Mingled feelings—Sore perplexity—Cherishing vengeance—'Ware the dog—Want of reflection—In the churchyard—Footsteps—A strange bed.
He did not stop running till he had put nearly three-quarters of a mile between him and the school. And then two considerations brought him to a standstill. Firstly, he was out of breath; he could scarcely run a step farther; and secondly, he was now close into the heart of the village, and the groups of lounging figures he espied in the distance warned him he must be careful how he proceeded. About two hundred yards in advance was a public house—"The Blue Anchor;" and here, of course, was a goodly knot of men, some inside drinking, some outside smoking, and all making a most disreputable noise. There were also one or two women in amongst the crowd, evidently searching for truant sons or husbands, and Harry feared their inquisitive eyes even more than he feared the men. For he remembered he was covered with dust and dirt from his scramble; his hair all rough; hatless, and generally untidy. Besides, what business had a boy of his age and station in life to be wandering about a village, alone, at half-past nine?
So he retraced his steps a short distance, until he came to a stile leading to a lane which skirted the village; and which, running past the farm and the church, as before-mentioned, joined the highroad at the further end of the village.
Once in the lane, and safe from sight, he slackened his pace; and then, with the feeling of comparative safety, came very mingled feelings of exultation, loneliness, and fear—each striving to have the uppermost in the poor boy's heart.
Hitherto the excitement of achieving that vague performance of running away from school had pre-occupied him, and kept away all thoughts of the future. But the dangers of the escape were now all overcome, or at least Harry thought they were. What, then, was the next thing to be done? Should he go to Mrs Valentine? If he went there, perhaps she would send him back to school. And besides, the farm would be shut up, and every one gone to bed. How should he attract Mrs Valentine's attention; and make her come down and let him in? The dog was always loose at night, to keep intruders off. He would be sure to fly at him, if he attempted to go near the place.
So Harry was very sore perplexed, and began to think that running away was not such an easy thing after all. And he remembered that Egerton was the cause of all this trouble. Had it not been for him, he would have been at school; motherless, it is true, but not in disgrace as he was; sad at heart, but not hated and suspected by boys and masters. Egerton! Egerton had caused it all! And Harry longed for revenge. He would treasure up his hatred, his thirst for vengeance, and some day, perhaps, he would meet the one who had done him this wrong, and then the debt should be paid off. This feeling of revenge was already firmly rooted in his heart, already beginning to be the one purpose of his life.
He would go on towards the farm, at any rate, and see how things stood. Perhaps the dog was not loose that night, or if it were, might recognise him.
So, plucking up his spirits, he ran along the lane towards the little farm, where he had been so happy with his dear dead mother, and towards the quiet churchyard, whose coverlet of green was over her.
He was not long reaching the farm, and went cautiously up to the gate. Not a sound! not a light in any window! There was the great silver moon making everything as bright almost as day, and there was the slow munching of the cows in the adjoining orchard. Harry's heart rose higher. No dog! not a sign of him! He put his hand to open the gate. The latch stuck. He pushed harder; it flew open with a sharp click, and he had not time to listen whether the sound had been heard or no, when a dog's low growl solved the question.
He started back from the gate, which fell to with a loud crash. It was all up now. Out rushed the dog, barking fiercely, and off rushed Harry simultaneously. And naturally enough, too. It is not pleasant to be mauled by a huge mastiff.
Had the idea struck him, he would have kept at a respectful distance, and there waited in hopes that the baying of the dog would disturb the inmates of the house, and that on their coming out to discover the reason, he would gain his object of being let in.
But it is very doubtful whether a much older and, therefore, more thoughtful person than Harry would have considered anything but the fierceness of the dog, and the desirability of getting away as quickly, and as far, as possible.
So Harry bolted down the lane at headlong speed, while the dog, seeing the intruder depart, only uttered a few self-satisfied growls, and returned to his mat in the porch, conscious that he had done his duty. At the same moment, Mrs Valentine opened her window and put out a night-capped head into the moonlight, and craning it all round, to see what was the matter, and seeing nothing extraordinary, put it in again, with a slight shiver.
Good soul! how little she dreamt of the apparently-trifling episode enacted underneath her window! How gladly would she have welcomed the runaway frightened boy! And how different that boy's after life would have been had she but wakened sooner.
Meanwhile, Harry was stopping at the churchyard-gate. He longed to go in. He hesitated. On another occasion, and in his mother's lifetime, he would not have dared to go inside the wicket after dark. But now, now he was going away, he knew not where! Out into the world, and that seemed a very long way off to Harry. It was like another country. Besides, what would hurt him while she was there, he asked himself?
