Mrs Rimbolt comes into the library just as the business is concluded.

"Why, Percy, not in bed—and so tired too!"

"Oh, I've been doing some work for father," says the boy, chinking the two half-crowns in his pocket.

"But your father, I'm sure, would not wish you to injure your health."

"Certainly not. Percy was hard up, and has just been earning five shillings."

"What do you mean—earning five shillings?"

"Yes—father's been tipping me for cataloguing his books. Jolly hard work, but he pays on the nail, don't you, father?"

"My dear boy," said the mother, as she and her son walks across the hall, "why did you not tell me you wanted money? You know I do not grudge it. I don't like you to stay up so late to earn it, when you ought to be resting."

"Well, I wouldn't mind another five shillings, mother."

The mother gives him a half-sovereign and kisses him.

Percy, as he walks up the stairs, ruminating on his good luck, feels considerably more self-respect when he looks at the two half-crowns than when looking at the half-sovereign.

At the top of the stairs he shouts down to Walker:—

"I say, wake me at six, will you? and leave my waterproof and top-boots on the hall table; and, I say, tell Mason to cut me a dozen strong ash sticks about a yard long; and, I say, leave a hammer and some tacks on the hall table too; and tell Appleby to go by the early coach to Overstone and get me a pound of cork, and some whalebone, and some tar. Here's five shillings to pay for them. Don't forget. Tell him to leave them at the lodge before twelve, and I'll fetch them. Oh, and tell Raby if she wants to see what I was telling her about, she had better hang about the lodge till I come. I'm sure to be there somewhere between twelve and four."

With which the young lord of creation retires to his cubicle, leaving Walker scratching his head, and regarding the five shillings in his hand in anything but a joyful mood.

"He ought to be put on the treadmill a week or two; that's what would do him good," observed the sage retainer to himself; "one thing at a time, and plenty of it. A dozen ash sticks before six o'clock in the morning! What does he want with ash sticks? Now his schoolmaster, if he'd got one, would find them particular handy."

With which little joke Walker goes off to agitate Appleby and Mason with the news of their early morning duties, and to put the servants' hall in a flutter by announcing for the fiftieth time that summer that either he or the young master would have to leave Wildtree Towers, because, positively—well, they would understand—a man's respect for himself demanded that he should draw the line somewhere, and that was just what Master Percy would not allow him to do.

We have changed the scene once already in this chapter. Just before we finish let us change it once more, and leaving beautiful Wildtree and its happy family, let us fly to a sorry, tumbledown, desolate shed five miles away, on the hill-side. It may have once belonged to a farm, or served as a shelter for sheep on the mountain-slopes. But it now scarcely possesses a roof, and no sign of a habitation is anywhere visible.

The night has come on rainy and dark, and a weary tramp with his dog has been thankful to crawl into its poor shelter and rest his limbs. The wind has risen and howls dismally round the shed, breaking every now and then through the loose planks, and stirring up the straw which carpets the place. But the traveller is too weary to heed it or the rain which intrudes along with it, and crouching with his dog in the darkest corner, curls himself up in true tramp fashion, and settles down to sleep.

He has lain there two hours or more, and the mountain storm begins to abate. The dog has been uneasy for some time, and now in the midst of a peal of thunder awakens his master with a gruff yap. The sleeper sits up in an instant. It is not the thunder that has disturbed the dog, nor is it thunder that the tramp now listens to close at hand. It is the sound of voices, either inside the shed or just outside it.

Not a strange thing, perhaps, in a storm like this, for two wayfarers like himself to seek shelter—and yet the tramp seems startled by the sound, and signals to the dog to lie down and hold his peace.

"Will it do?" says one voice; and the tramp perceives that the speakers are standing outside the shed under the shelter of the projecting eaves.

"No. No good. Too well looked after, and the people about the wrong sort."

"There's a pile of swag there—heaps."

"Know that. Better wait till the family are away."

"There's a child, isn't there?"

"A boy—fourteen—only child."

"Might work it that way; eh? Get a trifle for him eh?"

"A thousand, and no questions asked. It's settled."

"It is! Why didn't you say so? How are you going to do it?"

"Never you mind. Corporal and I have worked it out. It will be done to-night. Moon's down at ten. You be here at midnight, and have your hay-cart handy. Corporal and I will bring him here. We know where to find him in daylight, and can keep him quiet in the woods till dark."

"What then? Who's to keep him?"

"Wait till you've got him."

"Are you sure they'll go a thousand for him?"

"Probably two. Sheer off now, and don't forget, twelve o'clock."

The footsteps move away through the wet heather, and the tramp, waiting motionless till the last sound has faded away, draws a long breath and curls himself back into his roost.

But not to sleep—to meditate a campaign.

"Julius," says he to the dog, who appears to be fully alive to the brewing storm, "you and I will have to stop this business. There'll be three to two, unless the boy fights too. We must be here at eleven, and tackle one of them before the other two come. What do you say to that?"

Julius looks only sorry the business is not to begin at once.

Then the tramp and he go carefully into the plan of their little campaign, and, as soon as day dawns, go out for a walk, Julius taking care before quitting the shed to acquaint himself with the scent of the two gentlemen who had lately sheltered outside it.

The tramp spends a quiet day on the mountain, reading Homer, and admiring the view. Towards nightfall he descends to Overstone and spends a few of his remaining pence in a frugal meal. Then, as the moon dips behind the shoulder of Wild Pike, he betakes himself, with the faithful Julius close at his heels, to the shed on the mountain-side.



CHAPTER TWELVE.

KIDNAPPING.

Percy Rimbolt, despite his unusual literary labours of the past evening, rose promptly when Walker knocked at his door at six o'clock, and arrayed himself once more in his flannels.

The storm of the night, which had disturbed Jeffreys and his dog five miles away, had not spread as far as Wildtree, and the early summer sun was already hot as he sallied forth with his waterproof over one arm, and his dozen ash sticks under the other in the direction of the river. Kennedy, at the lodge, was considerably astonished to be awakened by a shower of gravel against his window, and to perceive, on looking out, the young master in full fishing order standing below, "Kennedy, Appleby's going to leave some things here for me about twelve o'clock. Mind you're in, and wait till I come for them. And if Raby comes, tell her I'll be up about then; tell her not to go away."

"Do you want me down at the river, sir?" asked the old keeper.

"No, keep away; and don't let any one else come below Rodnet Bridge." With which injunction the youthful man of science went on his way, leaving Kennedy to shake his head and wonder what little game the young master was up to now.

Percy plodded on a couple of miles down the stream, considerably beyond the park boundaries, till he reached Rodnet Bridge, under which the mountain torrent slipped in a swift, deep stream. Just below the bridge, among the trees which crowded down to the water's edge, was a little hut, used by the Wildtree keepers for depositing their baskets and nets, but now appropriated by the young heir of Wildtree for far more important purposes.

It was here, in fact, that during the last two days he had conceived, and begun to put into practice, the never-before-heard-of invention of a machine for enabling a swimmer to swim up-stream at the rate of eight to ten miles an hour!

Percy's recent career had been made up of a large number of magnificent projects, admirable in every respect but one—they never quite came off. Just as they neared perfection they "gave out," and something new took their place. It would be treason, however, to hint that the "anti- current swimmer" was ever likely to give out. There certainly seemed no signs of it in the manner in which the inventor set about his task that morning. He had been provident enough to bring some sandwiches in his pockets (provided at the last moment by the much-enduring Walker), and on the strength of these he laboured half the morning. It would puzzle me to explain on what scientific principle the wonderful apparatus was laid down, what mixture between the wing of a bird, the tail of a fish, and the screw of a steamer it embodied. I never was good at mechanics, and certainly Percy Rimbolt's mechanics were such as it is given but to few to follow. Suffice it to say that by eleven o'clock the structure had reached a critical stage, and stood still for want of the cork which Appleby had been charged to procure.

The day was hot, and an hour at least must elapse before the messenger could return from Overstone. Percy, therefore, improved the shining hour by a bathe in the clear stream, with whose depths he was evidently familiar. He made no attempt, pending the completion of the machine, to oppose the swift current, but diving into it from the bridge, allowed himself luxuriously to be carried down into the shallows a hundred yards below, and without even the trouble of swimming. This refreshing performance ended, he returned to the hut and dressed. He was in the act of locking the door, preparatory to his journey up to Kennedy's lodge, when a sack was suddenly thrown over his head from behind, and next moment he found himself pinned to the ground in the clutches of two men. Before he was well aware of what had happened, his feet were tied together, and his arms firmly lashed to his sides. The sack was lifted from his mouth, but not long enough to enable him to shout, for a gag was roughly forced between his teeth; and then, while one of his captors held his head, the other bandaged his eyes so completely that, had he not known it, he could not have told whether it was mid-day or midnight. Thus, in almost less time than it takes to narrate it, in broad daylight, and on the borders of his own father's estate, the unfortunate Percy was made captive, without so much as being able to give an alarm or to see the faces of his assailants.

He was deposited comfortably on the floor of his own hut, by the side, oh, cruel fate! of his own machine, and there left to work out any number of problems which might occur to him during the next six hours; while his custodians, having carefully padlocked the door, retired to a respectful distance among the trees, where they could smoke their pipes in peace, and at the same time keep an eye on the approaches to their young ward's dungeon.

It did not take Percy many minutes to convince himself that any attempt to struggle or extricate himself from his bonds would be labour thrown away. His captors were evidently well up to their business, and there was no wriggling out of their neatly-tied bonds. Nor did the onslaught which the boy made with his teeth on the gag result in anything but disaster. It loosened at least two of his teeth, and gave him during the remainder of the day considerable pain in some of the others. As to his eyes, he rubbed his forehead and the side of his head on the floor, in the hopes of shifting the bandage, but all in vain. He got it over his ears as well as his eyes for his pains, and could scarcely hear a sound.

