and look wheer you will theer’s a something as puts you in mind of him. Well, all I says is this, and both of you may hear it, only let him get well and he may do any mortal thing in my garden, and I won’t complain.”Bruff took up his mug, looked inside it, and set it down again with a frown.“My missus is coming up to see if she can do owt for you ’s afternoon.”“Ah!” sighed cook, “you never know what neighbours is till you’re in trouble, ’Liza.”“No.”“Go up, soft like, and ask missus if I may send her a cup o’ tea.”“No,” said Eliza, decisively; “pour one out and I’ll take it up. And I say, dear, you know what a one master is for it; why don’t you send him up the little covered basin o’ beef tea. There, I’ll go and put a napkin over a tray.”Perhaps it was due to being called “dear,” perhaps to the fact there was an outlet for the strong beef tea she had so carefully prepared; at any rate Martha smiled and went to the cupboard for the pepper, and then to the salt-box, to season the beef tea according to her taste.Five minutes later the tray was borne up with the herbaceous and the flesh tea, and in addition some freshly-made crisp brown toast.The refreshments were most welcome, for both the doctor and Aunt Hannah were exhausted and faint, and as soon as they were alone again, and Eliza gone down with the last bulletin, Aunt Hannah shed a few tears.“So sympathetic and thoughtful of the servants, dear,” she said.The doctor nodded, and then as he dipped the dry toast in the beef tea he thought to himself that Vane had somehow managed to make himself a friend everywhere.But an enemy, too, he thought directly after, and he set himself to try and think out who it could be—an occupation stopped by messengers from the rectory, Gilmore, Distin and Macey having arrived to ask how the patient was getting on. While on their way back, they met Bates, the constable, looking very solemn as he saluted them and went on, thinking a great deal, but waiting until Vane recovered his senses before proceeding to act.
Those were sad and weary hours at the Little Manor, and when Vane’s delirium was at its height and he was talking most rapidly, Doctor Lee for almost the first time in his life felt doubtful of his own knowledge and ability to treat his patient. He was troubled with a nervous depression, which tempted him to send for help, and he turned to white-faced, red-eyed Aunt Hannah.
“I’m afraid I’m not treating him correctly,” he whispered. “I think I will send Bruff over to the station to telegraph for help.”
But Aunt Hannah shook her head.
“If you cannot cure him, dear,” she said firmly, “no one can. No, do not send.”
“But he is so very bad,” whispered the doctor; “and when this fever passes off he will be as weak as a babe.”
“Then we must nurse him back to strength,” said Aunt Hannah. “No, dear, don’t send. It is not a case of doubt. You know exactly what is the matter, and of course how to treat him for the best.”
The doctor was silenced and stood at the foot of the bed, while Aunt Hannah laid her cool, soft hand upon the sufferer’s burning brow.
Neither aunt nor uncle troubled to think much about the causes of the boy’s injuries; their thoughts were directed to the nursing and trying to allay the feverish symptoms, for the doctor was compelled to own that his nephew’s condition was grave, the injuries being bad enough alone without the exposure to the long hours of a misty night just on the margin of a moor.
It was not alone in the chamber that sympathetic conversation went on, for work was almost at a standstill in house and garden. For the three servants talked together, as they found out how much Vane had had to do with their daily life, and what a blank his absence on a bed of sickness had caused.
“Oh, dear!” sighed Martha, “poor, poor fellow!”
The tears were rolling down her cheeks, and to keep up an ample supply of those signs of sorrow she took a very long sip of warm tea, for the pot had been kept going almost incessantly since Vane had been borne up to his bed.
“Yes, it is.—Oh, dear,” sighed Eliza. “Poor dear! Only to think of it and him only as you may say yesterday alive and well.”
“Ay, and so it is, and so it always will be,” said Bruff, who was standing by the kitchen-door turning some ale round and round in the bottom of a mug.
“Ah!” sighed Martha.
“Ah, indeed!” sighed Eliza.
“And me so ready to make a fuss about the poor dear because he’d made a litter sometimes with his ingenuous proceedings.”
“And me too,” sighed Eliza, “and ready to bite my very tongue off now for saying the things I did.”
“Yes, as Mr Syme says, we’re a many of us in black darkness,” muttered Bruff. “Why, that there hot-water apparatus is a boon and a blessin’ to men, as the song says.”
“About the pens?” added Eliza.
“You can most see the things grow.”
“Ah,” sighed Martha.
“He weer as reight as reight. It was all them turning off the scape-yokes.”
“And Missus forgetting to tell Martha about not lighting the fire.”
“And if he’d only get well again,” sobbed Martha, wiping her eyes, “the biler might be busted once a week, and not a word would I say.”
“No,” sighed Bruff giving his ale another twist round and slowly pouring it down his throat. “There’s a rose tree in the garden as he budded hisself, though I always pretended it was one of my doing, and sorry I am now.”
“Ah,” sighed Martha, “we all repents when it’s too late.”
Pop!
A cinder flew out of the fire on to the strip of carpet lying across the hearth, and a pungent odour of burning wool arose. But Bruff stooped down and using his hardened fingers as tongs, picked up the cinder and tossed it inside the fender.
Martha started as the cinder flew out and looked aghast at Eliza, her ruddy face growing mottled, while the housemaid’s cheeks were waxen as the maids gave themselves up to the silly superstition that, like many more, does not die hard but absolutely refuses to die at all.
“Oh, my poor dear!” cried Martha, sobbing aloud, while Eliza buried her face in her apron, and the reason thereof suddenly began to dawn upon Bruff, who turned to the fireplace again, stooped down and carefully picked up the exploded bubble of coke and gas, turned it over two or three times, and then by a happy inspiration giving it a shake and producing a tiny tinkling noise.
Bruff’s face expanded into a grin.
“Why, it aren’t,” he cried holding out the cinder; “it’s a puss o’ money.”
“No, no,” sighed Martha, “that isn’t the one.”
“That it is,” cried Bruff, sturdily. “I’m sure on it. Look ’Liza.”
The apron was slowly drawn away from the girl’s white face and she fixed her eyes on the hollow cinder, but full of doubt.
“It is. Hark!” cried Bruff, and he shook the cinder close to Eliza’s ear. “Can’t you hear?”
“It does tinkle,” she said. “But are you sure that’s the one?”
“Of course I am, and it’s a sign as he’ll get well again, and be rich and happy.”
“No, no; that isn’t the one, that isn’t the one,” sobbed Martha.
“Tell you it is,” cried Bruff so fiercely that the cook doubtingly took the piece of cinder, shook it, and by degrees a smile spread over her countenance and she rose and put the scrap on the chimney-piece between two bright brass candlesticks.
“For luck,” she said; and this time she wiped her eyes dry and examined a saucepan of beef tea which she had stewed down. “In case it’s wanted,” she said confidentially, though there was not the slightest likelihood thereof for some time to come.
“Well,” said Bruff at last, “I suppose I had better go out to work.”
But he only looked out of the kitchen window at the garden and shook his head.
“Don’t seem to hev no ’art in it,” he said, looking from one to the other, as if this were quite a new condition for him to be in. “Seems to miss him so, and look wheer you will theer’s a something as puts you in mind of him. Well, all I says is this, and both of you may hear it, only let him get well and he may do any mortal thing in my garden, and I won’t complain.”
Bruff took up his mug, looked inside it, and set it down again with a frown.
“My missus is coming up to see if she can do owt for you ’s afternoon.”
“Ah!” sighed cook, “you never know what neighbours is till you’re in trouble, ’Liza.”
“No.”
“Go up, soft like, and ask missus if I may send her a cup o’ tea.”
“No,” said Eliza, decisively; “pour one out and I’ll take it up. And I say, dear, you know what a one master is for it; why don’t you send him up the little covered basin o’ beef tea. There, I’ll go and put a napkin over a tray.”
Perhaps it was due to being called “dear,” perhaps to the fact there was an outlet for the strong beef tea she had so carefully prepared; at any rate Martha smiled and went to the cupboard for the pepper, and then to the salt-box, to season the beef tea according to her taste.
Five minutes later the tray was borne up with the herbaceous and the flesh tea, and in addition some freshly-made crisp brown toast.
The refreshments were most welcome, for both the doctor and Aunt Hannah were exhausted and faint, and as soon as they were alone again, and Eliza gone down with the last bulletin, Aunt Hannah shed a few tears.
“So sympathetic and thoughtful of the servants, dear,” she said.
The doctor nodded, and then as he dipped the dry toast in the beef tea he thought to himself that Vane had somehow managed to make himself a friend everywhere.
But an enemy, too, he thought directly after, and he set himself to try and think out who it could be—an occupation stopped by messengers from the rectory, Gilmore, Distin and Macey having arrived to ask how the patient was getting on. While on their way back, they met Bates, the constable, looking very solemn as he saluted them and went on, thinking a great deal, but waiting until Vane recovered his senses before proceeding to act.