So, without more ado, he passed through the creaking gate, up the lime-tree avenue, heedless of the ghost-like shadows of the tombstones, and the rustle of the fragrant leaves.
It was soon found, that little grassy mound in the corner by the ivy-covered porch. And then he could bear up no longer. He burst into tears, and throwing himself on the dewy moonlit sward, wept bitterly.
"Oh, mamma, mamma, why did you die? why did you die? What shall I do?" he sobbed in a low, excited tone, "I'm so lonely, mamma! mamma!"
And the quiet night stole on, and the soft winds of June whispered over the motherless boy, weeping there alone in the churchyard.
The sound of footsteps! Harry jumped up and listened, eager, and frightened. The churchyard wicket was opened and shut again, and then he heard a steady measured tread of persons slowly approaching. He was riveted to the spot, and a cold perspiration broke upon his forehead. The steps were nearing, and then, rounding the corner of the tower, the new comers came into sight.
One look was enough, and Harry was off down the other path that led from the churchyard to the further end of the village.
It was only a funeral of a drowned man who had been picked up the previous night upon the shore of Wilton. But the dark, slow-moving figures of the bearers, and the flickering gleam of the lanthorns, made dim by the moonshine, froze his heart with terror, and drove him away from his mother's grave without one word of parting. Perhaps it was better so. It saved him the difficulty and sorrow of having to decide to say good-bye for ever to that grassy sleeping-place where slept the one so dear to him.
Away he ran, heedless, frightened, through the straggling remainder of the village. Not a light was burning, not a person stirring, which was fortunate, though he never paused to see; or think, but hastened on till he fancied he had gone miles; and then, seeing an inviting barn close by the roadside, turned in, and, worn out with fatigue and excitement, soon slept heavily in a low, broken manger full of hay—a strange but welcome bed.
Excitement in school—Expecting a row—The doctor speaks—Deliberate falsehood—The truth comes out—The two culprits—Manly confession—Mr Franklyn speaks—Honest shame—Egerton convicted—The doctor's speech—Warburton caned—Egerton birched—Justification.
The bright fresh summer hour of seven, the following morning, was very different in the barn where Harry had taken up his abode to what it was at the grammar-school. In the former, it saw the tired lonely boy sleeping heavily, his face stained with tears; in the latter, a great stir and confusion. Campbell had run away. The search in the night had been fruitless; and to add to the general excitement, that morning the Examiner was to commence theviva vocepart of the examination. The hour of preparation, from seven to eight, was not a very industrious one. Boys were too full of surmises, and Mr Prichard, who happened that morning to be in charge of the school-room, was too much disturbed about Harry's disappearance to pay much attention to the whispers which were spreading through the room. Breakfast, too, was by no means the usual ordinarily quiet meal.
The only boys who betrayed any symptoms of nervousness or uneasiness (all were excited, of course) were those who had joined Egerton and Warburton in their assault on Harry the previous night.
These looked guilty; but their ringleaders preserved the utmost coolness and indifference; and a casual observer, if asked, would have said, "Well, if there are two boys more than any others who certainly have nothing to do with the whole affair, those two are Egerton and Warburton."
So much for guilt, and the mask it can so well assume.
Before the nine o'clock bell had ceased ringing, every boy was in his place in the big school-room—a rare occurrence, indeed—waiting eagerly for the appearance of the Doctor. For boys like nothing better than a "row" when they themselves are not implicated. And remember, those who were so implicated were but an exceedingly small fraction of the whole number. What the guilty ones felt will best be known by those who have been in a similar position.
Dr Palmer entered with the Examiner, a fresh-coloured young man, in a very new gown, and a very new hood, thrown jauntily over his shoulders. The doctor was grave and stern, and looked at nobody. The Examiner played with his watch-chain, and looked at everybody, running his eyes rapidly along the different desks and forms. And the other masters followed in due order. And, when all were in their respective places, prayers were said, and Dr Palmer, amid breathless silence, spoke as follows:
"You are most of you, if not all, aware of what occurred last night. One of your number, Campbell, has, in a fit of rashness and haste, run away, and as yet has not been found. There must be some special reason for this;" and the Doctor paused and looked round the room. "I left him in my study at half-past seven last night, having his tea, and as happy as he could be under the sad circumstances of his mother's death." And his voice trembled; "On reaching home a few minutes after nine I find he has disappeared. The dormitory, in which he slept, is discovered in a disgraceful state of disorder and confusion. The boys who sleep there must have an explanation to give. On another matter with regard to Campbell, I shall have to speak presently." And again the dignified voice was broken with ill-concealed emotion. "Sit down, all of you, except those who sleep in No. 7 dormitory."