As the afternoon went on, the sun slanted its rays cruelly through the little skylight on to the spot where he lay, and the flies, attracted by the rare chance, swarmed in under the door and through the cracks to make merry with their defenceless victim. Had the sun been seven times as hot, or the flies venomous and deadly, he would have preferred it, for it would have shortened his misery considerably. When at last the sun got across the window, and left him at peace, he was scarcely in a position to appreciate his mercies.

Not long after the distant Overstone chimes had sounded four, his heart (about the only unfettered portion of him) leapt to his mouth as he heard his name called in Raby's voice outside. Nor was his the only heart whom that cheery sound caused to palpitate. The two watchers in the wood above heard it, and prepared to decamp at a moment's notice, should the girl display any undue curiosity as to the contents of the hut.

But she did not. She was used to seeing it padlocked, and to listen in vain for an answer to her call. Percy was evidently abroad, probably waiting for her up at Kennedy's lodge. So she hurried back. As soon as she had disappeared beyond the bridge, the two men put their pipes into their pockets.

"If they've begun looking for him we'd best sheer off, Corporal."

"That's right," replied Corporal—"at once."

Whereupon they descended from their perches, and having looked carefully up and down, unlocked the dungeon door.

Their prisoner was lying so still and motionless, that for an instant they had their misgivings as to whether the gag had not been a trifle too much for his respiration. But a moment's examination satisfied them the boy was alive—much to their relief.

The sack was once more brought into requisition, and turned out to be a great deal larger than it looked, for it was found quite roomy enough to accommodate the whole of the person of Percy Rimbolt, who in this dignified retreat quitted the scene of his labours on the back of one of his captors. The hut having been once more carefully padlocked, the party travelled at least a mile into the depths of the lonely woods, where at least there was no lack of shade and seclusion.

Percy was deposited somewhat unceremoniously on the ground, and left in the sack (with just sufficient aperture in the region of his nose to allow of respiration) for some hours more, unheeded by his custodians except when he attempted to move or roll over, on which occasions he was sharply reminded of his duty to his company by an unceremonious kick.

Some time later—it may have been an hour or two, or only five minutes— he was aware of a conversation taking place outside his sack.

"Risky," said one voice.

"More risky not to do it," said the other. "What use would he be if he was a dead 'un? Besides, how are we to carry him all that way?"

"All right, have it your way," said the other surlily.

Then Percy was conscious of some one uncording the mouth of the sack and uncovering his head.

"Young feller," said the gruffer of the two voices, "do you want your throat cut?"

Percy shook his head in mild deprecation of such a desire.

"Do you want your tongue cut out?"

Once more Percy disclaimed any consuming anxiety in that direction.

"Then you won't move a step or speak a word unless you're told. Do you mark that?"

The boy nodded; he did mark it.

Thereupon, much to his relief, the gag was taken from his mouth, and he felt himself hauled out of the ignominious sack.

"A drink!" he gasped.

"There he goes; I said he'd do it. Clap the gag on again."

Poor blindfolded Percy could only wave his head appealingly. He would sooner have his throat cut than feel that gag back between his teeth. His captors let him off this once, and one of them untied the cords from his legs. He was too cramped to attempt to make any use of this partial liberty, even had he been so minded, and sank down, half fainting, to the ground.

"Give him a drink," said one of the voices; and in a moment or two he felt a cup of delicious water held to his parched lips, reviving him as if by magic. A few coarse pieces of bread were also thrust between his lips; these he swallowed painfully, for his jaws were stiff and aching, and his teeth had almost forgotten their cunning. However, when the meal was over he felt better, and would gladly have slept upon it for an hour or two, had he been allowed.

But this was no part of his captors' programme. They had not relaxed his bonds to indulge any such luxurious craving. Overstone Church had already sounded eleven, and they were due in an hour at the mountain shed.

"Get up and step out," said one of them, pulling the boy roughly to his feet.

"All very well," said Percy to himself, as he stumbled forward on his cramped limbs; "they'll have to give me a leg up if they want me to go the pace. Where are we going to next, I'd like to know?"

"Come, stir yourself," said the man again, accompanying his words by a rough shake.

Percy responded by toppling over on his face. He who knew the way to swim against stream ten miles an hour, was just now unable to walk half a dozen paces on solid ground.

"Best shove him in the sack again," growled the other man.

The bare mention of that sack startled poor Percy to his feet. If he might only have spoken he could easily have explained the trifling difficulty which prevented his "stepping out." As it was, all he could do was to struggle forward bravely for a few more paces, and then again fall. The men seemed to perceive that there was something more than mere playfulness in this twice-repeated performance, and solved the difficulty by clutching him one under each arm, and materially assisting his progress by dragging him.

Any of Percy's acquaintances would have been greatly shocked had they been privileged to witness this triumphal midnight progress across the moors; his dragging legs feebly trying to imitate the motions of walking, but looking much more like kneeling, his head dropped forward on his chest, his shoulders elevated by the grip of his conductors under his pinioned arms, and his eyes bandaged as never a blind-man's-buff could bind them.

It was a long weary march that; but to Percy it was luxury compared with the morning among the flies on the hut floor. His conductors settled into a jog-trot, which the light weight of the boy did not much impede; and Percy, finding the motion not difficult, and on the whole soothing, dropped off into a half-doze, which greatly assisted in passing the time.

At length, however, he became aware of a halt and a hurried consultation between his captors.

"Is he there? Whistle?"

Corporal gave a low whistle, which after a second or two was answered from the hill-side.

"That's all right!" said the other, in tones of relief. "See anything of the cart?"

Corporal peered round in the darkness.

"Yes—all right down there."

"Come on, then. Keep your eye on Jim, though, he's a mighty hand at going more than his share."

"Trust me," growled Corporal.

Then Percy felt himself seized again and dragged forward.

In about five minutes they halted again, and the whistle was repeated.

The answer came from close at hand this time.

"All square?" whispered Corporal.

"Yes!" replied a new indistinct voice—"come on."

"Jim's screwed again," said the other man; "I can tell it by his voice; there's no trusting him. Come on."

They had moved forward half a dozen steps more, when Corporal suddenly found his head enveloped in a sack—a counterpart of his own—while at the same moment the other man was borne to the ground with a great dog's fangs buried in his neckcloth.

"Hold him!" called Jeffreys to the dog, as he himself applied his energies to the subjugation of the struggling Corporal.

It was no easy task. But Jeffreys, lad as he was, was a young Samson, and had his man at a disadvantage. For Corporal, entangled with the sack and unprepared for the sudden onslaught, staggered back and fell; and before he could struggle to his feet Jeffreys was on him, almost throttling him. It was no time for polite fighting. If Jeffreys did not throttle his man, his man, as he perfectly well knew, would do more than throttle him. So he held on like grim death, till Corporal, half smothered by the sack and half-choked by his assailant's clutch, howled for quarter.

Then for the first time Jeffreys felt decidedly perplexed. If he let Corporal go, Corporal, not being a man of honour, might turn on him and make mincemeat of him. If, on the other hand, he called the dog off the other man to hold Corporal while he bound him captive, the other man might abuse his opportunity in a like manner. The boy was evidently too exhausted to take any part in the encounter? What could he do?

After turning the matter over, he decided that Julius was the most competent individual to settle the business. The dog was having a very easy time with the abject villain over whom he was mounting guard, and could well undertake a little more than he had at present on his hands.

"Fetch him here, Julius," called Jeffreys, giving Corporal an additional grip; "come here, you fellow, along with the dog."

The fellow had nothing for it but to obey; and in a couple of minutes he was lying across the body of Corporal, while Julius stood fiercely over them both.

"Come here, boy," called Jeffreys next to Percy; "let me take off those cords." Percy groped his way to him.

"What are you going to do with me?" he gasped.

"Loose you; and if you're half a man you'll help me tie up these brutes. Come on—watch them there, Julius. Why, you're blindfolded, too, and how frightfully tight you're corded!"

"I've been like that since twelve o'clock."

A few moments sufficed to unfasten the captive's arms and clear his eyes.

"Now you," said Jeffreys, indicating the topmost of Julius's captives with his toe, "put your hands behind your back!"

The fellow obeyed hurriedly; he had had quite enough of Julius's attentions already to need more.

Jeffreys and Percy between them lashed first his wrists together, and then his elbows tightly to his sides. Then they secured his feet and knees in the same manner.

"He'll do—let him go, Julius," and prisoner Number 1 was rolled over, to make room for Number 2 to undergo a similar process of pinioning.

It was fortunate that the hay-cart below, of which and its owner Jeffreys and Julius had already taken possession at their leisure, had been liberally provided with cord, or their supply would have been inadequate to the strain put upon it.

At last, however, Corporal and his friend were as securely tied up as they themselves could have done it, and dragged into the shed. It was pitch dark, and they neither of them at first perceived a third occupant of the tenement in the person of their fellow-conspirator, who was lying, bound like themselves, on the floor, where for an hour at least he had been enjoying the sweets of solitary meditation.

"Now, Julius," said Jeffreys, when his three guests were duly deposited, "you'll have to watch them here till I come back. Hold your tongues, all of you, or Julius will trouble you. Watch them, good dog, and stay here."

"Now," said he to the boy, when they found themselves outside, "what's your name?"

"Percy Rimbolt."

"Where do you live?"

"Wildtree Towers, five miles away."

"We can be there in an hour. We may as well use this cart, which was meant to drive you in another direction. Can you walk to it, or shall I carry you?"

Percy, as one in a dream, walked the short distance leaning on his rescuer's arm. Then, deposited on the soft hay, too weary to trouble himself how he got there, or who this new guardian might be, he dropped off into an exhausted sleep, from which he was only aroused by the sound of his parents' voices as the cart pulled up at the door of Wildtree Towers.



CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

POLICEMAN JULIUS.

Wildtree Towers had been thrown into a state of unmistakable panic when, at the usual hour of retiring for the night, Percy had not put in an appearance. His absence at dinner-time agitated no one but his mother; and the search instituted at her bidding began languidly, and with the usual assurance of a speedy discovery. But as hour passed hour and no tidings came, things began to look serious, and even Walker pulled a long face.

Midnight came, and still no tidings. Appleby came up to the house for a lantern, but had nothing to report beyond the fact that the search so far had been unsuccessful. The minutes dragged on for the unhappy watchers. It was harder far for them to sit there in the hall, listening to the unsympathetic tick of the clock and starting at every sound on the gravel without, than it was for the father to tramp through the woods and trace the footsteps along the river's bank.

At last the clock struck two, and scarcely had the chimes ceased, when Walker put up his finger, and exclaimed,—

"Hist!"

A moment of terrible silence ensued. Then on their quickened hearing there came a distant rumble of wheels. Almost at the same instant footsteps came tearing up the gravel drive. It was Appleby, who rushed into the midst of the group assembled on the doorstep.

"All right—he's found!" gasped the lad.

"Is he alive?" cried the mother.

"On a cart!" exclaimed the panting Appleby.

Mrs Rimbolt gave a little shriek, and fell into her husband's arms. Raby, nerved by the very agony of the suspense, rushed out and ran down the drive to meet the cart.

"Is Percy there?" she cried.

The cart stopped abruptly, and a strange voice replied,—

"Yes—safe and well and fast asleep."

The words fell like music on the girl's ears. It was too dark to see anything but the shadowy form of the cart and of a man walking at the horse's head. She darted back to the house with the joyful news, and in another minute the cart stood at the door. Percy, who was decidedly enjoying his sleep, felt by no means as grateful as he should have been to find himself disturbed at this early hour of the night.

"All serene! all serene!" he growled, in response to his mother's caresses and Walker's effusive shaking of the hand. "I'm all right, mother; I want to go to bed."

"Get the hot bath ready," said Mrs Rimbolt to the servants. "My poor boy!"

"I tell you I'm all serene; can't you let me go to bed?" said the half- awake Percy. "I don't want anything except sleep."

"Walker, help Master Percy up to bed; let him take our room, and light a fire in it, and put hot bottles in the bed."

Percy, thankful to get back to his slumbers at any price, allowed Walker to help him up stairs. At the door of his own room he stopped.

"That will do; you can cut. Walker."

"But you're to have the best room and a fire—"

"You be hanged!" exclaimed the boy, unceremoniously slamming the door in Walker's face, and locking himself in.

Downstairs, meanwhile, Jeffreys was being besieged with questions on all hands, which he endeavoured as best he could to answer. Mr Rimbolt, however perceiving that very little good was to be got out of this confused cross-examination, asked him to follow him into the library, once more suggesting to his wife and niece that they should go to bed. Jeffreys was thankful to find himself in a serene atmosphere, and despite all the agitation and excitement of the day, his heart warmed as he looked round on the bookshelves and their friendly occupants.

"Now," said Mr Rimbolt, who had made no attempt to take part in the babel outside, "will you please tell me everything?"

Jeffreys obeyed, and told his story in a concise and intelligent manner, which convinced Mr Rimbolt he had not only an honest man but a gentleman to deal with. The master of Wildtree was not an effusive man, and if Jeffreys had looked to be overwhelmed with grateful speeches he would have been disappointed. But he had not looked for it, and valued far more the quiet confidential manner in which Mr Rimbolt entered into all the details of the narrative.

"Then," said the latter, when the story was ended, "as a matter of fact you have the three ruffians penned in the shed by your dog at this moment—an excellent piece of management."

He rang his bell, and Walker, who had felt quite out of it for the half- hour, appeared with great promptitude.

"Walker, are any of the men about still?"

"Appleby is holding this man's horse at the hall door, sir."

"Send Appleby here, and take the horse and cart round to the farm."

Poor Walker! This was a sad cut. The farm was half a mile away, across the park; and this order meant that for another hour at least he must be an outsider in the drama.

"Appleby," said Mr Rimbolt, when that jaunty youth appeared, "take Benbow, and ride as quickly as you can, to the police-office at Overstone. Tell the inspector with my compliments, to meet me with three constables at Rodnet Bridge at six o'clock, that is, in three hours. Come back as quickly as you can, and have the dog-cart at the door at five."

"Now," said he to Jeffreys, when these various matters of business had been put in train, "we may as well occupy our time by getting something to eat, supper and breakfast in one—I dare say you are hungry."

As Jeffreys had scarcely eaten anything for three days—in fact, since his visit to Grangerham—he could honestly admit being ready for a meal.

"I'm afraid we must forage for ourselves, unless some one is about," said Mr Rimbolt, leading the way to the pantry.

It was a curious spectacle that of the millionaire and the tramp together investigating the contents of the pantry shelves and lockers, lifting up dish-covers here, and critically testing the consistency of pie-crusts there. They made a fairly good selection of the good things which came nearest to hand, and retiring with them to the adjacent kitchen, accomplished a meal more luxurious to Jeffreys' mind than any he had tasted since he left Bolsover.

This done, to his great satisfaction they adjourned once more to the library, where, while Mr Rimbolt took a brief nap, he regaled himself with the luxury of a prowl among the bookshelves, by the light of the dawning day. So absorbed was he in this occupation that he did not hear the sound of the dog-cart at the front door, or heed Mr Rimbolt's first summons to start.

"You're fond of books, surely," said that gentleman, as the two got up into the trap and drove off, with Appleby perched behind.

"I love them," said Jeffreys, in the same tone of sincerity which had attracted the York bookseller.

"You're a reader, then?"

"I would be if I had the chance," said Jeffreys.

"You are thinking of my library," said Mr Rimbolt; "but it doesn't follow, you know, that having a house full of books makes a reader. A man may often get more good out of one tattered volume than out of an entire Russia-bound library."

"I can quite believe that," said Jeffreys.

"Probably you know what a favourite book is?" said Mr Rimbolt rather curiously.

Jeffreys replied by producing his well-worn copy of Homer, and it would be hard to say which of these two foolish persons evinced the most enthusiasm in discovering that they both alike had a friend in the old Greek bard. At any rate the discovery levelled at once the social differences which divided them; and in the discussion which ensued, I blush to say they forgot, for the time being, all about Percy, and the shed on the mountain-side, and the three gentlemen there to whom the genial Julius was doing the honours.

The appearance of the inspector and three constables at Rodnet Bridge brought the two unpractical excursionists on Mount Olympus abruptly back to level ground. The business was soon explained. The police, of course, knew all about the "parties"—when do they not? They had been following them up for days, had had their suspicions of that mountain shed for weeks, and so on. They couldn't exactly say they had known all about the attempt to kidnap last night; but they knew all about it now, for Appleby had let it out, and the "active and intelligent" in consequence had nothing to learn. Half an hour brought them to the mountain-side. Mr Rimbolt and Jeffreys dismounted, leaving Appleby in charge of the trap, while they, followed in single file by the police, ascended the narrow track towards the shed. Half-way up, Jeffreys whistled; and a joyous bark from Julius assured the party that their game was safe.

"You'd better let me go first," said Jeffreys to the inspector, who showed some anxiety to be foremost in the capture, "unless you want my dog to fly at you."

The official fell back promptly, his native modesty getting the better of his zeal; and the party halted twenty yards from the shed while Jeffreys advanced to reconnoitre. He saw at a glance that things were not exactly as he had left them. Two out of the three prisoners remained securely bound, but the unlucky Corporal had slipped his feet from the cords, and paid dearly for his folly. Julius had him down on the ground, daring him to move a limb or even turn his head on pain of unheard-of laceration. The wretched fellow had cursed a thousand times his own artfulness. For three hours he had lain thus, not daring to stir a muscle; and if ever a night's experiences are enough to turn the hair grey, Corporal should not have a single black lock left that morning.

"Come off, Julius, and let them alone," said Jeffreys.

Julius obeyed somewhat reluctantly, though the pleasant task of welcoming his master's return reconciled him somewhat to the abandonment of his sovereignty. Jeffreys beckoned to the party to advance.

"These are the three men, sir," said he to Mr Rimbolt.

"Yes, sir, these are the parties," said the inspector (who had never set eyes on the men before), advancing towards Corporal as he slowly raised himself from the ground.

Julius, greatly to the officers' alarm, made a last attempt to assert his property in the captives, and in Corporal in particular; and in so doing came very near doing a grievous injury to the arm of the law. But Jeffreys' authoritative order to him to come in and he down allowed the arrest to proceed without any further protest than a few discontented yaps as the cords were removed from the prisoners' legs, and they were led off by the force.

"We had better go to Overstone, too," said Mr Rimbolt, "and see these ruffians safely quartered. The assizes are coming on in a week or two. Do you live anywhere near here?"

"No," said Jeffreys. "Julius and I are on a walking tour at present."

Mr Rimbolt looked at his companion, and for the first time took notice of his travel-stained, shabby appearance.

"You mean," said he, guessing the truth, "you have no particular address at present?"

"Quite so," replied Jeffreys, flushing up uncomfortably.

Mr Rimbolt said nothing more just then. They had a busy hour or two at Overstone arranging for the comfortable housing of their three prisoners, until the law should decide as to their more permanent residence. Then, having taken farewell of the police, and returning towards the dog-cart, Jeffreys stopped abruptly and said, raising his hat,—

"Good-bye, sir."

Mr Rimbolt looked at him in surprise.

"You are not going, surely!" said he. "You must come back to the house with me."