Chapter Twenty Seven.Vane Recollects.“Hah, that’s better,” said the doctor one fine morning, “feel stronger, don’t you?”“Oh yes, uncle,” said Vane rather faintly, “only my head feels weak and strange, and as if I couldn’t think.”“Then don’t try,” said the doctor, and for another day or two Vane was kept quiet.But all the time there was a curious mental effervescence going on as the lad lay in bed, the object of every one’s care; and until he could clearly understand why he was there, there was a constant strain and worry connected with his thoughts.“Give him time,” the doctor used to say to Aunt Hannah, “and have confidence in his medical man. When nature has strengthened him enough his mind will be quite clear.”“But are you sure, dear?” said Aunt Hannah piteously; “it would be so sad if the poor fellow did not quite recover his memory.”“Humph!” ejaculated the doctor, “this comes of having some one you know by heart for medical attendant. You wouldn’t have asked Doctor White or Doctor Black such a question as that.”“It is only from anxiety, my dear,” said Aunt Hannah; “I have perfect confidence in you. It is wonderful how he is improved.”Just then two visitors arrived in the shape of Gilmore and Macey.They had come to make inquiries on account of the rector, they said; and on hearing the doctor’s report, Macey put in a petition on his own account.“Let you go up and sit with him a bit?” said the doctor. “Well, I hardly know what to say. He knows us now; but will you promise to be very quiet?”“Oh, of course, sir,” cried Macey.“I can’t let two go up,” said the doctor.Macey looked at Gilmore.“I’ll give way if you’ll promise to let me have first turn next time.”“Agreed,” said Macey; and Gilmore went off back to give the doctor’s report to the rector, while Macey was led upstairs gently by Aunt Hannah, and after again promising to be very quiet, let into Vane’s room, and the door closed behind him.Vane was lying, gazing drowsily at the window, but the closing of the door made him turn his eyes toward the new comer, when his face lit up directly.“What, Aleck!” he said faintly.“What, old Weathercock!” cried Macey, running to the bed. “Oh, I say, old chap, it does one good to see you better, I say you’re going to be quite well now, aren’t you?”“Yes, I am better. But have they caught them?”“Eh? Caught what?”“Those two young scoundrels of gipsies,” said Vane quickly. Then, as he realised what he had said, he threw his arms out over the sheet. “Why, that’s what I’ve been trying to think of for days, and now it’s come. Have they caught them?”“What for?” said Macey, wonderingly.“For knocking me about as they did. They ought to be punished; I’ve been very ill, haven’t I?”“Awful,” said Macey, quickly. “But, I say, was it those two chaps?”Vane looked at him half wonderingly.“Yes, of course,” he said. “I remember it all now. It’s just as if a cloud had gone away from the back of my head, and I could see clearly right back now.”“Why did they do it?” cried Macey, speaking out, but feeling dubious, for Vane’s manner was rather strange, and he might still be wandering.“I don’t know,” said Vane; “I was getting truffles for uncle when they came along, and it was fists against sticks. They won, I suppose.”“Well, rather so I think,” said Macey, edging toward the door.“Don’t go, old chap. You’ve only just come.”“No, but you’re talking too much, and you’re to be kept quiet.”“Well, I’m lying quiet. But, tell me, have they caught those two fellows for knocking me about last night?”“No, not yet; and I must go now, old fellow.”“But tell me this: What did Syme say this morning because I didn’t come?”“Oh, nothing much; he was tackling me. I got it horribly for being so stupid.”“Not you. But tell him I shall be back in the morning.”“All right. Good-bye.”They shook hands, and Macey hurried down to the doctor and Mrs Lee.“Here, he’s ever so much better and worse, too, sir,” cried Macey.The doctor started up in alarm.“Oh, no, sir; he’s quiet enough, but he thinks it was only last night when he was knocked about.”“Convalescents are often rather hazy about their chronology,” said the doctor.“But he’s clear enough in one thing, sir; he says it was the two gipsy lads who set upon him with sticks.”“Ah!” cried the doctor.“And I came down to ask you if these two fellows ought not to be caught.”“Yes, yes, of course,” cried the doctor. “But first of all we must be sure whether he is quite clear in his head. This may be an illusion.”“Well, sir, it may be,” replied Macey, “but if I’d had such a knocking about as poor Vane, I shouldn’t make any mistake about it as soon as I could begin to think.”“Stay here,” said the doctor. “I’ll go up and see him.”He went up and all doubt about his nephew’s clearness of memory was at an end, for Vane began at once.“I’ve been lying here some time, haven’t I, uncle?”“Yes, my boy; a long while.”“I was very stupid just now when Macey was here. It seemed to me that it was only last night that I was in the wood getting truffles, when those two gipsy lads attacked me, but, of course, I’ve been very ill since.”“Yes, my boy, very.”“The young scoundrels! There was the basket and trowel, I remember.”“Yes, my boy, they brought them home.”“That’s right. It was your little bright trowel, and—oh, of course I remember that now. I was taking the bottle of liniment, and one of the lad’s sticks struck me on the breast, where I had the bottle in my pocket, and shivered it.”“Struck you with his stick?”“Yes. I made as hard a fight of it as I could, but they were too much for me.”“Don’t think about it any more now, but try and have a nap,” said the doctor quietly. “I want to go down.”Vane sighed.“What’s the matter, boy, fresh pain?”“No, I was thinking what a trouble I am to you, uncle.”“Trouble, boy? Why, it’s quite a treat,” said the doctor, laughing. “I was quite out of practice, and I’m in your debt for giving me a little work.”“Don’t thank me, uncle,” said Vane with a smile, though it was only the shadow of his usual hearty laugh. “I wouldn’t have given you the job if I could have helped it.”The doctor nodded, patted the boy’s shoulder and went down, for Vane in his weakness willingly settled himself off to sleep, his eyes being half-closed as the doctor shut the door.“Well, sir,” cried Macey, eagerly, as the doctor entered the drawing-room, “he’s all right in the head again, isn’t he?”“I don’t think there’s a doubt of it, my lad,” said the doctor. “You are going close by, will you ask the policeman to come down?”“Yes; I’ll tell him,” cried Macey, eagerly.“No, no, leave me to tell him. I would rather,” said the doctor, “because I must speak with some reserve. It is not nice to arrest innocent people.”“But I may tell Mr Syme and Gilmore?”“Oh, yes, you can tell what you know,” replied the doctor; and, satisfied with this concession, Macey rushed off.As he reached the lane leading to the rectory, habit led him up it a few yards. Then recollecting himself, he was turning back when he caught sight of Distin and Gilmore coming toward him, and he waited till they came up.“It’s all right,” he cried. “Vane knows all about it now, and he told me and the doctor who it is that he has to thank for the knocking about.”“What! he knows?” cried Distin, eagerly; and Gilmore caught his companion’s arm.“Yes,” he cried, catching Distin’s arm in turn, “come on with me.”“Where to?” said Distin, starting.“To the police—to old Bates.”Distin gave Macey a curious look, and then walked on beside him, Macey repeating all he knew as they went along toward Bates’ cottage, where they found the constable looking singularly unofficial, for he was in his shirt-sleeves weeding his garden.“Want me, gents?” he said with alacrity as he rose and looked from one to the other, his eyes resting longest upon Distin, as if he had some doubt about him that he could not clear up.“We don’t, but the doctor does,” cried Macey. “I’ve just come from there.”“Phee-ew!” whistled the constable. “They been at his fowls again? No; they’d have known in the morning. Why—no—yes—you don’t mean to say as Mr Vane’s come round enough to say who knocked him about?”“The doctor told me to tell you he wanted you to step down to see him,” said Macey coolly; “so look sharp.”The constable ran to the pump to wash his hands, and five minutes after he was on the way to the Little Manor.“I’m wrong,” he muttered as he went along—“ever so wrong. Somehow you can’t be cock-sure about anything. I could ha’ sweered as that yallow-faced poople had a finger in it, for it looked as straight as straight; but theer, it’s hard work to see very far. Now, let’s hear what the doctor’s got to say.”
“Hah, that’s better,” said the doctor one fine morning, “feel stronger, don’t you?”
“Oh yes, uncle,” said Vane rather faintly, “only my head feels weak and strange, and as if I couldn’t think.”
“Then don’t try,” said the doctor, and for another day or two Vane was kept quiet.
But all the time there was a curious mental effervescence going on as the lad lay in bed, the object of every one’s care; and until he could clearly understand why he was there, there was a constant strain and worry connected with his thoughts.
“Give him time,” the doctor used to say to Aunt Hannah, “and have confidence in his medical man. When nature has strengthened him enough his mind will be quite clear.”
“But are you sure, dear?” said Aunt Hannah piteously; “it would be so sad if the poor fellow did not quite recover his memory.”
“Humph!” ejaculated the doctor, “this comes of having some one you know by heart for medical attendant. You wouldn’t have asked Doctor White or Doctor Black such a question as that.”
“It is only from anxiety, my dear,” said Aunt Hannah; “I have perfect confidence in you. It is wonderful how he is improved.”
Just then two visitors arrived in the shape of Gilmore and Macey.
They had come to make inquiries on account of the rector, they said; and on hearing the doctor’s report, Macey put in a petition on his own account.
“Let you go up and sit with him a bit?” said the doctor. “Well, I hardly know what to say. He knows us now; but will you promise to be very quiet?”
“Oh, of course, sir,” cried Macey.
“I can’t let two go up,” said the doctor.
Macey looked at Gilmore.
“I’ll give way if you’ll promise to let me have first turn next time.”
“Agreed,” said Macey; and Gilmore went off back to give the doctor’s report to the rector, while Macey was led upstairs gently by Aunt Hannah, and after again promising to be very quiet, let into Vane’s room, and the door closed behind him.
Vane was lying, gazing drowsily at the window, but the closing of the door made him turn his eyes toward the new comer, when his face lit up directly.
“What, Aleck!” he said faintly.
“What, old Weathercock!” cried Macey, running to the bed. “Oh, I say, old chap, it does one good to see you better, I say you’re going to be quite well now, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am better. But have they caught them?”
“Eh? Caught what?”
“Those two young scoundrels of gipsies,” said Vane quickly. Then, as he realised what he had said, he threw his arms out over the sheet. “Why, that’s what I’ve been trying to think of for days, and now it’s come. Have they caught them?”
“What for?” said Macey, wonderingly.
“For knocking me about as they did. They ought to be punished; I’ve been very ill, haven’t I?”
“Awful,” said Macey, quickly. “But, I say, was it those two chaps?”
Vane looked at him half wonderingly.
“Yes, of course,” he said. “I remember it all now. It’s just as if a cloud had gone away from the back of my head, and I could see clearly right back now.”
“Why did they do it?” cried Macey, speaking out, but feeling dubious, for Vane’s manner was rather strange, and he might still be wandering.
“I don’t know,” said Vane; “I was getting truffles for uncle when they came along, and it was fists against sticks. They won, I suppose.”
“Well, rather so I think,” said Macey, edging toward the door.
“Don’t go, old chap. You’ve only just come.”
“No, but you’re talking too much, and you’re to be kept quiet.”
“Well, I’m lying quiet. But, tell me, have they caught those two fellows for knocking me about last night?”
“No, not yet; and I must go now, old fellow.”
“But tell me this: What did Syme say this morning because I didn’t come?”
“Oh, nothing much; he was tackling me. I got it horribly for being so stupid.”
“Not you. But tell him I shall be back in the morning.”
“All right. Good-bye.”