The order was obeyed, and the sixteen stood in their places, the observed of all eyes.
"Egerton, you are eldest in the dormitory. Did you do anything, or see anything done, that might provoke Campbell to this rash act?"
"No, sir; nothing at all," answered Egerton, fearlessly.
"You did not interfere with him in any way?"
Egerton hesitated. "No, sir, I didn't. I didn't even speak to him. It wasn't likely after what he said of me to you."
"That will do," said Doctor Palmer, in a strange tone. "You may sit down. Warburton!"
"Yes, sir!"
"Did you interfere with Campbell in any way last night?"
"No, sir, not at all," answered Warburton.
"Sit down!" again said the Doctor.
Two deliberate liars out of sixteen is a large proportion, and it is not to be supposed that there would be more such. The rest would either maintain a frightened silence or tell the truth. Fortunately, the boy next questioned was one of the latter class. And his fearless answer gave courage to the rest.
"Yes, sir, I did. I pulled his bed out into the room and upset it," answered Williams, when the same question was put to him. And before the Doctor could say a word, the remaining three implicated with Egerton, Warburton, and Williams, confessed their share in the matter. The rest denied, with truth, having done anything to Campbell, and were told to sit down.
Those who had confessed were then called into the centre of the room and further questioned as to who commenced the attack on Campbell, and what was the cause of it.
Williams looked at the other three who stood with him, and the three looked at Williams; and all got very red, and said nothing.
The Doctor repeated his question.
The boys hesitated, and looked doubtfully towards Egerton and Warburton, to see if they would come forward; but no! the two preserved the same stolid demeanour. So at length Williams told the whole story, not exculpating himself in the least degree, but only saying how sorry he was; and the others confirmed his statement.
"Egerton and Warburton, stand out. Do you hear what Williams says? Do you still deny the charge brought against you?"
The room was breathless. The two culprits turned deadly pale, and began to stammer out what was partially denial, partially excuse. And then in an abject tone implored forgiveness.
Doctor Palmer took no notice of their entreaties, but mentioned to them to stand by his desk. The other four he dismissed to their seats.
He then addressed the whole assemblage of boys and masters:
"I have now another matter of very serious moment to speak to you about. A great injustice has been done to Campbell—an injustice which has in a measure contributed, I fear, to his reasons for running away. To set you an example of the manliness of confession, I tell you openly, and Mr Prichard wishes me to say the same for him, that we—he and I—have made a great mistake, and judged and punished Campbell unjustly. You will understand that I am referring to the book found in his possession during the examination. At the same time, I wish you all fully to understand that appearances went decidedly against Campbell, and evidence proved his guilt. And it was acting upon these appearances and this evidence that we punished him. Mr Franklyn, however, will kindly explain the matter to you;" and the Doctor sat down overcome by excitement and emotion.
And then Mr Franklyn (the Examiner), after a preliminary "ahem!" spoke to the boys in a clear ringing voice, going straight to the point without any introductory remarks.
"On Tuesday last I received the papers done by you on Monday morning. With those of the Lower Third Form came a note from Mr Prichard, saying that he had sent with the papers a book—a Delectus translation ('Crib' as you would call it)—which he had found in Campbell's possession during the examination. And he requested me, and very properly, too, to take the necessary steps respecting Campbell's place in his class. Here, however, Mr Prichard begs me to plainly state the mistake he made. He did not compare the papers sent in, with the translation of the book. This would at once have acquitted Campbell. For I at once emphatically say that, even if the book were his, he never used it during the examination. His work was correct, but boyish in style. The rendering of the book is the work of a man. So much, then, is clear, that of the charge of using the book during the examination, Campbell is perfectly innocent; and I only wish he were here to hear me say so."
At these words all reverence for masters was thrown aside, and the vehement clapping of hands soon showed that Harry's good name was once more firmly established, and not only established, but that his clearance gave joy to the school.
"But," resumed Mr Franklyn, when the noise had abated, "to make assurance doubly sure, I will go a step further, and tell you whodiduse the book during the examination."
With a sort of presentiment of what was coming, all eyes were turned upon Egerton; while in the hearts of many a feeling of shame—honest, good-producing shame—sprang up for the unkind part they had played to Harry.