"Thank you; Julius and I have a long journey before us, and must be starting."

"You are only on a walking tour, you know. There is a great deal to see round here. The place is worth exploring," said Mr Rimbolt feeling almost as embarrassed as his companion.

"We shall be back here for the assizes," said Jeffreys.

"Nonsense, my friend!" said Mr Rimbolt, taking the bull by the horns; "I insist on your coming back with me now, if it's only to ask how Percy is after his night's excitement. Besides, you have not half explored the library."

Whether it was the cordiality of this delicate invitation, or the mention of the library, or both combined, I cannot say; but Jeffreys, with some misgivings, yielded, and ascended the dog-cart.

"The ladies would never forgive me," said Mr Rimbolt rather unwisely, "if I let you go without giving them an opportunity of thanking you for your goodness to Percy."

Jeffreys was sorry he had yielded. Had he only had Mr Rimbolt and the cool Percy to deal with, he could have resigned himself to the ordeal. But the threat of being thanked by the ladies quite disconcerted him.

"I'm—I'm afraid I'm not very—tidy," stammered he. "I'd really rather, if you don't object, go on. Besides, Julius—"

Mr Rimbolt laughed good-humouredly.

"Julius is not shy, and wants breakfast and a rest after his night's work, don't you, Julius?"

Julius could not deny that he was very ready for both. Jeffreys gave it up, and with much sinking of heart awaited their arrival at Wildtree Towers. To his infinite relief, the ladies were not visible. Mrs Rimbolt, it was reported, was confined to her bed by the effects of her recent agitation, and Miss Atherton was out. Master Percy was still fast asleep. It broke the fall considerably to find himself left still to the gentlemanly and unembarrassing attentions of his host.

Julius was led with honour to the kitchen, there to be regaled in a baronial fashion, which it was well for his morals and digestion was not a daily festival. Jeffreys, having seen him comfortably curled up on a mat, returned to the library. His host was pacing up and down the floor, evidently a little nervous, and Jeffreys instinctively felt that the ordeal was upon him. Mr Rimbolt, however, began by a little fencing.

"I recollect taking a very pleasant tour through this district with two college friends when I was at Oxford. See, here is the map I had with me at the time, and the route marked. We were rather a rackety party, and boasted that we would go in a straight line from Ambleside to the sea, and stick at nothing. Here's the line, you see. That straight line took us over one or two places I wouldn't care to try now. But Oxford men, they said in those days, had no necks to break. Are you a University man?"

Jeffreys glanced up, half doubtful whether the question was asked in seriousness or ironically.

"No, sir, unfortunately not."

"Well," said Mr Rimbolt, "it has its advantages and disadvantages. You would, I dare say, value it; but for the serious work of life it may sometimes be unsettling. Is it fair to ask what your profession is, Mr Jeffreys?"

"None at all just now. I was till lately usher in a private school," replied Jeffreys, wincing.

Mr Rimbolt observed the wince, and delicately steered away from the topic. "Ah, that must be a monotonous calling, and you, with your love of books and literary tastes, would find it specially irksome. You must forgive me if I take an interest in your affairs, Mr Jeffreys. May I ask if you have any engagement in prospect?"

"None at all," said Jeffreys.

"My reason for asking is a selfish one, quite, and has been suggested by the interest you take in my library. I have been inquiring for a month or two for some one who will assist me as a private librarian. The fact is, Mr Jeffreys," continued Mr Rimbolt, noticing the look of surprised pleasure in his listener's face, "with my time so much occupied in parliamentary and other duties, I find it quite impossible to attend to the care of my books as I should wish. I made up my mind most reluctantly some time ago that I should have to entrust the duty to some one else, for it was always my pride that I knew where every book I had was to be found. But my collection has grown beyond my control and wants a regular custodian. Look here," said he, opening a folding door at the end of the room.

Jeffreys saw another room, larger than the one he was in, lined with shelves, and crowded on the floor with heaps of books in most admired disorder.

"It was no use," said Mr Rimbolt half pathetically. "I cherished the hope as long as I was able of reducing this chaos to order, and putting away each one of these treasures (for they are no common volumes) in a place of its own. Every day it grows worse. I've fought against it and put it off, because I could find no one who would undertake it as much for the love of the work as for the small salary to which a private librarian would be entitled. Now you see the selfish reason I have for mentioning the matter to you, Mr Jeffreys. I offer you nothing to jump at; for it will need sheer hard work and a lot of drudgery to overtake the arrears of work, and after that I doubt if the keeping up of the library will leave you much leisure. You would incur no little responsibility either, for if I handed the care of the library to you, I should hold you responsible for every volume in it, and should expect you to know something of the inside of the books as well as the outside. You may think a salary of L100 a year hardly adequate to this amount of work and responsibility; if so I must not press you further, for that is the sum I have arranged to give, and cannot see my way to offering more. It would include residence here, and board, of course."

Jeffreys felt almost dazzled by the prospect thus deprecatingly unfolded by Mr Rimbolt. Had the offer been made in any less delicate way; had it savoured of charity to the outcast, or reward to the benefactor, he would have rejected it, however tempting. As it was, it seemed like the opening of one of the gates of Providence before him. The work promised was what of all others he coveted; the salary, with the casually-thrown in addition of board and lodging, seemed like affluence; his employer was a gentleman, and the opportunities of study and self-improvement were such as fall to the lot of few. Above all, in hard work among those quiet and friendly bookshelves he would find refuge from his bad name, and perhaps be able to establish for himself what he had hitherto striven for in vain—a character.

"I am most grateful, sir," said he, "if you really think I should suit you."

"I think you would," said Mr Rimbolt, in a tone which gratified Jeffreys far more than if he had launched out into idle flattery and compliments.

And so it was settled. Jeffreys could scarcely believe what had happened to him when, half an hour later, Mr Rimbolt being called away on business, he found himself taking a preliminary survey of his new preserves, and preparing himself seriously for his duties as private librarian at Wildtree Towers.



CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

SNOB AND SNUB.

Jeffreys was not long in finding out the best and the worst of his new lot at Wildtree Towers. To an ordinary thick-skinned fellow, with his love of books and partiality for boys, his daily life during the six months which followed his introduction under Mr Rimbolt's roof might have seemed almost enviable. The whole of each morning was devoted to the duties of the library, which, under his conscientious management, gradually assumed the order of a model collection. A librarian is born, not made, and Jeffreys seemed unexpectedly and by accident to have dropped into the one niche in life for which he was best suited. Mr Rimbolt was delighted to see his treasures gradually emerging from the chaos of an overcrowded lumber-room into the serene and dignified atmosphere of a library of well-arranged and well-tended volumes. He allowed his librarian carte blanche with regard to shelves and binding. He agreed to knock a third room into the two which already constituted the library, and to line it with bookcases. He even went the length of supporting a clever bookbinder at Overstone for several months with work on his own volumes, and, greatest sacrifice of all, forebore his craze of buying right and left for the same space of time until the arrears of work should be overtaken, and a clear idea could be formed of what he already had and what he wanted. Jeffreys revelled in the work, and when he discovered that he had to deal with one of the most valuable private collections in the country, his pride and sense of responsibility advanced step by step. He occupied his leisure hours in the study of bibliography; he read books on the old printers and their works; he spent hours with the bookbinder and printer at Overstone, studying the mechanism of a book; he even studied architecture, in connexion with the ventilation and lighting of libraries, and began to teach himself German, in order to be able to master the stores of book- lore buried in that rugged language.

All this, then, was congenial and delightful work. He was left his own master in it, and had the pride of seeing the work growing under his hands: and when one day Mr Rimbolt arrived from London with a great man in the world of old books, for the express purpose of exhibiting to him his treasures, it called an honest flush to the librarian's face to hear the visitor say, "Upon my word, Rimbolt, I don't know whether to congratulate you most on your books or the way in which they are kept! Your librarian is a genius!"

If all his life could have been spent in the shelter of the library Jeffreys would have had little to complain of. But it was not, and out of it it needed no great discernment to perceive that he had anything but a friend in Mrs Rimbolt. She was not openly hostile; it was not worth her while to wage war on a poor domestic, but she seemed for all that to resent his presence in the house, and to be possessed of a sort of nervous desire to lose no opportunity of putting him down.

After about a week, during which time Jeffreys had not apparently taken her hint as to the arranging of his person in "respectful" raiment. Walker waited upon the librarian in his chamber with a brown-paper parcel.

"My lady's compliments," said he, with a grin—he was getting to measure the newcomer by his mistress's standard—"and hopes they'll suit."

It was a left-off suit of Mr Rimbolt's clothes, with the following polite note: "As Mr Jeffreys does not appear disposed to accept Mrs Rimbolt's advice to provide himself with clothes suitable for the post he now occupies at Wildtree Towers, she must request him to accept the accompanying parcel, with the wish that she may not again have occasion to refer to so unpleasant a subject."

Jeffreys flushed scarlet as he read this elegant effusion, and, greatly to Walker's astonishment crushed the letter up into a ball and flung it out of the window.

"Take that away!" he shouted, pointing to the parcel.

"The mistress sent it for—"

"Take it away, do you hear?" shouted Jeffreys, starting up with a face so terrible that Walker turned pale, and evacuated the room with the offending parcel as quickly as possible.

Jeffreys' outburst of temper quickly evaporated, and indeed gave place to a much more prolonged fit of shame. Was this like conquering the evil in his nature, to be thus thrown off his balance by a trifle?

As it happened, he had ordered a suit of clothes in Overstone some days back, and was expecting them that very afternoon.

Mr Rimbolt, on the day after his engagement, had as delicately as possible offered him a quarter's salary in advance, which Jeffreys, guessing the source which inspired the offer, had flatly refused. Mr Rimbolt's gentlemanly urging, however, and the consciousness that his present clothes were disreputable, as well as another consideration, induced him to accept a month's stipend; and on the strength of this he had visited the Overstone tailor.