They shook hands, and Macey hurried down to the doctor and Mrs Lee.
“Here, he’s ever so much better and worse, too, sir,” cried Macey.
The doctor started up in alarm.
“Oh, no, sir; he’s quiet enough, but he thinks it was only last night when he was knocked about.”
“Convalescents are often rather hazy about their chronology,” said the doctor.
“But he’s clear enough in one thing, sir; he says it was the two gipsy lads who set upon him with sticks.”
“Ah!” cried the doctor.
“And I came down to ask you if these two fellows ought not to be caught.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” cried the doctor. “But first of all we must be sure whether he is quite clear in his head. This may be an illusion.”
“Well, sir, it may be,” replied Macey, “but if I’d had such a knocking about as poor Vane, I shouldn’t make any mistake about it as soon as I could begin to think.”
“Stay here,” said the doctor. “I’ll go up and see him.”
He went up and all doubt about his nephew’s clearness of memory was at an end, for Vane began at once.
“I’ve been lying here some time, haven’t I, uncle?”
“Yes, my boy; a long while.”
“I was very stupid just now when Macey was here. It seemed to me that it was only last night that I was in the wood getting truffles, when those two gipsy lads attacked me, but, of course, I’ve been very ill since.”
“Yes, my boy, very.”
“The young scoundrels! There was the basket and trowel, I remember.”
“Yes, my boy, they brought them home.”
“That’s right. It was your little bright trowel, and—oh, of course I remember that now. I was taking the bottle of liniment, and one of the lad’s sticks struck me on the breast, where I had the bottle in my pocket, and shivered it.”
“Struck you with his stick?”
“Yes. I made as hard a fight of it as I could, but they were too much for me.”
“Don’t think about it any more now, but try and have a nap,” said the doctor quietly. “I want to go down.”
Vane sighed.
“What’s the matter, boy, fresh pain?”
“No, I was thinking what a trouble I am to you, uncle.”
“Trouble, boy? Why, it’s quite a treat,” said the doctor, laughing. “I was quite out of practice, and I’m in your debt for giving me a little work.”
“Don’t thank me, uncle,” said Vane with a smile, though it was only the shadow of his usual hearty laugh. “I wouldn’t have given you the job if I could have helped it.”
The doctor nodded, patted the boy’s shoulder and went down, for Vane in his weakness willingly settled himself off to sleep, his eyes being half-closed as the doctor shut the door.
“Well, sir,” cried Macey, eagerly, as the doctor entered the drawing-room, “he’s all right in the head again, isn’t he?”
“I don’t think there’s a doubt of it, my lad,” said the doctor. “You are going close by, will you ask the policeman to come down?”
“Yes; I’ll tell him,” cried Macey, eagerly.
“No, no, leave me to tell him. I would rather,” said the doctor, “because I must speak with some reserve. It is not nice to arrest innocent people.”
“But I may tell Mr Syme and Gilmore?”
“Oh, yes, you can tell what you know,” replied the doctor; and, satisfied with this concession, Macey rushed off.
As he reached the lane leading to the rectory, habit led him up it a few yards. Then recollecting himself, he was turning back when he caught sight of Distin and Gilmore coming toward him, and he waited till they came up.
“It’s all right,” he cried. “Vane knows all about it now, and he told me and the doctor who it is that he has to thank for the knocking about.”
“What! he knows?” cried Distin, eagerly; and Gilmore caught his companion’s arm.
“Yes,” he cried, catching Distin’s arm in turn, “come on with me.”
“Where to?” said Distin, starting.
“To the police—to old Bates.”
Distin gave Macey a curious look, and then walked on beside him, Macey repeating all he knew as they went along toward Bates’ cottage, where they found the constable looking singularly unofficial, for he was in his shirt-sleeves weeding his garden.
“Want me, gents?” he said with alacrity as he rose and looked from one to the other, his eyes resting longest upon Distin, as if he had some doubt about him that he could not clear up.
“We don’t, but the doctor does,” cried Macey. “I’ve just come from there.”
“Phee-ew!” whistled the constable. “They been at his fowls again? No; they’d have known in the morning. Why—no—yes—you don’t mean to say as Mr Vane’s come round enough to say who knocked him about?”
“The doctor told me to tell you he wanted you to step down to see him,” said Macey coolly; “so look sharp.”
The constable ran to the pump to wash his hands, and five minutes after he was on the way to the Little Manor.
“I’m wrong,” he muttered as he went along—“ever so wrong. Somehow you can’t be cock-sure about anything. I could ha’ sweered as that yallow-faced poople had a finger in it, for it looked as straight as straight; but theer, it’s hard work to see very far. Now, let’s hear what the doctor’s got to say.”
Chapter Twenty Eight.Rowing Superseded.“That there Mr Distin ’ll have his knife into me for what I said about him. Oh, dear me, what a blunder I did make!”“Yes, wrong as wrong,” said Constable Bates, as he came away from the Little Manor, “and me niver to think o’ they two lungeing looking young dogs. Why, of course it was they. I can see it clear now, as clear—a child could see it. Well, I’ll soon run them down.”Easier said than done, for the two gipsy lads seemed to have dropped quite out of sight, and in spite of the help afforded by members of the constabulary all round the county the two furtive, weasel-like young scamps could not be heard of. They and their gang had apparently migrated to some distant county, and the matter was almost forgotten.“It doesn’t matter,” Vane said, as he grew better. “I don’t want to punish the scamps, I want to finish my boat;” and as soon as he grew strong he devoted all his spare time to the new patent water-walker as Macey dubbed it, and at which Distin now and then delivered a covert sneer.For this scheme was the outcome of the unfortunate ride on the river that day when Vane sat dreaming in the boat and watching the laborious work of those who wielded the oars and tried to think out a means of sending a boat gliding through the water almost without effort.He had thought over what had already been done as far as he knew, and pondered over paddle-wheels and screws with the mighty engines which set them in motion, but his aquatic mechanism must need neither fire nor steam. It must be something simple, easily applicable to a small boat, and either depend upon a man’s arm or foot, as in the treadle of a lathe, or else be a something that he could wind up like old Chakes did the big clock, with a great winch key, and then go as long as he liked.It took so much thinking, and he was so silent indoors, that Aunt Hannah told the doctor in confidence one night that she was sure poor Vane was sickening for something, and she was afraid that it was measles.“Yes,” said the doctor with a laugh, “sort of mental measles. You’ll see he will break out directly with a rash—”“Oh, my dear,” cried Aunt Hannah, “then hadn’t he better be kept in a warm bed?”“Hannah, my beloved wife,” said the doctor, solemnly, “is it not time you learned to wait till your ill-used husband has finished his speech before you interrupt him? I was saying break out directly with a rash desire to spend more money upon a whim-wham to wind up the sun.”“Ah, now you are joking,” said Aunt Hannah. “Then you do not think he is going to be ill again?”“Not a bit.”It all came out in a day or two, and after listening patiently to the whole scheme—“Well,” said the doctor, “try, only you are not to go beyond five pounds for expenses.”“Then you believe in it, uncle,” cried Vane, excitedly.“I am not going to commit myself, boy,” said the doctor. “Try, and if you succeed you may ride us up and down the river as often as you like.”Vane went off at once to begin.“Five pounds, my dear,” said Aunt Hannah, shaking her head, “and you do not believe in it. Will it not be money wasted.”“Not more so than five pounds spent in education,” replied the doctor, stoutly. “The boy has a turn for mechanics, so let him go on. He’ll fail, but he will have learned a great deal about ics, while he has been amusing himself for months.”“About Hicks?” said Aunt Hannah, innocently, “is he some engineer?”“Who saidHicks?” cried the doctor, “I said ics—statics, and dynamics and hydraulics, and the rest of their nature’s forces.”“Oh,” said Aunt Hannah, “I understand,” which can only be looked upon as a very innocent fib.Meanwhile Vane had hurried down to the mill, for five pounds does not go very far in mechanism, and there would be none to spare for the purchase of a boat.“Hallo, squire,” roared the miller, who saw him as he approached the little bridge, “you’re too late.”“What for—going out?”“Going out? What, with all this water on hand. Nay, lad, mak’ your hay while the sun shines. Deal o’ grinding to do a day like this.”“Then why did you say I was too late?” said Vane.“For the eels running. They weer coming down fast enew last night. Got the eel trap half full. Come and look.”He led the way down through a flap in the floor to where, in a cellar-like place close to the big splashing mill wheel, there was a tub half full of the slimy creatures, anything but a pleasant-looking sight, and Vane said so.“Reight, my lad,” said the miller, “but you wait till a basketful goes up to the Little Manor and your Martha has ornamented ’em with eggs and crumbs and browned ’em and sent ’em up on a white napkin, with good parsley. Won’t be an unpleasant sight then, eh? Come down to fish?”“No,” said Vane, hesitating now.“Oh, then, you want the boat?”“Yes, it was about the boat.”“Well, lad, there she is chained to the post. You’re welcome, only don’t get upset again and come back here like drowned rats.”“I don’t want to row,” said Vane. “I—er—that is—oh, look here, Mr Rounds,” he cried desperately, “you can only say no. I am inventing a plan for moving boats through the water without labour.”“Well, use the oars; they aren’t labour.”“But I mean something simpler or easier.”“Nay, theer aren’t no easier way unless you tak a canoe and paddle.”“But I’m going to invent an easier way, and I want you to lend me the boat for an experiment.”“What!” roared the miller, “you want to coot my boat to pieces for some new fad o’ yourn. Nay, lad, it aren’t likely.”“But I don’t want to cut it up.”“Say, coot, lad, coot; don’t chop your words short; sounds as if you were calling puss wi’ your cat.”“Well, then I don’t want to coot up the boat, only to fit my machine in when it’s ready, and propel the boat that way.”“Oh, I see,” said the miller, scratching his big head. “You don’t want to coot her aboot.”“No, not at all; I won’t even injure the paint.”“Hum, well, I don’t know what to say, lad. You wouldn’t knock her aboot?”“No; only bring my machine and fit it somewhere in the stern.”“Sort o’ windmill thing?”“Oh, no.”“Oh, I see, more like my water-mill paddles, eh?”“Well, I don’t quite know yet,” said Vane.“What, aren’t it ready?”“No; I haven’t begun.”