"On turning to Egerton's papers," continued Mr Franklyn, "I at once detected a strong similarity to the translation I had just examined; and on a close comparison found his translation coincided word for word with the book found in Campbell's possession, and which he was accused of using. Whether the book belongs to Egerton or not, I do not know; but this is evident, that it was he, and not Campbell, who was guilty of taking unfair advantage of his companions. How the book came into Campbell's desk I know not. But as Egerton has been, in these two matters, convicted of telling a wilful untruth, I am ready to believe him capable of any further deceitful conduct to screen himself. It rests with Doctor Palmer to conclude this most painful affair."
As Mr Franklyn ended, and resumed his seat, there was a mixed murmur, partly from pleasure at Harry's innocence, partly from an impulse, which seemed to take possession of all, of snatching the punishment of Egerton out of the lawful hands.
The noise, however, instantly ceased when Doctor Palmer rose.
"None of you can be more glad than I am," he said, "that Campbell's innocence has been fully proved, and none of you more sorry than I, that he has been punished unjustly. At the same time, you must clearly understand that the mistake, which Mr Prichard and I made, does not in the least degree exonerate Egerton. He has done that for which I punished Campbell; removing as he thought all traces of his guilt, and throwing them on another's shoulders. And then, not merely to screen himself, but to ruin that other, he tells one deliberate lie after another. Not content even with that, he provokes the innocent boy whose reputation he had blasted, and the result you all know. Those who joined in bullying Campbell last night, I forgive. They have confessed. Warburton has not done so. For his lie, I punish him."
And then, calling Warburton, he caned him severely before the whole school, a punishment but rarely adopted, and once only remembered to have taken place by the elder boys.
"With regard to Egerton," he resumed, "there is but one course for me to adopt." And he rang a bell which communicated with his house, and, after a breathless pause of about three minutes, William entered, bearing a birch, with an expression of mock gravity on his countenance. Egerton's appearance was one of abject meanness; his indifference was all gone; he was the picture of trembling, tearful cowardice.
The birch had never been used in the recollection of any of the boys. It had only existed—a shadowy terror. But now that it appeared in all its stern dignity, Egerton, the destined recipient, fell on his knees, and, with streaming eyes—coward as he was—begged imploringly for forgiveness.
It was not likely his cries would be of any avail. Nor, indeed, were they. Nor would the Doctor prolong the sickening scene. The birch did its duty, and well.
In five minutes Egerton had been birched in such a manner that every one thought he would certainly never forget it till his dying day. Egerton himself was too "personally affected" to think of anything, but contented himself with howling lustily. And finally he heard the Doctor's voice, telling him he was expelled, and would leave the school in two hours.
"There will be no more work to-day," said Doctor Palmer, when he had recovered breath from his exertions. "Besides the pleasure of proclaiming Campbell's innocence, I have to add that Mr Franklyn tells me his papers were far superior to those of the rest of his class; and that, judging from them, he would have easily maintained his position as head boy, had he not left us of his own accord, provoked and ill-treated, I cordially allow. I only trust we may be able to discover him, and have him once more among us. You see, boys," he added affectionately, "truth and innocence will always right themselves sooner or later."
And then, as the masters left the room, there rose the loud ringing cheers that English boys know so well to give. The innocent was justified; the guilty punished! Was not that enough to make all hearts glad?
But meantime, he, whom all this most chiefly concerned, still slept in the barn on his bed of hay, a dreamless sleep, unconscious alike of sorrow and of that which might have changed the whole colour of his life—the removing of the burden of guilt which had weighed him down. But it had come too late. Was it better so? Maybe it was.
A well-matched pair—Harry awakes—New characters—Introduction—Breakfast—A trifle happier—His new life.
Mr Blewcome and his wife, Mrs Blewcome, were great travellers. There were few places, large and small, in England, where the forms of Mr and Mrs Blewcome were unknown.
Mr Blewcome was the proprietor of a travelling menagerie, and was a very distinguished personage in his own way, a man with a mind far above your ordinary proprietors of "wild beastesses," as Mrs Blewcome informed all whom she met. A man who had adopted that profession with the noble object of raising it to its proper level. Noble and enthusiastic Blewcome!