But before doing so he had discharged his mind of a still more important duty. The sense of the debt still due to Bolsover had hung round his neck night and day. It was not so much on Mr Frampton's account. He came gradually to hate the thought of Bolsover, and the idea of being a defaulter to the place worried him beyond measure. It seemed like an insult to the memory of poor young Forrester to owe money to the place which had witnessed that terrible tragedy; and the hope of washing his hands once for all of the school and its associations was the one faint gleam of comfort he had in looking back on the events of last year. It was therefore with a feeling of almost fierce relief that he procured a post-office order for the balance of his debt on the very afternoon of receiving the money, and enclosing it with merely his name added—for he wanted no receipt, and felt that even Mr Frampton's letters would now no longer be of service to him—he posted it with his own hands, and hoped that he was done with Bolsover for ever. After that, with very different emotions, he visited the tailor.

The clothes arrived on the same afternoon which had witnessed the summary rejection of Mrs Rimbolt's gift. That lady, from whom Walker had considered it prudent to keep back some of the particulars of his interview with the librarian, merely reporting "that Mr Jeffreys was much obliged, but did not require the things," took to herself all the credit of his improved appearance when that evening Mr Rimbolt brought him in from the library to have coffee in the drawing-room.

Jeffreys, aware that he was undergoing inspection, felt very shy and awkward, but could not quite do away with the improvement, or conceal that, despite his ugly face and ungainly figure there was something of the gentleman about him.

Mrs Rimbolt by no means approved of her husband bringing his librarian into the drawing-room. She considered it a slight to herself and dangerous to Percy and Raby to have this person added to their family circle; and she most conscientiously made a point of lessening that danger on every occasion, by reminding him of his place and rendering his temporary visits to exalted latitudes as uncomfortable as possible. Mr Rimbolt, good easy-going gentleman, shrugged his shoulders and felt powerless to interfere, and when, after a week or two, his librarian generally pleaded some pressing work as an excuse for not going in to coffee, he understood it quite well and did not urge the invitation.

Percy, however, had a very different way of comporting himself. What he liked he liked; what he did not like he most conveniently ignored. He was anything but a model son, as the reader has discovered. He loved his parents, indeed, but he sadly lacked that great ornament of youth—a dutiful spirit. He was spoiled, and got his own way in everything. He ruled Wildtree Towers, in fact. If his mother desired him to do what he did not like, he was for the time being deaf, and did not hear her. If he himself was overtaken in a fault, he changed the subject and talked cheerily about something else. If one of his great "dodges" came to a ridiculous end, he promptly screened it from observation by a new one.

From the day of the kidnapping adventure he was a sworn ally of Jeffreys. It mattered nothing to him who else snubbed the new librarian, or who else made his life uncomfortable. Percy liked him and thought much of him. He established a claim on his afternoons, in spite of Mrs Rimbolt's protests and Mr Rimbolt's arrangements. Even Jeffreys' refusal to quit work at his bidding counted for nothing. He represented to his mother that Jeffreys was necessary to his safety abroad, and to his father that Jeffreys would be knocked up if he did not take regular daily exercise. He skilfully hinted that Jeffreys read Aeschylus with him sometimes; and once, as a crowning argument, produced a complete "dodge," perfected and mechanically clever, "which," he asserted, "Jeff made me stick to till I'd done."

Mr Rimbolt did not conceal the satisfaction with which he noticed the good influence on the boy of his new friend, and readily fell in with the arrangement that Jeffreys' afternoons should be placed at his own (which meant Percy's) disposal. As for Mrs Rimbolt, she groaned to think of her boy consorting with quondam tramps, yet consoled herself with the knowledge that Percy had now some one who would look after him and keep him out of danger, even with a vulgar right arm.

Jeffreys accepted this new responsibility cheerfully, and even eagerly. It sometimes came over him with a shock, what would these people say if they knew about young Forrester? Yet was not this care of a boy given to him now as a means, if not of winning back his good name, at least of atoning in some measure by the good he would try to do him, and the patience with which he would bear with his exacting ways for what was past? It was in that spirit he accepted the trust, and felt happy in it.

As the summer passed on, Wildtree, the moors around which were famous for their game, became full of visitors. The invasion did not disturb Jeffreys, for he felt that he would be able to retire into private life and avoid it. The company numbered a few boys of Percy's age, so that even that young gentleman would not be likely to require his services for a while. He therefore threw himself wholly into his work, and with the exception of an hour each afternoon, when he took a turn on the hill-side, showed himself to no one.

On one of these occasions, as he was strolling through the park towards the moor, he encountered Miss Atherton, very much laden with a camp- stool, a basket, a parasol, and a waterproof. Shy as he was, Jeffreys could hardly pass her without offering to relieve her of part of her burden. "May I carry some of those things?" said he.

He had scarcely exchanged words with Raby since the day of his first arrival; and though he secretly numbered her among his friends, he had an uncomfortable suspicion that she looked down on him, and made an effort to be kind to him.

"Thanks, very much," said she, really glad to get rid of some of her burdens; "if you wouldn't mind taking the chair. But I'm afraid you are going the other way."

"No," said Jeffreys, taking the chair, "I was going nowhere in particular. May I not take the waterproof and basket too?"

"The basket is far too precious," said Raby, smiling; "it has grapes in it. But if you will take this horrid waterproof—"

"There is not much use for waterproofs this beautiful weather," said Jeffreys, beginning to walk beside her. Then, suddenly recollecting himself, with a vision of Mrs Rimbolt before his mind, he fell back, and said awkwardly,—

"Perhaps I had better—I must not detain you, Miss Atherton."

She saw through him at once, and laughed.

"You propose to follow me with those things as if I was an Eastern princess! Perhaps I had better carry them myself if you are afraid of me."

"I'm not afraid of you," said Jeffreys.

"But you are afraid of auntie. So am I—I hope she'll meet us. What were you saying about the weather, Mr Jeffreys?"

Jeffreys glanced in alarm at his audacious companion. He had nothing for it after this challenge but to walk with her and brave the consequences. There was something in her half-mutinous, half-confiding manner which rather interested him, and made the risk he was now running rather exhilarating.

"Percy seems to have forsaken you," said she, after a pause, "since his friends came. I suppose he is sure to be blowing his brains out or something of the sort on the moors."

"Percy is a fine fellow, and certainly has some brains to blow," observed Jeffreys solemnly.

Raby laughed. "He's quite a reformed character since you came," said she; "I'm jealous of you!"

"Why?"

"Oh, he cuts me, now he has you! He used about once a week to offer to show me what he was doing. Now he only offers once a month, and then always thinks better of it."

"The thing is to get him to work at one thing at a time," said Jeffreys, to whom Percy was always an interesting study. "As soon as he has learned that art he will do great things."

"I think Percy would make a fine soldier," said Raby, with an enthusiasm which quite captivated her companion, "he's so brave and honest and determined. Isn't he?"

"Yes, and clever too."

"Of course; but my father always says a man needn't be clever to be a good soldier. He says the clever soldiers are the least valuable."

"Was your father a soldier?"

"Was? He is. He's in Afghanistan now."

"In the middle of all the fighting?"

"Yes," said Raby, with a shade across her bright face. "It's terrible, isn't it? I half dread every time I see a letter or a newspaper. Mr Jeffreys!" added the girl, stopping short in her walk, "my father is the best and bravest man that ever lived."

"I know he is," said Jeffreys, beginning to wonder whether some of the father's good qualities were not hereditary.

Raby looked up curiously and then laughed.

"You judge of him by seeing how heroic I am braving my aunt's wrath! Oh dear, I do hope she meets us. It would be such a waste of courage if she doesn't."

"I have benefited by your courage," said Jeffreys, quite staggered at his own gallantry.

"I expect you're awfully dull in that old library," said the girl; "you should hear how uncle praises you behind your back! Poor auntie—"

At that moment they turned a corner of the shrubbery leading up to the house, and found themselves suddenly face to face with Mrs Rimbolt with a gentleman and two or three of her lady guests. Jeffreys flushed up as guiltily as if he had been detected in a highway robbery, and absolutely forgot to salute. Even Raby, who was not at all sure that her aunt had not overheard their last words, was taken aback and looked confused. Mrs Rimbolt bridled up like a cat going into action. She took in the situation at a glance, and drew her own inferences.

"Raby, my dear," said she, "come with us. Colonel Brotherton wishes to see Rodnet Force, and we are going there. Oh, Mr Jeffreys," added she, turning frigidly upon the already laden librarian, "when you have carried Miss Atherton's things into the house, be good enough to go to Kennedy and tell him to meet us at the Upper Fall. And you will find some letters on the hall table to be posted. By-the-way, Colonel Brotherton, if you have that telegram you want to send off, the librarian will go with it. It is a pity you should have the walk."

To these miscellaneous orders Jeffreys bowed solemnly, and did not fail to exhibit his clumsiness by dropping Raby's waterproof in a belated effort to raise his hat. Mrs Rimbolt would hardly have been appeased had he not done so; and it was probably in a final endeavour to show him off as he departed that she added,—

"Raby, give Mr Jeffreys that basket to take in; you cannot carry that up to the Falls."

"Oh, aunt, I've told Mr Jeffreys I can't trust him with it. It has grapes in it. Didn't I, Mr Jeffreys?" she said, appealing gaily to him with a smile which seemed to make a man of him once more.

"I will undertake not to eat them," said he, with a twitch of his mouth, receiving the precious basket.