“Oh. Mebbe it never will be.”“Oh, yes, I shall finish it,” said Vane.“Hey, what a lad thou art for scheming things; I wish you’d mak’ me a thing to grind corn wi’out weering all the face off the stones, so as they weant bite.”“Perhaps I will some day.”“Ay, there’d be some sense in that, lad. Well, thou alway was a lad o’ thy word when I lent you the boat, so you may have her when you like; bood I’ll lay a wager you don’t get a machine done as’ll row the boat wi’ me aboard.”“We’ll see,” cried Vane, excitedly.“Ay, we will,” said the miller. “Bood, say, lad, what a one thou art for scheming! I say I heered some un say that it was one o’ thy tricks that night when church clock kep’ on striking nine hundred and nineteen to the dozen.”“Well, Mr Round—”“I know’d: thou’d been winding her oop wi’ the kitchen poker, or some game o’ that sort, eh?”“No, I only tried to clean the clock a little, and set it going again.”“Ay, and left all ta wheels out. Haw—haw—haw!”The miller’s laugh almost made the mill boards rattle.“I say, don’t talk about it, Mr Round,” cried Vane; “and, really, I only forgot two.”The miller roared again.“On’y left out two! Hark at him! Why, ivery wheel has some’at to do wi’ works. Theer, I weant laugh at thee, lad, only don’t fetch us all oot o’ bed another night, thinking the whole plaace is being bont aboot our ears. Theer tak’ the boat when you like; you’re welcome enew.”Vane went off in high glee, and that day he had long interviews with Wrench the carpenter, and the blacksmith, who promised to work out his ideas as soon as he gave them models or measurements, both declaring that they had some splendid “stooff” ready to “wuck off,” and Vane went back to his own place and gave every spare moment to his idea.That propeller took exactly two months to make, for the workmen always made the parts entrusted to them either too short or too long, and in fact just as a cobbler would make a boot that ought to have been the work of a skilful veteran.“It’s going to be a rum thing,” said Macey, who helped a great deal by strolling down from the rectory, sitting on a box, and drumming his heels on the side, while he made disparaging remarks, and said that the whole affair was sure to fail.The doctor came in too, and nodded as the different parts were explained; but as the contrivance was worked out, Vane found that he had to greatly modify his original ideas; all the same though, he brought so much perseverance to bear that the blacksmith’s objections were always overridden, and Wrench the carpenter’s growls suppressed.One of the greatest difficulties encountered was the making the machine so self-contained that it could be placed right in the stern of the boat without any need for nails or stays.But Vane had a scheme for every difficulty, and at last the day came when the new propeller was set up in the little workshop, and Distin, brought by curiosity, accompanied Gilmore and Macey to the induction.Vane was nervous enough, but proud, as he took his fellow-pupils into the place, and there, in the middle, fixed upon a rough, heavy bench, stood the machine.“Why, you never got that made for five pounds?” cried Gilmore.“N–no,” said Vane, wincing a little, “I’m afraid it will cost nearly fifteen. I had to make some alterations.”“Looks a rum set-out,” continued Gilmore, and Distin stood and smiled. “Oh, I say, while I remember,” cried Gilmore, “there was a little girl wanted you this morning, Dis. Said she had a message for you.”“Oh, yes, I saw her,” said Distin, nonchalantly. “Begging—I saw her.”“She’ll always be following you,” said Macey. “Why, that makes four times she has been after you, Dis.”“Oh, well, poor thing, what can one do,” said Distin, hurriedly; “some mother or sister very ill, I believe. But I say, Vane,” he continued, as if eager to change the conversation, “where is this thing to go?”“In the stern of the boat.”“Stern? Why, it will fill the boat, and there will not be room for anything else.”“Oh, but the future ones will be made all of iron, and not take up half the space.”Gilmore touched a lever and moved a crank.“Don’t, don’t,” yelled Macey, running to the door, “it will go off.”There was a roar of laughter, in which all joined, and Vane explained the machine a little more, and above all that this was only a tentative idea and just to see if the mechanism would answer its purpose.“But, I say,” cried Gilmore, “it looks like a wooden lathe made to turn water.”“Or a mangle,” said Distin, with a sneer of contempt.“Wrong, both of you,” cried Macey, getting toward the door, so as to be able to escape if Vane tried to get at him. “I’ll tell you what it’s like—a knife-grinder’s barrow gone mad.”“All right,” said Vane, “laugh away. Wait till you see how it works.”“When are you going to try it?” said Gilmore.“To-morrow afternoon. Mr Round’s going to send a cart for it and four of his men to get it down.”“We will be there,” said Macey with a scowl such as would be assumed by the wicked man in a melodrama, and then the workshop was locked up.
“That there Mr Distin ’ll have his knife into me for what I said about him. Oh, dear me, what a blunder I did make!”
“Yes, wrong as wrong,” said Constable Bates, as he came away from the Little Manor, “and me niver to think o’ they two lungeing looking young dogs. Why, of course it was they. I can see it clear now, as clear—a child could see it. Well, I’ll soon run them down.”
Easier said than done, for the two gipsy lads seemed to have dropped quite out of sight, and in spite of the help afforded by members of the constabulary all round the county the two furtive, weasel-like young scamps could not be heard of. They and their gang had apparently migrated to some distant county, and the matter was almost forgotten.
“It doesn’t matter,” Vane said, as he grew better. “I don’t want to punish the scamps, I want to finish my boat;” and as soon as he grew strong he devoted all his spare time to the new patent water-walker as Macey dubbed it, and at which Distin now and then delivered a covert sneer.
For this scheme was the outcome of the unfortunate ride on the river that day when Vane sat dreaming in the boat and watching the laborious work of those who wielded the oars and tried to think out a means of sending a boat gliding through the water almost without effort.
He had thought over what had already been done as far as he knew, and pondered over paddle-wheels and screws with the mighty engines which set them in motion, but his aquatic mechanism must need neither fire nor steam. It must be something simple, easily applicable to a small boat, and either depend upon a man’s arm or foot, as in the treadle of a lathe, or else be a something that he could wind up like old Chakes did the big clock, with a great winch key, and then go as long as he liked.
It took so much thinking, and he was so silent indoors, that Aunt Hannah told the doctor in confidence one night that she was sure poor Vane was sickening for something, and she was afraid that it was measles.
“Yes,” said the doctor with a laugh, “sort of mental measles. You’ll see he will break out directly with a rash—”
“Oh, my dear,” cried Aunt Hannah, “then hadn’t he better be kept in a warm bed?”
“Hannah, my beloved wife,” said the doctor, solemnly, “is it not time you learned to wait till your ill-used husband has finished his speech before you interrupt him? I was saying break out directly with a rash desire to spend more money upon a whim-wham to wind up the sun.”
“Ah, now you are joking,” said Aunt Hannah. “Then you do not think he is going to be ill again?”
“Not a bit.”
It all came out in a day or two, and after listening patiently to the whole scheme—
“Well,” said the doctor, “try, only you are not to go beyond five pounds for expenses.”
“Then you believe in it, uncle,” cried Vane, excitedly.
“I am not going to commit myself, boy,” said the doctor. “Try, and if you succeed you may ride us up and down the river as often as you like.”
Vane went off at once to begin.
“Five pounds, my dear,” said Aunt Hannah, shaking her head, “and you do not believe in it. Will it not be money wasted.”
“Not more so than five pounds spent in education,” replied the doctor, stoutly. “The boy has a turn for mechanics, so let him go on. He’ll fail, but he will have learned a great deal about ics, while he has been amusing himself for months.”
“About Hicks?” said Aunt Hannah, innocently, “is he some engineer?”
“Who saidHicks?” cried the doctor, “I said ics—statics, and dynamics and hydraulics, and the rest of their nature’s forces.”
“Oh,” said Aunt Hannah, “I understand,” which can only be looked upon as a very innocent fib.
Meanwhile Vane had hurried down to the mill, for five pounds does not go very far in mechanism, and there would be none to spare for the purchase of a boat.
“Hallo, squire,” roared the miller, who saw him as he approached the little bridge, “you’re too late.”
“What for—going out?”
“Going out? What, with all this water on hand. Nay, lad, mak’ your hay while the sun shines. Deal o’ grinding to do a day like this.”
“Then why did you say I was too late?” said Vane.
“For the eels running. They weer coming down fast enew last night. Got the eel trap half full. Come and look.”
He led the way down through a flap in the floor to where, in a cellar-like place close to the big splashing mill wheel, there was a tub half full of the slimy creatures, anything but a pleasant-looking sight, and Vane said so.
“Reight, my lad,” said the miller, “but you wait till a basketful goes up to the Little Manor and your Martha has ornamented ’em with eggs and crumbs and browned ’em and sent ’em up on a white napkin, with good parsley. Won’t be an unpleasant sight then, eh? Come down to fish?”
“No,” said Vane, hesitating now.
“Oh, then, you want the boat?”
“Yes, it was about the boat.”
“Well, lad, there she is chained to the post. You’re welcome, only don’t get upset again and come back here like drowned rats.”
“I don’t want to row,” said Vane. “I—er—that is—oh, look here, Mr Rounds,” he cried desperately, “you can only say no. I am inventing a plan for moving boats through the water without labour.”
“Well, use the oars; they aren’t labour.”
“But I mean something simpler or easier.”
“Nay, theer aren’t no easier way unless you tak a canoe and paddle.”
“But I’m going to invent an easier way, and I want you to lend me the boat for an experiment.”
“What!” roared the miller, “you want to coot my boat to pieces for some new fad o’ yourn. Nay, lad, it aren’t likely.”
“But I don’t want to cut it up.”
“Say, coot, lad, coot; don’t chop your words short; sounds as if you were calling puss wi’ your cat.”
“Well, then I don’t want to coot up the boat, only to fit my machine in when it’s ready, and propel the boat that way.”
“Oh, I see,” said the miller, scratching his big head. “You don’t want to coot her aboot.”
“No, not at all; I won’t even injure the paint.”
“Hum, well, I don’t know what to say, lad. You wouldn’t knock her aboot?”
“No; only bring my machine and fit it somewhere in the stern.”
“Sort o’ windmill thing?”
“Oh, no.”