Mr Blewcome was tall and thin; Mrs B. was short and stout. The face of the manager and proprietor of Blewcome's Royal Menagerie was sallow and cadaverous. The face of his spouse was rubicund to a degree. In fact, in everything, the pair were admirably suited, according to the principle, that the more unlike two people are, the better they will agree; and they led a very prosperous "Jack Sprat and his wife" sort of life, roaming from place to place, with their caravans of wild beasts and yellow chariot of unhealthy-looking musicians, whose performance consisted of a very small quantity of trumpet, and a very great deal of drum. First-rate things in bands, drums are; they make so much noise, and hide such a multitude of mistakes. Besides, one tune will last so much longer with a judicious intermixture of drum. So Mr and Mrs Blewcome went about England, and Mr Blewcome gave incorrect lectures about impossible wild beasts, and Mrs Blewcome took the money at the door; while outside, the band played to delighted audiences, who always came to hear the music because they had not to pay anything for that pleasure.
Now it so happened that Blewcome's Royal Menagerie had made a most successful sojourn in Wilton, and was now on its way to the neighbouring town of Newbury; and, having reached the third milestone from Wilton, was passing the barn where Harry slept, fancying himself miles away from the hated grammar-school. Like most boys, he had not much idea of distance, and, besides, the night had deceived him.
The rumbling of the vans, and the growling of the beasts, who were making a great deal of very unnecessary noise, startled Harry from his sleep; and he ran out of his strange sleeping-chamber to see what it all meant, and stood staring open-mouthed at the curious divers-coloured caravans as they rolled along. The yellow chariot led the way. But the musicians were silent, and the drum swung from the back of the vehicle unbeaten and at peace. Last of all came Mr and Mrs Blewcome in the gaudiest of the caravans, drawn by two piebald steeds with very long manes and very thin tails, and who seemed to have seen their best days.
The eagle eye of Timothy Blewcome caught sight of Harry, and, turning to his wife, he remarked, in a tragic tone (he was a bit of an orator, was Blewcome; at least, he thought so):
"Jemimar, he'll do!"
And their conveyance came to a standstill, and Harry saw the portly form of the said Jemima Blewcome descending the caravan-steps and coming towards him.
He was not the least afraid, she looked so kind and good-natured.
"My dear!" said Mrs Blewcome, courteously, with the blandest of smiles.
"Yes," answered Harry, vacantly.
"My dear!" repeated Mrs Blewcome, "come along with me!"
Harry wanted his breakfast. He was ravenously hungry.
"Give me something to eat, then," he said stolidly, "and I'll come."
"Get up into the van, my dear, and I will. Here, Tim, help the boy up."
And Harry, nothing daunted, reached out his hand, and Timothy Blewcome gravely assisted him up the steps.
Gazing admiringly at the gorgeous colouring of the door and sides of the strange habitation on wheels, Harry sat himself down in one corner of the van, and, somehow or other, soon began to feel quite at home. Mrs Blewcome then ascended, the word was given, and the whole cavalcade moved on.
It was the work of a moment; and there was Harry, not the least realising his position, a member of a travelling menagerie. It was a change from the previous day, certainly.
The space of the apartment was somewhat confined, and the springs seemed to be very bad, for the caravan jolted along in such a manner that he could scarcely help upsetting the cup of bread and milk the motherly hands of Mrs Blewcome had given him.
He never uttered a word, but ate his breakfast, and enjoyed it thoroughly, thinking it far nicer than all the good things he had had in the Doctor's study on the previous night. Last night! Could it really be last night? It seemed such a long, long while ago.
"He never uttered a word, but ate his breakfast, and enjoyed it thoroughly."--WILTON SCHOOL, page 131."He never uttered a word, but ate his breakfast, and enjoyed it thoroughly."—WILTON SCHOOL, page 131.
"He never uttered a word, but ate his breakfast, and enjoyed it thoroughly."--WILTON SCHOOL, page 131."He never uttered a word, but ate his breakfast, and enjoyed it thoroughly."—WILTON SCHOOL, page 131.
Meanwhile, Mr and Mrs Blewcome were conversing confidentially together at the other end of the van; and, from what Harry could gather, this appeared to be the state of the case:
The labours and responsibilities of the menagerie were becoming a little too much for the proprietor and his wife. They could not afford to pay a man to help, nor did they care to enter into partnership with any one. They must pick up some lad who would do all sorts of odd jobs, and require nothing more than his keep. Plenty of old clothes were always to be found. And when Harry heard them congratulating themselves on their "find," he knew they alluded to him, and that they had marked out his future for him as a member of their enterprising profession.
Shortly afterwards, they told him their plans, and what they wanted him to do, and what they would do for him in return; and they spoke so kindly, that poor, friendless, homeless Harry was thankful he had fallen in with them, and began to feel a trifle happier.