After that he sacrificed even his afternoon constitutionals, and took to the life of a hermit until Wildtree Towers should be rid of its visitors. But even so he could not be quite safe. Percy occasionally hunted him out and demanded his company with himself and a few choice spirits on some hare-brained expedition. Jeffreys did not object to Percy or the hare-brained expedition; but the "choice spirits" sometimes discomposed him. They called him "Jeffy," and treated him like some favoured domestic animal. They recognised him as a sort of custodian of Percy, and on that account showed off before him, and demonstrated to Percy that he was no custodian of theirs. They freely discussed his ugliness and poverty within earshot. They patronised him without stint, and made a display of their own affluence in his presence. And when once or twice he put down his foot and interdicted some illegal proceeding, they blustered rudely, and advised Percy to get the cad dismissed.

It was like some of the old Bolsover days back again, only with the difference that now he steeled himself to endure all patiently for young Forrester's sake. It disappointed him to see Percy, led away by his company, sometimes lift his heel against him; yet it suited his humour to think it was only right, and a part of his penance, it should be so. Percy's revolt, to do that youth justice, was short-lived and speedily repented of. As soon as his friends were gone he returned to Jeffreys with all his old allegiance, and showed his remorse by forgetting all about his recent conduct.

Perhaps the most trying incident in all that trying time to Jeffreys was what occurred on the last day of the Brothertons' visit. The colonel and his family had been so busy seeing the natural beauties of Wildtree, that, till their visit was drawing to an end, they found they had scarcely done justice to the beautiful house itself, and what it contained. Consequently the last evening was spent in a visit en masse to the library where Jeffreys was duly summoned to assist Mr Rimbolt in exhibiting the treasures it contained.

As usual when the lady of the house was of the party, the librarian went through his work awkwardly. He answered her questions in a confused manner, and contrived to knock over one or two books in his endeavour to reach down others. He was conscious that some of the company were including him among the curiosities of the place, and that Mr Rimbolt himself was disappointed with the result of the exhibition. He struggled hard to pull himself together, and in a measure succeeded before the visit was over, thanks chiefly to Mrs Rimbolt's temporary absence from the library. The lady returned to announce that coffee was ready in the drawing-room, and Jeffreys, with a sigh of relief, witnessed a general movement towards the door.

He was standing rather dismally near the table, counting the seconds till he should be left alone, when Mrs Brotherton advanced to him with outstretched hand. Imagining she was about to wish him good-evening in a more friendly manner than he had expected, he advanced his own hand, when, to his horror and dismay, he felt a half-crown dropped into it, with the half-whispered remark, "We are much obliged to you."

He was too staggered to do anything but drop his jaw and stare at the coin until the last of the party had filed from the room, not even observing the look of droll sympathy which Raby, the last to depart, darted at him.

Left to himself, one of his now rare fits of temper broke over him. He stormed out of the place and up into his room, where, after flinging the coin into the grate, he paced up and down the floor like an infuriated animal. Then by a sudden impulse he picked the coin up, and opening a toolbox which he kept in the room, he took from it a hammer and bradawl. Two or three vicious blows sufficed to make a hole in the centre of the Queen's countenance. Then with a brass-headed nail he pinned the miscreant piece of silver to the wall above the mantelpiece, and sat looking at it till the storm was over.

It was a week or two before he quite recovered from this shock and settled down again to the ordinary routine of his life at Wildtree Towers. As the afternoons became shorter, and out-of-door occupations in consequence became limited, he found Percy unexpectedly amenable to a quiet course of study, which greatly improved the tone of that versatile young gentleman's mind. Percy still resolutely set his face against a return to school, and offered no encouragement to his perplexed parents in their various schemes for the advancement of his education. Consequently they were fain to be thankful, until some light dawned on the question, that his education was not being wholly neglected, and Mr Rimbolt in particular recognised that under Jeffreys' influence and tuition the boy was improving in more ways than one.

The autumn passed uneventfully. Mr Rimbolt had occasion once or twice to go up to London, and on these occasions Jeffreys was reminded that he was not on a bed of roses at Wildtree. But that half-crown over the mantelpiece helped him wonderfully. Raby continued to regard him from a distance with a friendly eye, and now and then alarmed him by challenging him to some daring act of mutiny which was sure to end in confusion, but which, for all that, always seemed to him to have some compensation in the fellow-feeling it established between the poor librarian and the dependent and kept-under niece.

News arrived now and then from India, bringing relief as to what was past, but by no means allaying anxiety as to what might be in store for the soldier there. A week before Christmas, Raby told Jeffreys, with mingled pride and trepidation, that her father had written to say he had been made major, and expected to be sent in charge of a small advance force towards Kandahar, to clear the way for a general advance. By the same post another letter came for Mrs Rimbolt, the contents of which, as the Fates would have it, also came to Jeffreys' ears.

"My dear," said the lady, entering the library that evening, letter in hand, and addressing her husband, who was just then engaged with his librarian in inspecting some new purchases, "here is a letter from my old friend Louisa Scarfe. She proposes to come to us for Christmas, and bring with her her son, who is now at Oxford. I suppose I can write and say Yes?"

"Certainly," said Mr Rimbolt; "I shall be delighted."

A chill went to Jeffreys' heart as he overheard this hurried consultation. If this should be the Scarfe he knew, he was not yet rid, he felt, of Bolsover or of his bad name.



CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

FALLEN IN A HOLE.

Mrs Scarfe and her son arrived a day or two later at Wildtree Towers. Jeffreys, who from the recesses of a bay window was an unseen witness of the arrival, saw at a glance that his forebodings were too true. Scarfe had changed somewhat since we saw him at Bolsover fifteen months ago. He was older and better-looking and wore a trim black moustache. His dress was in the best Oxford style; and in his easy, confident carriage there remained no trace of the overgrown schoolboy. His mother, a delicate-looking widow lady, returned Mrs Rimbolt's greeting with the eagerness of an old friend, and introduced her son with evident pride.

It was hopeless for Jeffreys to think of avoiding a recognition for long. Still, he anxiously put off the evil hour as long as possible. The first afternoon and evening this was not difficult, for the travellers had made a long journey and retired early. The following day he went through his work on tenterhooks. Every time the library door opened he felt his heart sink within him, and every footstep he heard crossing the hall seemed to be the one he dreaded.

In the evening he attempted to escape the inevitable by taking refuge in his room after dinner. But as it happened a messenger arrived from Overstone with a parcel of books, which made it necessary for him to return to the library. And while there Mr Rimbolt as usual came in.

As soon as the business matter had been arranged Mr Rimbolt said, "Miss Atherton has been asking to see Blake's Songs of Innocence, Jeffreys; will you kindly take the book to her in the drawing-room? I have one of my tenants to see here, but I shall be in shortly."

There was no possible escape from this dilemma. With a groan he got the book down from its place and went.

Scarfe, as he entered the drawing-room, was engaged in turning over a book of prints with Raby, and did not notice him. Nor did Mrs Rimbolt, siting on the sofa beside her friend, heed his entrance till Percy said,—

"Hullo, Jeff!"

Jeffreys became aware that the eyes of the whole party were suddenly centred on him—Mrs Rimbolt's from under lifted eyebrows, Mrs Scarfe's through raised eye-glasses, Raby's with a veiled welcome, Scarfe's in blank astonishment. He advanced awkwardly into the room.

"Close the door, please, Mr Jeffreys," said Mrs Rimbolt, in tones which left no manner of doubt in her visitors' minds as to the status of the librarian in the house.

Jeffreys obeyed, and advanced once more towards Raby.

"Your uncle," stammered he, conscious of nothing but Scarfe's stare, "asked me to bring you this book." Then, turning with a desperate effort to his old schoolfellow, he said, "How are you, Scarfe?"

He scorned himself for the half-appealing tone in which the salutation was made. What was Scarfe to him? Nothing, save that Scarfe and he had both looked down that October afternoon on the motionless form of one small boy in the Bolsover meadow. And was that nothing?

"How do you do, Jeffreys?" said Scarfe, stiffly extending his hand, and immediately afterwards returning to his examination of the prints with Raby.

"Do you know Jeff?" asked Percy, who had witnessed the recognition.

"Yes. Jeffreys and I have met," said Scarfe, not looking up from his book.

"Who is that young man?" said Mrs Scarfe, in an audible whisper to her hostess.

"The librarian here. Mr Jeffreys," added Mrs Rimbolt, as Jeffreys stood irresolute, not knowing whether to remain in the room or go, "be good enough to tell Walker he can bring the coffee, and tell Mr Rimbolt we are expecting him."

"Mr Rimbolt asked me to say you are not to wait coffee for him. He may be detained with a tenant in the library."

"Jeff, I say, you should have been with us this afternoon. We had such larks. We got one or two pot shots, but didn't hit anything except the dog. So it's a good job we didn't borrow Julius. Kennedy says we're in for a ripping frost, so save yourself up, old man."

"Percy, you talk like a stable-boy. Do remember you are in the drawing- room; and don't detain Mr Jeffreys from his work."

Under cover of this maternal exhortation Jeffreys withdrew.

"Rum your knowing Jeff, Scarfe!" said Percy, after he had gone; "was he at Oxford?"

"No," said Scarfe. "It was at school. Surely that must be one of Hogarth's engravings, Miss Atherton, it is exactly his style."

"It wasn't much of a school, was it?" persisted Percy. "Jeff told me he didn't care about it."

"I don't think he did," replied Scarfe with a faint smile.

"I suppose you are very fond of Oxford, are you not?" said Mrs Rimbolt; "every one who belongs to the University seems very proud of it."

This effectually turned the conversation away from Jeffreys, and the subject was not recurred to that evening, except just when Scarfe was bidding his mother good-night in her boudoir.

"I hope you won't be dull here," said she. "Miss Atherton seems a pleasant girl, but it is a pity Percy is not older and more of a companion."

"Oh, I shall enjoy myself," said Scarfe.