“Oh, I see, more like my water-mill paddles, eh?”
“Well, I don’t quite know yet,” said Vane.
“What, aren’t it ready?”
“No; I haven’t begun.”
“Oh. Mebbe it never will be.”
“Oh, yes, I shall finish it,” said Vane.
“Hey, what a lad thou art for scheming things; I wish you’d mak’ me a thing to grind corn wi’out weering all the face off the stones, so as they weant bite.”
“Perhaps I will some day.”
“Ay, there’d be some sense in that, lad. Well, thou alway was a lad o’ thy word when I lent you the boat, so you may have her when you like; bood I’ll lay a wager you don’t get a machine done as’ll row the boat wi’ me aboard.”
“We’ll see,” cried Vane, excitedly.
“Ay, we will,” said the miller. “Bood, say, lad, what a one thou art for scheming! I say I heered some un say that it was one o’ thy tricks that night when church clock kep’ on striking nine hundred and nineteen to the dozen.”
“Well, Mr Round—”
“I know’d: thou’d been winding her oop wi’ the kitchen poker, or some game o’ that sort, eh?”
“No, I only tried to clean the clock a little, and set it going again.”
“Ay, and left all ta wheels out. Haw—haw—haw!”
The miller’s laugh almost made the mill boards rattle.
“I say, don’t talk about it, Mr Round,” cried Vane; “and, really, I only forgot two.”
The miller roared again.
“On’y left out two! Hark at him! Why, ivery wheel has some’at to do wi’ works. Theer, I weant laugh at thee, lad, only don’t fetch us all oot o’ bed another night, thinking the whole plaace is being bont aboot our ears. Theer tak’ the boat when you like; you’re welcome enew.”
Vane went off in high glee, and that day he had long interviews with Wrench the carpenter, and the blacksmith, who promised to work out his ideas as soon as he gave them models or measurements, both declaring that they had some splendid “stooff” ready to “wuck off,” and Vane went back to his own place and gave every spare moment to his idea.
That propeller took exactly two months to make, for the workmen always made the parts entrusted to them either too short or too long, and in fact just as a cobbler would make a boot that ought to have been the work of a skilful veteran.
“It’s going to be a rum thing,” said Macey, who helped a great deal by strolling down from the rectory, sitting on a box, and drumming his heels on the side, while he made disparaging remarks, and said that the whole affair was sure to fail.
The doctor came in too, and nodded as the different parts were explained; but as the contrivance was worked out, Vane found that he had to greatly modify his original ideas; all the same though, he brought so much perseverance to bear that the blacksmith’s objections were always overridden, and Wrench the carpenter’s growls suppressed.
One of the greatest difficulties encountered was the making the machine so self-contained that it could be placed right in the stern of the boat without any need for nails or stays.
But Vane had a scheme for every difficulty, and at last the day came when the new propeller was set up in the little workshop, and Distin, brought by curiosity, accompanied Gilmore and Macey to the induction.
Vane was nervous enough, but proud, as he took his fellow-pupils into the place, and there, in the middle, fixed upon a rough, heavy bench, stood the machine.
“Why, you never got that made for five pounds?” cried Gilmore.
“N–no,” said Vane, wincing a little, “I’m afraid it will cost nearly fifteen. I had to make some alterations.”
“Looks a rum set-out,” continued Gilmore, and Distin stood and smiled. “Oh, I say, while I remember,” cried Gilmore, “there was a little girl wanted you this morning, Dis. Said she had a message for you.”
“Oh, yes, I saw her,” said Distin, nonchalantly. “Begging—I saw her.”
“She’ll always be following you,” said Macey. “Why, that makes four times she has been after you, Dis.”
“Oh, well, poor thing, what can one do,” said Distin, hurriedly; “some mother or sister very ill, I believe. But I say, Vane,” he continued, as if eager to change the conversation, “where is this thing to go?”
“In the stern of the boat.”
“Stern? Why, it will fill the boat, and there will not be room for anything else.”
“Oh, but the future ones will be made all of iron, and not take up half the space.”
Gilmore touched a lever and moved a crank.
“Don’t, don’t,” yelled Macey, running to the door, “it will go off.”
There was a roar of laughter, in which all joined, and Vane explained the machine a little more, and above all that this was only a tentative idea and just to see if the mechanism would answer its purpose.
“But, I say,” cried Gilmore, “it looks like a wooden lathe made to turn water.”
“Or a mangle,” said Distin, with a sneer of contempt.
“Wrong, both of you,” cried Macey, getting toward the door, so as to be able to escape if Vane tried to get at him. “I’ll tell you what it’s like—a knife-grinder’s barrow gone mad.”
“All right,” said Vane, “laugh away. Wait till you see how it works.”
“When are you going to try it?” said Gilmore.
“To-morrow afternoon. Mr Round’s going to send a cart for it and four of his men to get it down.”
“We will be there,” said Macey with a scowl such as would be assumed by the wicked man in a melodrama, and then the workshop was locked up.
Chapter Twenty Nine.Trying an Experiment.“Pray, pray, be careful, Vane, my dear,” cried Aunt Hannah, the next afternoon, when the new propeller had been carefully lifted on to the miller’s cart, and the inventor rushed in to say good-bye and ask the doctor and his aunt to come down for the trial, which would take place in two hours’ time exactly.Then he followed the cart, but only to be overtaken by the rector’s other three pupils, Macey announcing that Mr Syme was going to follow shortly.Vane did not feel grateful, and he would have rather had the trial all alone, but he was too eager and excited to mind much, and soon after the boat was drawn up to the side of the staging, at the end of the dam, the ponderous affair lifted from the cart, and the miller came out to form one of the group of onlookers.“Why, hey, Vane Lee, my lad, she’s too big enew. She’ll sink the boat.”“Oh, no,” cried Vane. “It looks heavier than it is.”“Won’t be much room for me,” said the miller, with a chuckle.“You mustn’t come,” cried Vane in alarm. “Only Macey and I are going in the boat. We work the pedals and hand cranks. This is only an experiment to see if it will go.”“Hey bood she’ll goo reight enew,” said the miller, seriously, “if I get in. Reight to the bottom, and the mill ’ll be to let.”There was a roar of laughter at this, and Macey whispered:—“I say, Weathercock, if they’re going to chaff like this I shall cut off.”“No, no, don’t be a coward,” whispered back Vane; “it’s only their fun. It don’t hurt.”“Oh, doesn’t it. I feel as if gnats were stinging me.”“That theer boat ’ll never carry her, my lad,” said the miller.“It will, I tell you,” cried Vane, firmly.“Aw reight. In wi’ her then, and when she’s at the bottom you can come and fish for her. It’s straange and deep down there.”“Now then, ready?” cried Vane after a due amount of preparation.An affirmative answer was given; the frame-work with its cranks was carefully lifted on to the platform and lowered into the boat’s stern, which it fitted exactly, and Vane stepped in, and by the help of a screw-hammer fitted some iron braces round the boat, screwed them up tightly. The machine was fairly fixed in its place and looked extremely top-heavy, and with Vane in the stern as well, sent the boat’s gunwale down within four inches of the surface and the bows up correspondingly high.By this time the rector and the Little Manor people had arrived, while quite a little crowd from the town had gathered to stand on the edge of the dam and for the most part grin.“There,” said Vane as he stood up covered with perspiration from his efforts. “That’s about right. In a boat made on purpose the machine would be fitted on the bottom and be quite out of the way.”“Couldn’t be, lad,” said the miller. “But goo on, I want to see her move.”“Wish there was another boat here, Gil,” said Distin. “You and I would race them.”“Let them talk,” said Vane, to encourage Macey, who looked very solemn, and as he spoke he carefully examined the two very small paddles which dropped over each side, so arranged that they should, when worked by the cranks and hand levers, churn up the water horizontally instead of vertically like an ordinary paddle wheel.There were a good many other little things to do, such as driving in a few wedges between the frame-work and side of the boat, to get all firmer, but Vane had come provided with everything necessary, and when he could no longer delay the start, which he had put off as long as possible, and when it seemed as if Macey would be missing if they stopped much longer, the lad rose up with his face very much flushed and spoke out frankly and well, explaining that it was quite possible that his rough machine would not work smoothly at first, but that if the principle was right he would soon have a better boat and machine.Hereupon Gilmore cried, “Hooray!” and there was a hearty cheer, accompanied by a loud tapping of the rector’s walking stick, on the wooden gangway.“Now, Vane, lad, we’re getting impatient,” cried the doctor, who was nearly as anxious as his nephew. “Off with you!”“Well said, doctor,” cried the miller; “less o’ the clapper, my lads, and more of the spinning wheels and stones.”“Ready, Macey?” whispered Vane.“No,” was whispered back.“Why?”“I’m in such an awful stew.”“Get out. It’s all right. Now then. You know. Come down and sit in your place steadily.”Macey stepped down into the boat, which gave a lurch, and went very near the water, as far as the gunwale was concerned.“Hi theer; howd hard,” cried the miller; “he’s too heavy. Coom out, lad, and I’ll tak thy place.”There was another roar of laughter at this.“Oh, I say, Mr Round, don’t chaff us or we can’t do it,” whispered Vane to the jolly-looking great twenty-stone fellow.“Aw reight, lad. I’ll be serious enew now. Off you go! Shall I give you a shove?”“No,” said Vane. “I want to prove the boat myself. Now, Macey, you sit still till I’ve worked her round even, and then when I say off, you keep on stroke for stroke with me.”“All right,” cried Macey, and Vane began to work his crank and paddle on the boat’s starboard side with the result that they began to move and curve round. Then, applying more force and working hard, he gave himself too much swing in working his lever, with the result that his side rose a little. In the midst of the cheering that had commenced the little horizontal paddle came up level with the surface, spun round at a great rate, and sent a tremendous shower of spray all over those on the gangway, Distin getting the worst share, and in his effort to escape it nearly going off into the dam.“You did that on purpose,” he roared furiously, his voice rising above the shout of laughter.“Oh, I’ve had enough of this,” said Macey. “Let me get out.”