When his father came home, he would be sure to search for him and find him, of course. Harry flattered himself. Till then, what better could he do than stay where he thought he should find kindness. And in this last supposition he was right. First impressions go a long way. Harry took to his patrons at once, and did everything they told him willingly and obediently, though at times the drudgery lay very hard upon him. But the excitement and freshness of his strange new life kept him up; and, moreover, he had a home, and food, and clothes, such as they were; and when he ran away from school, he never knew, or even dreamt, how he should get these. So he must not mind the drudgery.
And Mr and Mrs Blewcome, in their turn, soon came to treat him quite as a child of their own; so that one day, as they were rumbling along, Harry (it is true, after numerous questionings) opened his heart to the motherly Mrs Blewcome, and told her all his story.
But often at night he would lie awake for hours; realising then in the quiet, when there was no stir to attract his thoughts, how utterly lonely he was in the world, and his lips would send out his one sad burthen:
"Mamma, mamma, why did you die? why did you die?"
Egerton expelled—Harry lost—Settling to work—Two years after—A triumphal entry—The halt—Pre-occupied—A stranger—Found at last.
There was a great stir in Wilton on Harry's disappearance. The single policeman the village boasted was sent for and vigorously interrogated.
Had he seen any traces of a young gentleman answering to Harry's description?
"No! he hadn't seen nothing!"
Was he on his beat that night? Had he passed the school buildings?
He had stood talking for half-an-hour in one spot of the village, and then had gone to bed.
"He hadn't thought there was any call for him to go round the village."
No wonder "he hadn't seen nothing!"
All other inquiries met with pretty much the same answer. It was in vain. Harry was quite beyond all discovery.
So Doctor Palmer wrote at last to H.M.S. "Fervid," telling Chief-engineer Campbell, honestly and openly, the whole proceeding; concluding his letter with some kind and tender words of sympathy for him in his sorrow.
Egerton was promptly packed off to his guardian, a stern, sour-faced London lawyer (his parents were both dead), with an explicit account of his conduct, and his consequent expulsion.
In a very short time things went on much as usual at the school, to all external appearances. The excitement had died the usual death.
It is not, however, to be wondered that both Doctor Palmer and Mr Prichard felt very uneasy at the total failure of the attempts to discover Harry's whereabouts.
Mrs Valentine's distress could know no bounds, and both she and Mrs Bromley were full of indignation, woman-like, with everybody at the school. Boys and masters alike came in for blame from them.
But it was all of no avail. Each day Harry was getting farther away from Wilton; more lost than ever; settling down deeper and deeper into that strange and motley mass of wanderers on the face of the earth, whose individuality nobody recognises, or cares to recognise.
He had plenty to do. And work is the one grand thing that keeps us from too near communion with any sorrow it may be our lot to bear. Yet often and often, as they halted at different towns, Harry's heart would grow very heavy, as he saw among the spectators, numerous boys of his own age, well-dressed and cared-for, with happy faces full of astonishment and wondering admiration.
And he thought of what might have been his lot, had it not been—for whom?—had it not been for Egerton, he might, like them, have been in his proper place, instead of the outcast that he was; and the old feeling of revenge grew firmer and stronger with his growing years.
He must, he would, meet Egerton some day, and then, then he would settle the account that was between them.
So time flew on, and Harry had been two years with Mr and Mrs Blewcome; and these years of "roughing it" had physically done him good. He had grown fast, and happily proportionally strong with his height; and you would not have recognised the Harry of fifteen in his common clothes, as being the same fragile boy of thirteen whom you saw that night in June weeping over his mother's grave in the moonlight.
Still, in spite of his dress, you could see he was a gentleman, every inch his father's son. For it is not to be supposed, as some might hastily and ignorantly suppose, that Alan Campbell was not a gentleman, because he was an engineer.
A chief-engineer on board one of Her Majesty's ships-of-war, and an engine-driver of a locomotive, are two very different personages. This new branch of sea-service is of course to be traced to the change in the Royal Navy from the old sailing vessels to the iron-clad steamships. And the post of chief-engineer, though not necessarily requiring a gentleman by birth, yet often attracted those who, having changed their plans in life, wished to join the service, when it was too late to join as midshipmen.
It was a bright June morning, nearly two years to the very day since Harry had fallen in with Blewcome's Royal Menagerie; and after a long journey through the greater part of the night, the cavalcade was wearily entering a seaport town in the south of England. Mr and Mrs Blewcome were both asleep, snoring in unison within their gorgeously painted caravan, and Harry was sitting astride one of the identical old piebald steeds that had drawn Mr and Mrs B. for the last ten years.