"You don't seem very fond of that Mr Jeffreys."

"No, I draw the line somewhere, mother," said the son.

"What do you mean? Is there anything discreditable about him? He looks common and stupid, to be sure. Mrs Rimbolt tells me Percy is greatly taken up with him."

"They appear to have curious ideas about the kind of companion they choose for their boy," said Scarfe. "But it's no business of ours. Good-night, mother."

And he went, leaving Mrs Scarfe decidedly mystified.

Jeffreys and Scarfe occasionally met during the next few days. Jeffreys was rather relieved to find that his late schoolfellow seemed by no means anxious to recall an old acquaintance or to refer to Bolsover. He could even forgive him for falling into the usual mode of treating the librarian as an inferior. It mattered little enough to him, seeing what Scarfe already knew about him, what he thought of him at Wildtree. On the whole, the less they met and the less they talked together, the less chance was there of rousing bitter memories. The Scarfes would hardly remain more than a month. If for that time he could efface himself, the danger might blow over, and he might be left at the end of the time with the secret of his bad name still safe at Wildtree Towers.

Kennedy's prophecy of a hard frost turned out to have been a knowing one. All through Christmas week it continued with a severity rare even in that mountainous region; and when on New Year's Day the report reached Wildtree that a man had skated across the upper end of Wellmere it was admitted to be a frost which, to the younger generation of the place at least, "beat record."

Percy was particularly enthusiastic, and terrified his mother by announcing that he meant to skate across Wellmere, too. Raby, though less ambitious, was equally keen for the ice; and Scarfe, indolently inclined as he was, was constrained to declare himself also anxious to put on his skates.

A day was lost owing to the fact that Percy's skates, which had lain idle for two years, were now too small for him and useless.

Mrs Rimbolt devoutly hoped the ironmonger in Overstone would have none to fit him, and used the interval in intriguing right and left to stop the projected expedition.

She represented to her husband that the head gardener was of opinion that the frost had reached its height two days ago. She discovered that Scarfe had a cold, to which exposure might be disastrous. Raby she peremptorily forbade to dream of the ice; and as for Percy, she conjured him by the love he bore her to skate on nothing deeper than the Rodnet Marsh, whereat that young gentleman gibed. The Overstone ironmonger had skates which fitted the boy to a nicety, and by way of business sent up "on inspection" a pair which Mr Rimbolt might find useful for himself.

"You surely will not allow Percy to go?" said the lady to her husband, on the morning after the arrival of the skates.

"Why not? He's a good skater, and we don't often have a frost."

"But on Wellmere! Think of the danger!"

"I often skated across Wellmere when I was a boy. I would not object to do it again if I had the time to spare. I declare the sight of the skates tempted me."

"I don't believe Mr Scarfe can swim. What would happen if there were an accident?"

"I think you overrate the danger," said her husband; "however, if it pleases you, I will get Jeffreys to go with them. He can swim, and I dare say he can skate, too."

Mrs Rimbolt shied a little at the suggestion, but yielded to it as a compromise, being better than nothing.

Jeffreys would fain have evaded this unexpected service.

"I have no skates," he said, when Mr Rimbolt proposed it.

"Yes; the ironmonger sent up a pair for me, and as I can't use them you are welcome to them."

"Did you not want the books from Sotheby's collated before to-morrow?"

"No, Saturday will do. Honestly, Jeffreys, I would be more comfortable, so would Mrs Rimbolt, if you went. We have experience of the care you take of Percy. So, you see, I ask a favour."

It was useless to hold out.

"I will go," said he; and it was settled.

An hour later Scarfe, Percy, Jeffreys, and Julius stood at the hall door ready to start.

"Where's Raby, I say?" cried Percy; "she said she'd come."

"I do not wish Raby to go."

"Oh, look here, mother, as if we couldn't look after her; eh, Scarfe?"

"It will be no pleasure without Miss Atherton," said Scarfe.

"Can't she come, father?" said Percy, adroitly appealing to Caesar.

"I really think it would be a pity she should miss the fun."

"Huzzah! Raby, where are you? Look sharp! father says you can come, and we're waiting!" cried Percy.

Raby, who had been watching the party rather wistfully, did not keep them long waiting.

Wellmere was a large lake some five miles long and a mile across. In times of frost it not unfrequently became partially frozen, but owing to the current of the river which passed through it, it seldom froze so completely as to allow of being traversed on skates. This, however, was an extraordinary frost, and the feat of the adventurer on New Year's Day had been several times repeated already.

The Wildtree party found the ice in excellent order, and the exhilarating sensation of skimming over the glassy surface banished for the time all the unpleasant impressions of the walk. It was several years since Jeffreys had worn skates, but he found that five minutes was sufficient to render him at home on the ice. He eschewed figures, and devoted himself entirely to straightforward skating, which, as it happened, was all that Percy could accomplish—all, indeed, that he aspired too.

It therefore happened naturally that Scarfe and Raby, who cultivated the eccentricities of skating, were left to their own devices, while Jeffreys, accompanied of course by Julius, kept pace with his young hero for the distant shore. It was a magnificent stretch. The wind was dead, the ice was perfect, and their skates were true and sharp.

"Isn't this grand?" cried Percy, all aglow, as they scudded along, far outstripping the perplexed Julius. "Better than smoking cigarettes, eh, old Jeff?"

Jeffreys accepted this characteristic tender of reconciliation with a thankful smile.

"I was never on such ice!" said he.

"Looks as if it couldn't thaw, doesn't it?" said Percy.

"It's better here in the middle than nearer the shore. I hope those two won't get too near the river, it looks more shaky there."

"Trust Scarfe! He knows what's what! I say, aren't he and Raby spoons?"

"Mind that log of wood. It must be pretty shallow here," said Jeffreys, his face glowing with something more than the exercise.

They made a most successful crossing. Returning, a slight breeze behind them favoured their progress, and poor Julius had a sterner chase than ever.

As they neared their starting-point Jeffreys looked about rather anxiously for Scarfe and Raby, who, tiring of their fancy skating, had started on a little excursion of their own out into the lake.

"I wish they wouldn't go that way," said he, as he watched them skimming along hand-in-hand; "it may be all right, but the current is sure to make the ice weaker than out here."

"Oh, they're all serene," said Percy. "I'll yell to them when we get near enough."

Presently, as they themselves neared the shore, they noticed Scarfe turn and make for the land, evidently for something that had been forgotten, or else to make good some defect in his skates. Raby, while waiting, amused herself with cutting some graceful figures and curvetting to and fro, but always, as Jeffreys noted with concern, edging nearer to the river.

Percy shouted and waved to her to come the other way. She answered the call gaily and started towards them. Almost as she started there was a crack, like the report of a gun, followed by a cry from the girl.

Jeffreys, with an exclamation of horror and a call to Julius, dashed in an instant towards her. The light girlish figure, however, glided safely over the place of danger. Jeffreys had just time to swerve and let her pass, and next moment he was struggling heavily twenty yards beyond in ten feet of icy water.

It all happened in a moment. Percy's shout, the crack, the girl's cry, and Julius's wild howl, all seemed part of the same noise.

Percy, the first of the spectators to recover his self-possession, shouted to Scarfe, and started for the whole.

"I'm all right, don't come nearer," called Jeffreys, as he approached; "there's a ladder there, where Scarfe is. Bring it."

Percy darted off at a tangent, leaving Jeffreys, cool in body and mind, to await his return. To an ordinarily excitable person, the position was a critical one. The water was numbing; the ice at the edge of the hole was rotten, and broke away with every effort he made to climb on to it; even Julius, floundering beside him, bewildered, and at times a dead weight on his arms and neck, was embarrassing. Jeffreys, however, did not exhaust himself by wild struggles. He laid his stick across the corner of the hole where the ice seemed firmest, and with his arms upon it propped himself with tolerable security. He ordered the dog out of the water and made him lie still at a little distance on the ice. He even contrived to kick off one boot, skate and all, into the water, but was too numbed to rid himself of the other.

It seemed an eternity while Scarfe and Percy approached with the ladder, with Raby, terrified and pale, hovering behind.

"Don't come nearer," he shouted, when at last they got within reach. "Slide it along."

They pushed it, and it slipped to within a yard of him.

Julius, who appeared to have mastered the situation, jumped forward, and fixing his teeth in the top rung, dragged it the remaining distance.

The remainder was easy. Scarfe crawled along the ladder cautiously till within reach of the almost exhausted Jeffreys, and caught him under the shoulder, dragging him partially up.

"I can hold now," said Jeffreys, "if you and Percy will drag the ladder. Julius, hold me, and drag too."

This combined effort succeeded. A minute later, Jeffreys, numbed with cold but otherwise unhurt, was being escorted on his one skate between Percy and Scarfe for the shore, where Raby awaited him with a look that revived him as nothing else could.



CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

A BRUSH NEAR KANDAHAR.

While Raby that night dreamed troublously of the events of the day, a soldier was sitting in his tent near Kandahar, some four thousand or more miles away, reading a letter. He was an officer; his sword lay beside him on the table, his boots were off, and a flannel coat took the place of the regimental jacket which lay beside his saddle on the floor. If these signs were not sufficient to prove that for the time being he was off duty, his attitude as he lolled back in his camp-chair, with his feet on the table considerably above the level of his chin, reading his letter by the uncertain light of a lamp, would have left little doubt on the subject. So engrossed indeed was he that he was unaware of the presence of his native servant in the tent preparing supper, and read aloud to himself. The envelope of the letter, which lay on the table, was a foreign one with an English stamp, and addressed in a feminine hand.

The soldier, having completed his first perusal, turned back to the beginning, reading partly to himself, partly aloud.