“No, no, sit still. It’s all right,” whispered Vane. Then, aloud, “I didn’t, Dis, it was an accident. All right, Aleck, keep the boat level. Now we’re straight for the river. Work away.”Macey tugged at his lever and pushed with his feet; his paddle now revolved, and though the boat swayed dangerously, and Aunt Hannah was in agony lest it should upset, the paddles kept below the surface, and cheer after cheer arose.For the two lads, in spite of the clumsiness and stiffness of the mechanism, were sending the boat steadily right out of the dam and into the river, where they ran it slowly for some four hundred yards before they thought it time to turn, and all the while with a troop of lads and men cheering with all their might.“Sit steady; don’t sway,” said Vane, “she’s rather top-heavy.”“I just will,” responded Macey. “She’d be over in a moment. But, I say, isn’t it hard work?”“The machinery’s too stiff,” said Vane.“My arms are,” said Macey, “and I don’t seem to have any legs.”“Never mind.”“But I do.”“Stop now,” said Vane, and the boat glided on a little way and then the stream checked her entirely, right in the middle.“That’s the best yet,” said Macey, with a sigh of relief.But there was no rest for him.“Now,” cried Vane, “we’re going back.”“Can’t work ’em backwards.”“No, no, forward,” said Vane. “I’ll work backwards. Work away.”Macey obeyed, and a fresh burst of cheers arose as, in obedience to the reverse paddling, the boat turned as if on a pivot. Then as soon as it was straight for the mill, Vane reversed again, and accompanied by their sympathisers on the bank and working as hard as they could, the two engineers sent the boat slowly along, right back into the pool, and by judicious management on Vane’s part, alongside of the wooden staging which acted as a bridge to the mill on its little island.Here plenty more cheers saluted the navigators.“Bravo! bravo!” cried the rector.“Well done, Vane,” cried the doctor.“Viva,” shouted Distin, with a sneering look at Vane, who winced as if it had been a physical stab, and he did not feel the happier for knowing that the cheers were for nothing, since he did not want Macey’s words to tell him that his machine was a failure from the amount of labour required.“Why, I could have taken the boat there and back home myself with a pair of sculls, and nearly as fast again,” whispered the boy.It was quite correct, and Vane felt anything but happy, as he stepped on to the top of the camp-shed, where the others were.“Can’t wark it by mysen,” said the miller. “Won’t join me, I suppose, doctor?”“Any one else, not you,” said the doctor, merrily.“Come,” said the rector, “another trial. Gilmore, Distin, you have a turn.”“All right, sir,” cried Gilmore, getting into the boat; “come on, Dis.”“Oh, I don’t know,” said the young creole.“He’s afraid,” said Macey, mischievously, and just loud enough for Distin to hear.The latter darted a furious look at him, and then turned to Gilmore.“Oh, very well,” he said in a careless drawl. “I don’t mind having a try.”“It’ll take some of the fat conceit out of him, Weathercock,” said Macey, wiping his streaming brow. “Oh, I say, I am hot.”Gilmore had taken off his jacket and vest before getting into the boat. Distin kept his on, and stepped down, while Vane held the boat’s side from where he kneeled on the well-worn planks.“Take off your things, man,” said Gilmore, as Distin sat down.“Work the levers steadily, Gil,” said Vane.“All right, old fellow.”“I dare say we can manage; thank you,” said Distin, in a low, sarcastic tone, meant for Vane’s ears alone, for, saving the miller, the others were chatting merrily about the success of the trial. “It does not seem to be such a wonderfully difficult piece of performance.”“It isn’t,” said Vane, frankly. “Only trim the boat well she’s top-heavy.”“Thank you once more,” said Distin, as he took off jacket and vest, and began to fold them.“I’ll give her head a push off,” said Vane, taking up the boat-hook and beginning to thrust the boat’s head out so that the fresh engineers could start together.“Thank you again,” said Distin, sarcastically, as the bows went round, and Vane after sending the prow as far as he could, ran and caught the stern, and drew that gently round till the boat was straight for the river and gliding forward.“Ready, Dis?” said Gil, who had hold of his lever, and foot on the treadle he had to work.“One moment,” said Distin, rising in the boat to place his carefully folded clothes behind him, and it was just as Vane gave the boat a final thrust and sent it gliding.“Give us a shout, you fellows,” cried Gilmore. “Steady Dis!” he roared.“Hooray!” came from the little crowd.“Oh, what a lark!” shouted Macey, but Aunt Hannah uttered a shriek.Vane’s thrust had not the slightest thing to do with the mishap, for the boat was already so crank that the leverage of Distin’s tall body, as he stood up, was quite enough to make it settle down on one side. As this disturbed his balance, he made a desperate effort to recover himself, placed a foot on the gunwale, and the next moment, in the midst of the cheering, took a header right away into the deep water, while the boat gradually continued its motion till it turned gently over, and floated bottom upwards, leaving Gilmore slowly swimming to the side, where he clung to the camp-shedding laughing, till it seemed as if he would lose his hold.“Help! help!” cried Aunt Hannah.“All right, ma’am,” said the miller, snatching the boat-hook from Vane.“Mr Distin! Mr Distin,” shrieked Aunt Hannah.The miller literally danced with delight.“Up again directly, ma’am,” he said, “only a ducking, and the water’s beautifully clean. There he is,” he continued, as Distin’s head suddenly popped up with his wet black hair streaked over his forehead, and catching him deftly by the waistband of his trowsers with the boat-hook, the miller brought the panting youth to the gangway, and helped him out.“You did that on purpose,” cried Distin, furiously; but the miller only laughed the more, and soon after the boat had been drawn to its moorings, and righted, it was chained up, so that it should do no more mischief, the miller said.That brought the experiment to a conclusion, and when the machine had been taken back dry to the workshop, as it had been proved that it was only labour in a novel way and much increased, Vane broke it up, and the doctor, when the bills were paid, said quietly:“I think Vane will have a rest now for a bit.”
“Pray, pray, be careful, Vane, my dear,” cried Aunt Hannah, the next afternoon, when the new propeller had been carefully lifted on to the miller’s cart, and the inventor rushed in to say good-bye and ask the doctor and his aunt to come down for the trial, which would take place in two hours’ time exactly.
Then he followed the cart, but only to be overtaken by the rector’s other three pupils, Macey announcing that Mr Syme was going to follow shortly.
Vane did not feel grateful, and he would have rather had the trial all alone, but he was too eager and excited to mind much, and soon after the boat was drawn up to the side of the staging, at the end of the dam, the ponderous affair lifted from the cart, and the miller came out to form one of the group of onlookers.
“Why, hey, Vane Lee, my lad, she’s too big enew. She’ll sink the boat.”
“Oh, no,” cried Vane. “It looks heavier than it is.”
“Won’t be much room for me,” said the miller, with a chuckle.
“You mustn’t come,” cried Vane in alarm. “Only Macey and I are going in the boat. We work the pedals and hand cranks. This is only an experiment to see if it will go.”
“Hey bood she’ll goo reight enew,” said the miller, seriously, “if I get in. Reight to the bottom, and the mill ’ll be to let.”
There was a roar of laughter at this, and Macey whispered:—
“I say, Weathercock, if they’re going to chaff like this I shall cut off.”
“No, no, don’t be a coward,” whispered back Vane; “it’s only their fun. It don’t hurt.”
“Oh, doesn’t it. I feel as if gnats were stinging me.”
“That theer boat ’ll never carry her, my lad,” said the miller.
“It will, I tell you,” cried Vane, firmly.
“Aw reight. In wi’ her then, and when she’s at the bottom you can come and fish for her. It’s straange and deep down there.”
“Now then, ready?” cried Vane after a due amount of preparation.
An affirmative answer was given; the frame-work with its cranks was carefully lifted on to the platform and lowered into the boat’s stern, which it fitted exactly, and Vane stepped in, and by the help of a screw-hammer fitted some iron braces round the boat, screwed them up tightly. The machine was fairly fixed in its place and looked extremely top-heavy, and with Vane in the stern as well, sent the boat’s gunwale down within four inches of the surface and the bows up correspondingly high.
By this time the rector and the Little Manor people had arrived, while quite a little crowd from the town had gathered to stand on the edge of the dam and for the most part grin.
“There,” said Vane as he stood up covered with perspiration from his efforts. “That’s about right. In a boat made on purpose the machine would be fitted on the bottom and be quite out of the way.”
“Couldn’t be, lad,” said the miller. “But goo on, I want to see her move.”
“Wish there was another boat here, Gil,” said Distin. “You and I would race them.”
“Let them talk,” said Vane, to encourage Macey, who looked very solemn, and as he spoke he carefully examined the two very small paddles which dropped over each side, so arranged that they should, when worked by the cranks and hand levers, churn up the water horizontally instead of vertically like an ordinary paddle wheel.
There were a good many other little things to do, such as driving in a few wedges between the frame-work and side of the boat, to get all firmer, but Vane had come provided with everything necessary, and when he could no longer delay the start, which he had put off as long as possible, and when it seemed as if Macey would be missing if they stopped much longer, the lad rose up with his face very much flushed and spoke out frankly and well, explaining that it was quite possible that his rough machine would not work smoothly at first, but that if the principle was right he would soon have a better boat and machine.
Hereupon Gilmore cried, “Hooray!” and there was a hearty cheer, accompanied by a loud tapping of the rector’s walking stick, on the wooden gangway.
“Now, Vane, lad, we’re getting impatient,” cried the doctor, who was nearly as anxious as his nephew. “Off with you!”
“Well said, doctor,” cried the miller; “less o’ the clapper, my lads, and more of the spinning wheels and stones.”
“Ready, Macey?” whispered Vane.
“No,” was whispered back.
“Why?”
“I’m in such an awful stew.”
“Get out. It’s all right. Now then. You know. Come down and sit in your place steadily.”
Macey stepped down into the boat, which gave a lurch, and went very near the water, as far as the gunwale was concerned.
“Hi theer; howd hard,” cried the miller; “he’s too heavy. Coom out, lad, and I’ll tak thy place.”
There was another roar of laughter at this.
“Oh, I say, Mr Round, don’t chaff us or we can’t do it,” whispered Vane to the jolly-looking great twenty-stone fellow.
“Aw reight, lad. I’ll be serious enew now. Off you go! Shall I give you a shove?”