On reaching a turnpike at the outskirts of the town, the proprietor and proprietress of the Royal Menagerie arose from their slumbers. And this was a general signal for a "wake-up." The whips were plied lustily over the jaded horses, to give them a lively, not to say frisky appearance. The trumpets rose to the lips of the musicians, and the drumsticks flew into the hands of the energetic drummer, and with an elevating strain of discordant music, Blewcome's Royal Menagerie majestically entered the town.
It did the hearts good of Blewcome and his spouse to see the street-doors flung open, and the gaping faces of the suburban inhabitants; and from the ever-increasing number of dirty little boys who brought up the rear of the cavalcade, Mrs Blewcome began reckoning on an unprecedented harvest of good luck. And the trumpeters trumpeted, and the drummer drummed; but as usual the latter had a long way the best of it.
The morning was spent, as it always was on such occasions, in arranging the caravans in the wonted horse-shoe shape. At the square end of the horse-shoe, so to speak, stretched the imposing canvas screen, painted in a most elaborate style, by the hand of some artist whose name unhappily has not been preserved for the benefit of posterity. There you might see the sheep-like lion, and the pig-like bear; leopards like short-legged zebras, and monkeys most unpleasantly like human beings. Indeed, ill-natured persons had been heard to declare one picture of a very lean ancient ourang-outang bore a strong resemblance to Mr Blewcome. But, then, some people see such strange likenesses!
And there were painted on the screen sundry other impossible animals, intended to attract the outside spectators, and induce them to enter and behold the wondrous originals within that magic circle of caravans. And while all these preparations were being hurried on, the yellow chariot and the band paraded the town at various periods of the day.
The first night at a new place was always a sort of refreshment to the jaded show-people. They had not much novelty, in good truth. But on these occasions they had the slight excitement of seeing new faces, and speculating how their arrival would "draw" the populace.
Harry, of course, young as he was to the business of his present life, quite naturally looked forward to the new places and new people.
At eight o'clock the band ascended the platform ranged in front of the painted screen before alluded to, and set about making a great deal of noise, and a goodly assemblage began to flock towards the show, and carried quite away by the life-like pictorial representations of the animals, first hesitated, then put their hands in their pockets, hesitated again, and finally paid their sixpences and went in.
Mrs Blewcome was in high glee at the rapid way in which her exchequer was filling. Mr Blewcome was in the midst of a most instructive harangue upon the nature and habits of that sportive animal, the elephant, and Harry sat on the steps of the platform, where the band was playing, and watched the people whom the show attracted, and those, too, who kept perpetually passing to and fro between the centre of the town and the docks. For the menagerie had taken up its position in an open space close by some wharves adjoining the docks.
By and by there appeared in the distance, coming from the docks, a figure which Harry seemed to know.
Impossible! It could not be! Whom should he be likely to meet with, here, miles and miles away from Wilton. He strained his eyes. The figure came nearer, was just passing with a half-careless look at the show. A brave, stern face,—a sad, earnest face—a stout, manly form. Harry looked again eagerly through the darkening shadows of the summer evening, and then running hastily through the wondering, jostling, bustling crowd, was at his father's side.
"Papa, papa!" he cried, "don't you know me?"
Alan Campbell turned suddenly and looked inquiringly at him, and then putting his arm round his boy's neck, round the poor, common clothes, kissed him with the fondness of one who had found what he had lost and yearned to find; and, in a voice scarcely audible with emotion, murmured repeatedly, "Thank God! thank God! found at last!"
Boots' errand—Mutual explanations—Mrs Blewcome—Questioned—Astonished—Overwhelmed—The parting.
Half-an-hour afterwards Harry was sitting with his father in a private room of the best hotel in the town, his heart full of delight, and very much to the astonishment of the waiters, who could not understand why the gentleman had brought in this young ragamuffin to eat with him, and to be waited on by their dignified hands.
But the father was too reserved to enlighten them, and Harry too bewildered at the strange events of that evening, to say anything at supper which might betray the relationship to the attendant menials.
What was their surprise, however, when Mr Campbell gave directions for word to be sent to the Royal Menagerie that was "exhibiting" in the town, to request the proprietor or his wife, or both, to come at once to the hotel, as he wished to speak with them. There was quite a contention down stairs, as to who should go on the degrading errand.
"A nasty low place," said the head waiter. "He can't be good for much."
"Master had best look sharp after his bill," chimed in the under-waiter; while the bar-maid, who was much more liberally-minded, ejaculated to both—
"Law, there now, it's no odds to you! The gentleman can do what he likes, can't he? You won't have to go. It's Boots' place!"