"'October 4'—three months ago or more!—before she heard of this business. 'You poor dull darling'—nice names to call one's father, true enough, though, at the time, it was brutally dull at Simla—'I can fancy how you hate loafing about all day with nothing to do but try and keep cool and find a place to sleep in where the flies can't worry you.' Hum! Picture of a soldier's life! A little different from the usual impression, but not very wide of the mark after all."

Then he read to himself for a bit something which made his weather- beaten face soften, and brought a sparkle to his eyes.

"Bless the child!" he murmured; "she doesn't forget her old father! 'How glad I shall be if you get sent to the front, for I know how you hate doing nothing. If you are, I shall be foolish, of course, and imagine all sorts of horrors whenever I see a letter.' That's the way girls back their fathers up! 'Oh, why couldn't I be a soldier too, and ride behind you into action, instead of dawdling here doing no good to anybody, and living like a fine young lady instead of a simple soldier's daughter?' Whew! what a fine little colour-sergeant she'd make! Wouldn't Mrs Grundy sit up if she read that?

"Hum!" he went on, after reading a little further. "'I oughtn't to grumble. Uncle Rimbolt is the kindest of protectors, and lets me have far too many nice things. Aunt has a far better idea of what a captain's daughter should be. She doesn't spoil me. She's like a sort of animated extinguisher, and whenever I flicker up a bit she's down on me. I enjoy it, and I think she is far better pleased that I give her something to do than if I was awfully meek. It all helps to pass the time till my dear old captain comes home.' Heigho! that means she's miserable, and I'm not to guess it! I had my doubts of Charlotte Rimbolt when I let her go to Wildtree. Poor little Raby! she's no match for an animated extinguisher!

"'Percy,' continued the letter, 'is as lively and full of "dodges" as ever. He soon got over his kidnapping adventure. Indeed, the only difference it has made is that we have now one, or rather two, new inmates at Wildtree, for Uncle Rimbolt has employed Percy's rescuer as his librarian, and the dog has, of course, taken up his abode here too. He is a perfect darling! so handsome and clever! He took to me the first moment I saw him, and he would do anything for me.' Really!" said the father; "that's coming it rather strong, isn't it, with the new librar— Oh, perhaps she means the dog! Ha, ha! 'Aunt Rimbolt gets some fine extinguisher practice with this newcomer, against whom she has a most unaccountable prejudice. He is very shy and gentlemanly, but I am sure Percy never had a better friend. He has become ever so much steadier.' Did you ever know such letter-writers as these girls are? Which newcomer does she mean, the fellow who's a perfect darling, or the fellow who's shy and gentlemanly? and which, in the name of wonder, is the man and which the dog? Upon my word, something awful might be going on, and I should be none the wiser! 'Julius nearly always escorts me in my walks. He is such a dear friendly fellow, and always carries my bag or parasol. Aunt, of course, doesn't approve of our being so devoted to one another, for she looks upon Julius as an interloper; but it doesn't matter much to us. Percy often comes with us, but Julius rather resents a third person. He thinks—so do I, much as I like Percy—that two are company and three are none.'"

Major Atherton—for the soldier was no other—leaned back in his chair, and fanned himself with the letter.

"How on earth am I to know who or what she is talking about? If it's not the dog, upon my honour, Aunt Rimbolt— It can't be the dog, though. She calls him Julius; and why should she take the boy along with them if it wasn't the librarian puppy she walked with? Rimbolt ought to look after things better than that!

"'Uncle Rimbolt thinks very highly of his new protege. He is so quiet; it is quite painful sometimes talking to him. I'm sure he has had a lot of trouble; he has a sort of hunted look sometimes which is quite pathetic. Aunt hardly ever lets him come into the drawing-room, and when she does it is generally in order to snub him. I fancy he feels his anomalous position in this house very much.'"

"My patience! That's a mild way of putting it!" exclaimed the major; "the anomalous position of this hunted-looking, shy librarian who carries her parasol and escorts her about, and suggests to Percy that two are company and three are none! All I can say is the sooner we get into Kandahar and are paid off home the better!"

"What's that you're saying about Kandahar, old man?" said a voice at the door of the tent, and there entered a handsome jaunty-looking officer of about Atherton's age.

"That you, Forrester? Come in. I've just had a letter from my little girl."

A shade crossed Captain Forrester's cheery face.

"Your luck, my dear boy. I haven't had a line."

"Perhaps there's a letter for you at head-quarters."

"I doubt it. But don't talk about it. How's your girl flourishing?"

"Upon my honour, she seems to be a little too flourishing," said the major, taking up his letter with a look of puzzled concern. "You may be a better English scholar than I am, Forrester, and be able to make head or tail of this. As far as I can make it out, Raby is flourishing very decidedly. Here, read this second sheet."

Captain Forrester took the letter, and read the part indicated carefully.

The major watched him anxiously till he had done.

"Well?" he asked, as his comrade handed it back.

"It seems to be a case," said the latter.

"That's what I thought. I don't like that carrying her parasol, and telling the boy that two are company—"

Captain Forrester burst into a loud laugh.

"Why, you glorious old donkey, that's the dog!"

"Nonsense; she'd never say a dog was shy and gentlemanly, and looked as if he'd had a lot of trouble."

"No," said the captain holding his sides, "that's the librarian."

"Who—the fellow Julius she talks about?" asked the major, beginning to feel very warm.

"The fellow Julius! Why, Julius is the dog!"

The major rose from his seat in agitation, and stood before his friend.

"Forrester," said he solemnly, "as soon as I see the joke I'll laugh. Meanwhile tell me this. Who in the name of mystery is it who feels his anomalous position at Wildtree, the man or the dog?"

Captain Forrester held gallantly on to his chair to prevent falling off; and the native without, hearing his shouts, looked in at the door to see what the sahib wanted.

"My dear fellow," said he at last, "I begin to think I know more than you. Can't you see this daughter of yours is decidedly interested in this young protege of her uncle?"

"Most decidedly I see that."

"And that in order to throw dust in your fatherly old eyes, she makes a great gush about the dog Julius, and says hardly a word about the master, whose name does not appear."

Major Atherton took up the letter again and glanced through it, and a light began to break on his puzzled countenance.

"Then," said he, "the fellow who's handsome and clever and a perfect darling is—"

"Is the bow-wow. And the fellow who's hunted-looking and not allowed in the drawing-room is his master."

Major Atherton resumed his chair, and once more planted his feet on the table.

"That is a way of putting it, certainly. If so, it's a relief."

"My dear boy, keep your eye on that librarian, or he may change places with his dog in double-quick time."

The major laughed, and a pause ensued. Then Forrester said—

"Two or three days more, and we ought to be in Kandahar."

"We are to have a stiff brush or two before we get there," said the major; "any hour now may bring us to close quarters."

There was another pause. Captain Forrester fidgeted about uneasily, and presently said—

"It's possible, old man, only one of us may get through. If I am the one who is left behind, will you promise me something?"

"You know I will."

"That boy of mine, Atherton, is somewhere, I'm as sure of it as that I'm sitting here. He's vanished. My letters to Grangerham cannot all have miscarried, and they certainly have none of them been answered. My mother-in-law, as I told you, died in the south of England. The boy may have been with her, or left behind in Grangerham, or he may be anywhere. I told you of the letter I had from the school?"

"Yes; he had had an accident and gone home damaged—crippled, in fact."

"Yes," said Captain Forrester, with a groan, "crippled—and perhaps left without a friend."

"You want me to promise to find him if you are not there to do it, and be a father to him. You needn't ask it, old man, for I promise."

"I've nothing to leave him," said Captain Forrester, "except my sword and this watch—"

"And the good name of a gallant soldier. I will, if it is left to me to do it, take the boy all three."

"Thanks, Atherton. You know that I would do the same by you, old fellow."

"You may have the chance. That girl of mine, you know," added the major, with a tremble in his voice, "would have what little I have saved, which is not much. She's a good girl, but she would need a protector if I was not there."

"She shall have it," said his friend.

"I'm not sure that she's happy at Wildtree," continued the father, with a smile, "despite the dog and his master. Rimbolt's a bookworm, and doesn't see what goes on under his nose, and her aunt, as she says, is an animated extinguisher. It always puzzled me how Rimbolt came to marry Charlotte Halgrove."

"Halgrove? Was she the sister of your old college friend?"

"Yes. Rimbolt, Halgrove, and I were inseparable when we were at Oxford. Did I ever tell you of our walking tour in the Lakes? We ruled a bee- line across the map with a ruler and walked along it, neck or nothing. Of course you know about it. We've sobered down since then. Rimbolt married Halgrove's sister, and I married Rimbolt's. I had no sister, so Halgrove remained a bachelor."

"What became of him?"

"I fancy he made a mess of it, poor fellow. He went in for finance, and it was too much for him. Not that he lost his money; but he became a little too smart. He dropped a hundred or two of mine, and a good deal more of Rimbolt's—but he could spare it. The last I heard of him was about twelve years ago. He had a partner called Jeffreys; a stupid honest sort of fellow who believed in him. I had a newspaper sent me with an account of an inquest on poor Jeffreys, who had gone out of his mind after some heavy losses. There was no special reason to connect Halgrove with the losses, except that Jeffreys would never have dreamed of speculating if he hadn't been led on. And it's only fair to Halgrove to say that after the event he offered to take charge of Jeffreys' boy, at that time eight years old. That shows there was some good in him."

"Unless," suggested Captain Forrester, "there was some money along with the boy."

"Well, I dare say if he's alive still, Rimbolt will know something of him; so I may come across him yet," said the major; and there the conversation ended.

Major Atherton's prophecy of a brush with the enemy was not long in being fulfilled.

Early next day the expeditionary force was ordered forward, the cavalry regiment in which the two friends were officers being sent ahead to reconnoitre and clear the passes.