“No,” said Vane. “I want to prove the boat myself. Now, Macey, you sit still till I’ve worked her round even, and then when I say off, you keep on stroke for stroke with me.”
“All right,” cried Macey, and Vane began to work his crank and paddle on the boat’s starboard side with the result that they began to move and curve round. Then, applying more force and working hard, he gave himself too much swing in working his lever, with the result that his side rose a little. In the midst of the cheering that had commenced the little horizontal paddle came up level with the surface, spun round at a great rate, and sent a tremendous shower of spray all over those on the gangway, Distin getting the worst share, and in his effort to escape it nearly going off into the dam.
“You did that on purpose,” he roared furiously, his voice rising above the shout of laughter.
“Oh, I’ve had enough of this,” said Macey. “Let me get out.”
“No, no, sit still. It’s all right,” whispered Vane. Then, aloud, “I didn’t, Dis, it was an accident. All right, Aleck, keep the boat level. Now we’re straight for the river. Work away.”
Macey tugged at his lever and pushed with his feet; his paddle now revolved, and though the boat swayed dangerously, and Aunt Hannah was in agony lest it should upset, the paddles kept below the surface, and cheer after cheer arose.
For the two lads, in spite of the clumsiness and stiffness of the mechanism, were sending the boat steadily right out of the dam and into the river, where they ran it slowly for some four hundred yards before they thought it time to turn, and all the while with a troop of lads and men cheering with all their might.
“Sit steady; don’t sway,” said Vane, “she’s rather top-heavy.”
“I just will,” responded Macey. “She’d be over in a moment. But, I say, isn’t it hard work?”
“The machinery’s too stiff,” said Vane.
“My arms are,” said Macey, “and I don’t seem to have any legs.”
“Never mind.”
“But I do.”
“Stop now,” said Vane, and the boat glided on a little way and then the stream checked her entirely, right in the middle.
“That’s the best yet,” said Macey, with a sigh of relief.
But there was no rest for him.
“Now,” cried Vane, “we’re going back.”
“Can’t work ’em backwards.”
“No, no, forward,” said Vane. “I’ll work backwards. Work away.”
Macey obeyed, and a fresh burst of cheers arose as, in obedience to the reverse paddling, the boat turned as if on a pivot. Then as soon as it was straight for the mill, Vane reversed again, and accompanied by their sympathisers on the bank and working as hard as they could, the two engineers sent the boat slowly along, right back into the pool, and by judicious management on Vane’s part, alongside of the wooden staging which acted as a bridge to the mill on its little island.
Here plenty more cheers saluted the navigators.
“Bravo! bravo!” cried the rector.
“Well done, Vane,” cried the doctor.
“Viva,” shouted Distin, with a sneering look at Vane, who winced as if it had been a physical stab, and he did not feel the happier for knowing that the cheers were for nothing, since he did not want Macey’s words to tell him that his machine was a failure from the amount of labour required.
“Why, I could have taken the boat there and back home myself with a pair of sculls, and nearly as fast again,” whispered the boy.
It was quite correct, and Vane felt anything but happy, as he stepped on to the top of the camp-shed, where the others were.
“Can’t wark it by mysen,” said the miller. “Won’t join me, I suppose, doctor?”
“Any one else, not you,” said the doctor, merrily.
“Come,” said the rector, “another trial. Gilmore, Distin, you have a turn.”
“All right, sir,” cried Gilmore, getting into the boat; “come on, Dis.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said the young creole.
“He’s afraid,” said Macey, mischievously, and just loud enough for Distin to hear.
The latter darted a furious look at him, and then turned to Gilmore.
“Oh, very well,” he said in a careless drawl. “I don’t mind having a try.”
“It’ll take some of the fat conceit out of him, Weathercock,” said Macey, wiping his streaming brow. “Oh, I say, I am hot.”
Gilmore had taken off his jacket and vest before getting into the boat. Distin kept his on, and stepped down, while Vane held the boat’s side from where he kneeled on the well-worn planks.
“Take off your things, man,” said Gilmore, as Distin sat down.
“Work the levers steadily, Gil,” said Vane.
“All right, old fellow.”
“I dare say we can manage; thank you,” said Distin, in a low, sarcastic tone, meant for Vane’s ears alone, for, saving the miller, the others were chatting merrily about the success of the trial. “It does not seem to be such a wonderfully difficult piece of performance.”
“It isn’t,” said Vane, frankly. “Only trim the boat well she’s top-heavy.”
“Thank you once more,” said Distin, as he took off jacket and vest, and began to fold them.
“I’ll give her head a push off,” said Vane, taking up the boat-hook and beginning to thrust the boat’s head out so that the fresh engineers could start together.
“Thank you again,” said Distin, sarcastically, as the bows went round, and Vane after sending the prow as far as he could, ran and caught the stern, and drew that gently round till the boat was straight for the river and gliding forward.
“Ready, Dis?” said Gil, who had hold of his lever, and foot on the treadle he had to work.
“One moment,” said Distin, rising in the boat to place his carefully folded clothes behind him, and it was just as Vane gave the boat a final thrust and sent it gliding.
“Give us a shout, you fellows,” cried Gilmore. “Steady Dis!” he roared.
“Hooray!” came from the little crowd.
“Oh, what a lark!” shouted Macey, but Aunt Hannah uttered a shriek.
Vane’s thrust had not the slightest thing to do with the mishap, for the boat was already so crank that the leverage of Distin’s tall body, as he stood up, was quite enough to make it settle down on one side. As this disturbed his balance, he made a desperate effort to recover himself, placed a foot on the gunwale, and the next moment, in the midst of the cheering, took a header right away into the deep water, while the boat gradually continued its motion till it turned gently over, and floated bottom upwards, leaving Gilmore slowly swimming to the side, where he clung to the camp-shedding laughing, till it seemed as if he would lose his hold.
“Help! help!” cried Aunt Hannah.
“All right, ma’am,” said the miller, snatching the boat-hook from Vane.
“Mr Distin! Mr Distin,” shrieked Aunt Hannah.
The miller literally danced with delight.
“Up again directly, ma’am,” he said, “only a ducking, and the water’s beautifully clean. There he is,” he continued, as Distin’s head suddenly popped up with his wet black hair streaked over his forehead, and catching him deftly by the waistband of his trowsers with the boat-hook, the miller brought the panting youth to the gangway, and helped him out.
“You did that on purpose,” cried Distin, furiously; but the miller only laughed the more, and soon after the boat had been drawn to its moorings, and righted, it was chained up, so that it should do no more mischief, the miller said.
That brought the experiment to a conclusion, and when the machine had been taken back dry to the workshop, as it had been proved that it was only labour in a novel way and much increased, Vane broke it up, and the doctor, when the bills were paid, said quietly:
“I think Vane will have a rest now for a bit.”
Chapter Thirty.Money Troubles.“Going out, Vane?”“Only to the rectory, uncle; want me?”“No, my boy, no,” said the doctor, sadly. “Er—that is, I do want to have a chat with you, but another time will do.”“Hadn’t you better tell me now, uncle,” said Vane. “I don’t like to go on waiting and thinking that I have a scolding coming, and not know what it’s about.”The doctor, who was going out into the garden, smiled as he turned, shook his head, and walked back to his chair.“You have not been doing anything, Vane, my lad,” he said quickly and sadly. “If anyone deserves a scolding it is I; and your aunt persistently refuses to administer it.”“Of course,” said Aunt Hannah, looking up from her work, “you meant to do what was right, my dear. I am sorry more on your account than on my own, dear,” and she rose and went behind the doctor’s chair to place her hands on his shoulder.He took them both and pressed them together to hold them against his cheek.“Thank you, my dear,” he said, turning his head to look up in her eyes. “I knew it would make no difference in you. For richer or poorer, for better or worse, eh? There, go and sit down, my dear, and let’s have a chat with Vane here.”Aunt Hannah bowed her head and went back to her place, but contrived so that she might pass close to Vane and pass her hand through his curly hair.“Vane, boy,” said the doctor sharply and suddenly, “I meant to send you to college for the regular terms.”“Yes, uncle.”“And then let you turn civil engineer.”“Yes, uncle, I knew that,” said the lad, wonderingly.“Well, my boy, times are altered. I may as well be blunt and straightforward with you. I cannot afford to send you to college, and you will have to start now, beginning to earn your own living, instead of five or six years hence.”Vane looked blank and disappointed for a few moments, and then, as he realised that his aunt and uncle were watching the effect of the latter’s words keenly, his face lit up.“All right, uncle,” he said; “I felt a bit damped at first, for I don’t think I shall like going away from home, but as to the other, the waiting and college first, I shan’t mind. I am sorry though that you are in trouble. I’m afraid I’ve been a great expense to you.”“There, don’t be afraid about that any longer, my boy,” said the doctor, rising. “Thank you, my lad—thank you. That was very frank and manly of you. There, you need not say anything to your friends at present, and—I’ll talk to you another time.”The doctor patted Vane on the shoulder, then wrung his hand and hurried out into the garden.“Why, auntie, what’s the matter?” cried Vane, kneeling down by the old lady’s chair, as she softly applied her handkerchief to her eyes.“It’s money, my dear, money,” she said, making an effort to be calm. “I did hope that we were going to end our days here in peace, where, after his long, anxious toil in London, everything seems to suit your uncle so, and he is so happy with his botany and fruit and flowers; but Heaven knows what is best, and we shall have to go into quite a small cottage now.”“But I thought uncle was ever so rich, aunt,” cried Vane. “Oh, if I’d known I wouldn’t have asked him for money as I have for my schemes.”“Oh, my dear, it isn’t that,” cried Aunt Hannah. “I was always afraid of it, but I did not like to oppose your uncle.”“It? What was it?” cried Vane.“Perhaps I ought not to tell you, dear, but I don’t know. You must know some time. It was that Mr Deering. Your uncle has known him ever since they were boys at school together; and then Mr Deering, who is a great inventor, came down and told your uncle that he had at last found the means of making his fortune over a mechanical discovery, if some one would be security for him. Your uncle did not like to refuse.”“Oh, dear!” muttered Vane.