So Boots went; and Boots was a very long time, too, for he took care to have a good look round the show before he delivered the message to Mr and Mrs Blewcome. Having done which, he volunteered to escort them to the hotel.
"Go, Jemimar!" said Mr Blewcome, tragically, as usual. "I must not quit my post!" and, with the air of a martyr, he motioned to Jemima to start on her mysterious errand. And so the obedient Mrs Blewcome followed Boots as fast as her breath would suffer her.
Meanwhile Harry had told his long story; incoherently, it is true; but Doctor Palmer in his letter had explained so much, that his father only wanted to know what had befallen him since the night he had run away from school; all of which Harry told him. And then he, in his turn, gladly and proudly related to his boy all that had taken place at school. How that he was proved innocent; how Doctor Palmer praised and spoke highly of him in every way; and how delighted the whole school had been when the guilty one had been detected, and he righted.
And you may be sure Harry's heart was very glad when he heard all this—all this that he might have known two years ago. Two years ago, he could scarcely believe it. Two years is such a long while to the young.
Afterwards, they spoke of what was nearest to their hearts; the death that happened far back on that afternoon in June, far away in the little farm at Wilton by the sea. And Alan made his boy repeat over and over again all he could remember of those last days, and last words uttered by the lips that were so dear to them both, and that never were to touch theirs again. And they had for the time entirely forgotten about the message sent to the good people of the show; so that when there came a rap at the door, and Mrs Blewcome entered, Mr Campbell looked up, and said bluntly—
"Well, ma'am, who are you?"
This was too much for Mrs Blewcome. She had been sent for by "this man!" and he asked her who she was! She drew herself up, and answered with dignity:
"Mrs Blewcome! of Blewcome's Royal Menaggery!" and, catching sight of Harry, she exclaimed—
"So it's you as have taken our boy off, is it?"
"Sit down, my good woman, sit down, and I will explain my reason for sending for you."
Mrs Blewcome deposited the enormous umbrella which she invariably carried in the finest weather, upon the clean white tablecloth, and, seating herself with a bump upon a chair, clasped two very hot hands upon her lap, and waited.
"When, and where, did you find this little boy?" asked Mr Campbell.
Mrs Blewcome did not like this point-blank questioning. She fidgetted in her chair and said nothing. Mr Campbell repeated his question. Mrs Blewcome repeated her movements, expressive of unwillingness to reply.
"Very well," said Mr Campbell, good-humouredly; "as you won't tell me, I'll tell you. You found him, two years ago, about three miles outside Wilton, a small village on the Bristol Channel. He had run away from school. He told you a long tale about himself, and, among other things, that he had a father at sea. I am his father. I only landed here last night, and, by a mere chance, have thus stumbled across my boy. Had I hunted for him, I dare say I never should have found him."
Mrs Blewcome sat in astonishment. After she had somewhat recovered, she burst out—
"Well, there, to be sure, I am so glad; dear boy; but I don't know what I shall do without 'im. I don't know what I shall do, to be sure; and Blewcome getting that hindolentlike!"
This good-natured, believing speech, touched Alan's heart. There was no indignation at her prize being carried off by one who was a mere stranger to her. There was no doubting or disbelieving his reality as the boy's father, but only unselfish joy that Harry found his own again at last!
"You are a good soul," said Mr Campbell, quite affected. "I cannot thank you enough for all your care of my boy. It's been a strange home for him, but that's no fault of yours. I shall never forget you. Here is a card; and if you are ever in need, write to me, and I will do all I can for you."
"So I s'pose I must say good-bye to 'im, sir," asked Mrs Blewcome, with trembling voice.
"Well, yes," meditated Mr Campbell, "I suppose you must."
And the parting on both sides convinced him how truly kind the good woman had been to his boy, and how she had completely won his heart.
"Don't be offended, Mrs Blewcome," he added; "but here's a trifle for you, it'll help you to paint up your caravans. I dare say they'll be none the worse for a fresh bit of colour."
"Thank you, sir, thank you," said Mrs Blewcome, with open eyes and hands. "I'm not a-going to be proud;" and she didn't look as if she were, as she slipped Alan's ill-spared ten-pound note into her pocket.
"Good-bye, sir. Good-bye, my dear boy! Here's a ticket for the show, sir, if I may make so bold; we've got some werry fine beastesses, sir. Good-bye, dear!" And Mrs Blewcome curtsied herself from the room, with moist eyes and a heart genuinely saddened, for Harry had grown very dear to her during their two years' strange acquaintance.