“You see it was not to supply him with money then, only to be security, so that other people would advance him money and enable him to start his works and pay for his patents.”“Yes, aunt, I understand,” cried Vane. “And now—”“His invention has turned out to be a complete failure, and your poor uncle will have to pay off Mr Deering’s liabilities. When that is done, I am afraid we shall be very badly off, my dear.”“That you shan’t, auntie,” cried Vane, quickly; “I’ll work for you both, and I’ll make a fortune somehow. I don’t see why I shouldn’t invent.”“No, no, don’t, boy, for goodness’ sake,” said the doctor, who had heard part of the conversation as he returned. “Let’s have good hard work, my lad. Let someone else do the inventing.”“All right, uncle,” said Vane, firmly; “I’ll give up all my wild ideas now about contriving things, and set to work.”“That’s right, boy,” said the doctor. “I’m rather sick of hearing inventions named.”“Don’t say that, dear,” said Aunt Hannah, quietly and firmly; “and I should not like all Vane’s aspirations to be damped because Mr Deering has failed. Some inventions succeed: the mistake seems to me to be when people take it for granted that everything must be a success.”“Hear! hear!” cried the doctor, thumping the table. “Here hi! You Vane, why don’t you cheer, sir, when our Queen of Sheba speaks such words of wisdom. Your aspirations shall not be stopped, boy. There, no more words about the trouble. It’s only the loss of money, and it has done me good. I was growing idle and dyspeptic.”“You were not, dear,” said Aunt Hannah, decidedly.“Oh, yes, I was, my dear, and this has roused me up. There, I don’t care a bit for the loss, since you two take it so bravely. And, perhaps after all, in spite of all the lawyers say, matters may not turn out quite so badly. Deering says he shall come down, and I like that: it’s honourable and straightforward of him.”“I wish he would not come,” said Aunt Hannah, “I wish we had never seen his face.”“No, no! tut, tut,” said the doctor.“I’m sure I shall not be able to speak civilly to him,” cried Aunt Hannah.“You will, dear, and you will make him as welcome as ever. His misfortune is as great as ours—greater, because he has the additional care of feeling that he has pretty well ruined us and poor Vane here.”“Oh, it hasn’t ruined me, uncle,” cried Vane. “I don’t so much mind missing college.”“But, suppose I had some money to leave you, my boy, and it is all gone.”“Oh,” cried Vane, merrily, “I’m glad of that. Mr Syme said one day that he always pitied a young man who had expectations from his elders, for, no matter how true-hearted the heir might be, it was always a painful position for him to occupy, that of waiting for prosperity till other people died. It was something like that, uncle, but I haven’t given it quite in his words.”“Humph! Syme is a goose,” said the doctor, testily. “I’m sure you never wanted me dead, so as to get my money, Vane.”“Why, of course not, uncle. I never thought about money except when I wanted to pay old Wrench or Dance for something he made for me.”“There, I move that this meeting be adjourned,” cried the doctor. “One moment, though, before it is carried unanimously. How will Aunt behave to poor Deering, when he comes down.”“Same as she behaves to every one, uncle,” cried Vane, laughing.“There, old lady,” said the doctor, “and as for the money, bah! let it take wings and fly away, and—”The doctor’s further speech was checked by Aunt Hannah throwing her arms about his neck and burying her face in his breast, while Vane made a rush out into the garden and then ran rapidly down the avenue.“If I’d stopped a minute longer, I should have begun blubbering like a great girl,” he muttered. “Why, hanged if my eyes aren’t quite wet.”
“Going out, Vane?”
“Only to the rectory, uncle; want me?”
“No, my boy, no,” said the doctor, sadly. “Er—that is, I do want to have a chat with you, but another time will do.”
“Hadn’t you better tell me now, uncle,” said Vane. “I don’t like to go on waiting and thinking that I have a scolding coming, and not know what it’s about.”
The doctor, who was going out into the garden, smiled as he turned, shook his head, and walked back to his chair.
“You have not been doing anything, Vane, my lad,” he said quickly and sadly. “If anyone deserves a scolding it is I; and your aunt persistently refuses to administer it.”
“Of course,” said Aunt Hannah, looking up from her work, “you meant to do what was right, my dear. I am sorry more on your account than on my own, dear,” and she rose and went behind the doctor’s chair to place her hands on his shoulder.
He took them both and pressed them together to hold them against his cheek.
“Thank you, my dear,” he said, turning his head to look up in her eyes. “I knew it would make no difference in you. For richer or poorer, for better or worse, eh? There, go and sit down, my dear, and let’s have a chat with Vane here.”
Aunt Hannah bowed her head and went back to her place, but contrived so that she might pass close to Vane and pass her hand through his curly hair.
“Vane, boy,” said the doctor sharply and suddenly, “I meant to send you to college for the regular terms.”
“Yes, uncle.”
“And then let you turn civil engineer.”
“Yes, uncle, I knew that,” said the lad, wonderingly.
“Well, my boy, times are altered. I may as well be blunt and straightforward with you. I cannot afford to send you to college, and you will have to start now, beginning to earn your own living, instead of five or six years hence.”
Vane looked blank and disappointed for a few moments, and then, as he realised that his aunt and uncle were watching the effect of the latter’s words keenly, his face lit up.
“All right, uncle,” he said; “I felt a bit damped at first, for I don’t think I shall like going away from home, but as to the other, the waiting and college first, I shan’t mind. I am sorry though that you are in trouble. I’m afraid I’ve been a great expense to you.”
“There, don’t be afraid about that any longer, my boy,” said the doctor, rising. “Thank you, my lad—thank you. That was very frank and manly of you. There, you need not say anything to your friends at present, and—I’ll talk to you another time.”
The doctor patted Vane on the shoulder, then wrung his hand and hurried out into the garden.
“Why, auntie, what’s the matter?” cried Vane, kneeling down by the old lady’s chair, as she softly applied her handkerchief to her eyes.
“It’s money, my dear, money,” she said, making an effort to be calm. “I did hope that we were going to end our days here in peace, where, after his long, anxious toil in London, everything seems to suit your uncle so, and he is so happy with his botany and fruit and flowers; but Heaven knows what is best, and we shall have to go into quite a small cottage now.”
“But I thought uncle was ever so rich, aunt,” cried Vane. “Oh, if I’d known I wouldn’t have asked him for money as I have for my schemes.”
“Oh, my dear, it isn’t that,” cried Aunt Hannah. “I was always afraid of it, but I did not like to oppose your uncle.”
“It? What was it?” cried Vane.
“Perhaps I ought not to tell you, dear, but I don’t know. You must know some time. It was that Mr Deering. Your uncle has known him ever since they were boys at school together; and then Mr Deering, who is a great inventor, came down and told your uncle that he had at last found the means of making his fortune over a mechanical discovery, if some one would be security for him. Your uncle did not like to refuse.”
“Oh, dear!” muttered Vane.
“You see it was not to supply him with money then, only to be security, so that other people would advance him money and enable him to start his works and pay for his patents.”
“Yes, aunt, I understand,” cried Vane. “And now—”
“His invention has turned out to be a complete failure, and your poor uncle will have to pay off Mr Deering’s liabilities. When that is done, I am afraid we shall be very badly off, my dear.”
“That you shan’t, auntie,” cried Vane, quickly; “I’ll work for you both, and I’ll make a fortune somehow. I don’t see why I shouldn’t invent.”
“No, no, don’t, boy, for goodness’ sake,” said the doctor, who had heard part of the conversation as he returned. “Let’s have good hard work, my lad. Let someone else do the inventing.”
“All right, uncle,” said Vane, firmly; “I’ll give up all my wild ideas now about contriving things, and set to work.”
“That’s right, boy,” said the doctor. “I’m rather sick of hearing inventions named.”
“Don’t say that, dear,” said Aunt Hannah, quietly and firmly; “and I should not like all Vane’s aspirations to be damped because Mr Deering has failed. Some inventions succeed: the mistake seems to me to be when people take it for granted that everything must be a success.”
“Hear! hear!” cried the doctor, thumping the table. “Here hi! You Vane, why don’t you cheer, sir, when our Queen of Sheba speaks such words of wisdom. Your aspirations shall not be stopped, boy. There, no more words about the trouble. It’s only the loss of money, and it has done me good. I was growing idle and dyspeptic.”
“You were not, dear,” said Aunt Hannah, decidedly.
“Oh, yes, I was, my dear, and this has roused me up. There, I don’t care a bit for the loss, since you two take it so bravely. And, perhaps after all, in spite of all the lawyers say, matters may not turn out quite so badly. Deering says he shall come down, and I like that: it’s honourable and straightforward of him.”
“I wish he would not come,” said Aunt Hannah, “I wish we had never seen his face.”
“No, no! tut, tut,” said the doctor.
“I’m sure I shall not be able to speak civilly to him,” cried Aunt Hannah.
“You will, dear, and you will make him as welcome as ever. His misfortune is as great as ours—greater, because he has the additional care of feeling that he has pretty well ruined us and poor Vane here.”
“Oh, it hasn’t ruined me, uncle,” cried Vane. “I don’t so much mind missing college.”
“But, suppose I had some money to leave you, my boy, and it is all gone.”
“Oh,” cried Vane, merrily, “I’m glad of that. Mr Syme said one day that he always pitied a young man who had expectations from his elders, for, no matter how true-hearted the heir might be, it was always a painful position for him to occupy, that of waiting for prosperity till other people died. It was something like that, uncle, but I haven’t given it quite in his words.”
“Humph! Syme is a goose,” said the doctor, testily. “I’m sure you never wanted me dead, so as to get my money, Vane.”
“Why, of course not, uncle. I never thought about money except when I wanted to pay old Wrench or Dance for something he made for me.”
“There, I move that this meeting be adjourned,” cried the doctor. “One moment, though, before it is carried unanimously. How will Aunt behave to poor Deering, when he comes down.”
“Same as she behaves to every one, uncle,” cried Vane, laughing.
“There, old lady,” said the doctor, “and as for the money, bah! let it take wings and fly away, and—”
The doctor’s further speech was checked by Aunt Hannah throwing her arms about his neck and burying her face in his breast, while Vane made a rush out into the garden and then ran rapidly down the avenue.
“If I’d stopped a minute longer, I should have begun blubbering like a great girl,” he muttered. “Why, hanged if my eyes aren’t quite wet.”