The march lay for some distance along a rocky valley, almost desolate of habitations, and at parts so cumbered with rocks and stones as to be scarcely passable by the horses, still less by the artillery, which struggled forward in front of the main body. The rocks on the right bank towered to a vast height, breaking here and there into a gorge which admitted some mountain stream down into the river below, and less frequently falling back to make way for a wild saddle-back pass into the plains above.

Along such a course every step was perilous, for the enemy had already been reported as hovering at the back of these ugly rocks, and might show their teeth at any moment.

For an hour or two, however, the march continued uninterrupted. The few scattered Afghans who had appeared for a moment on the heights above had fallen back after exchanging shots, with no attempt at serious resistance. The main body had been halted in the valley, awaiting the return of the scouts. The horses had been unharnessed from the guns, and the officers were snatching a hurried meal, when Captain Forrester at the head of a few troopers scampered into the lines. The news instantly spread that the enemy had been seen ahead, and was even then being chased by the cavalry up one of the defiles to the right.

Instantly, and without even waiting for the word of command, every man was in his place ready to go on. The guns, with Captain Forrester's troop as escort, dashed forward to hold the defile; while the main body, divided into two divisions—one to follow the guns, the other to reach the plain above by a nearer pass—started forward into action.

The cavalry, meanwhile, with Major Atherton at their head, were already engaged in a hot scrimmage.

Following their usual tactics, the Afghans, after exchanging shots at the entrance of the pass, had turned tail and dashed through the defile, with the English at their heels. Then, suddenly turning as they reached the plain beyond, they faced round on their pursuers, not yet clear of the rocky gorge. In the present instance, however, when within about a hundred yards of the head of the column, they wheeled round again, and once more bolted into the open.

A stern chase ensued over the rough broken ground, the enemy now and then making a show of halting, but as often giving way and tempting the cavalry farther out into the plain.

The Afghans numbered only about two hundred horsemen, but it was quite evident from their tactics that they had a much larger body in reserve, and Major Atherton was decidedly perplexed as to what he should do. For if he pursued them too far, he might be cut off from his own men; if, on the other hand, he made a dash and rode them down before they could get clear, he might cut them off from their main body, and so clip the enemy's wings.

The enemy settled the question for him. Just as he was looking round for the first sign of Forrester and the guns in the pass, the plain suddenly swarmed with Afghans. From every quarter they bore down on him, horse and foot, and even guns, seeming almost to spring, like the teeth of Cadmus, from the earth.

It was no time for hesitation or doubt. Retreat was out of the question. Equally hopeless was it to warn the troops who were coming up. There was nothing for it but to stand at bay till the main body came up, and then, if they were left to do it, fight their way out and join forces.

The major therefore brought his men to a corner of the rocks, where on two sides, at any rate, attack would be difficult; and there, ordering them to dismount and form square, stood grimly.

A cruel half-hour followed. Man after man of that little band went down before the dropping fire of the enemy. Had the guns been able to command the position, they would have fallen by tens and scores. Major Atherton, in the middle of the square, had his horse shot under him before five minutes were past. Alas! there was no lack of empty saddles to supply the loss, for before a quarter of an hour had gone by, out of a dozen officers scarcely half remained.

Still they stood, waiting for the first boom of the guns at the head of the pass, and often tempted to break away from their posts and die fighting. For of all a soldier's duties, that of standing still under fire is the hardest.

Captain Forrester, dashing up the defile at the head of the artillery, had been prepared to find a lively skirmish in progress between his own comrades and the handful of Afghans who were luring them on. But when, on emerging on to the plain, he found himself and the guns more than half surrounded by the enemy, and no sign anywhere of Atherton, he felt that the "brush" was likely to be a very stiff one.

The Afghans had set their hearts on those guns; that was evident by the wild triumphant yell with which they charged down on them. Forrester had barely time to order a halt and swing the foremost gun into action when a pell-mell scrimmage was going on in the very midst of the gunners. The first shot fired wildly did little or no execution, but it warned Atherton that his time was come, and signalled to the troops still toiling up the pass what to expect when they got through.

That fight round the guns was the most desperate of the day. The Afghans knew that to capture them as they stood, meant the certain annihilation of the British troops as they defiled into the plain. Forrester knew it, too.

Unlike Atherton, he had no protected sides. The enemy was all round him. The little troop at his command was barely able to cover one side of the square; and the gunners, obliged to fight hand to hand where they stood, were powerless to advance a step. Every moment was golden. Already a distant bugle-note announced that Atherton's horse had broken loose, and were somewhere within reach—probably cutting their way through the guns. And within a few minutes the head of the column ascending the defile would also come upon the scene. Hold the guns till then, and all might yet be safe.

So decided Captain Forrester, as with a cheery smile on his handsome face he shouted to his men to hold out, and fought like a lion beside the foremost gun.

The Afghans, baffled by the stubborn resistance, and aware of the danger of delay, hurled themselves upon that devoted little bond with a fury before which nothing could stand. Man after man dropped across his gun; but still Forrester shouted to his men and swung his sabre. It was no time for counting heads. He hardly knew whether, when he shouted, thirty, or twenty, or only ten shouted back. All he knew was the enemy had not got the guns yet, and that was sufficient!

A bugle! Five minutes more, and they might still laugh at the foe. The bugle-note came from Atherton's men, who at the first sound of the gun had vaulted with a cheer to their horses and dashed towards the sound. Many a brave comrade they left behind them, and many more dropped right and left as they cut their way forward. Atherton, at their head, peered eagerly through the dust and smoke. All he could see was a surging mass of human beings, in the midst of which it was impossible to discern anything but the flash of sabres, and at one spot a few British helmets among the turbans of the enemy. That was enough for Major Atherton. Towards that spot he waved on his men, and ordered his bugler to sound a rousing signal. The bugler obeyed, and fell at the major's side before the note had well ceased! The struggle round the guns increased and blackened. One after another the British helmets went down, and the wild shouts of the Afghans rose triumphantly above them.

At length Atherton saw a tall figure, bareheaded and black with smoke, spring upon a gun-carriage, and with the butt end of a carbine fell two or three of the enemy who scrambled up to dislodge him.

Atherton knew that form among a thousand, and he knew too that Forrester was making his last stand.

"Cheer, men, and come on!" cried he to his men, rising in his stirrups and leading the shout.

The head of the column, just then emerging from the gorge, heard that shout, and answered it with a bugle flourish, as they fixed bayonets and rushed forward to charge. At the same moment, a cheer and the boom of a gun on the left proclaimed that the other half of the column had at that moment reached the plain, and were also bearing down on the enemy's flank.

But Atherton saw and heeded nothing but that tall heroic figure on the carriage. At the first sound of the troopers' shout Forrester had turned his head, smiling, and raised his carbine aloft, as though to wave answer to the cheer. So he stood for a moment. Then he reeled and fell back upon the gun he had saved.



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

AN OFFICIAL REPORT.

Scarfe, on the return of the skating party to Wildtree, found himself the hero of the hour. Whether the risk he ran in rescuing his old schoolfellow from his icy bath had been great or small, it had resulted in saving Jeffreys' life, and that was quite sufficient to make a hero of him. Percy, easily impressed by the daring of any one else, and quite overlooking his own share in the rescue, was loud in his praises.

"How jolly proud you must feel!" said he. "I know I should if I'd saved a fellow's life. That's never my luck!"

"You lent a hand," said Scarfe, with the complacency of one who can afford to be modest.

And, to do Scarfe justice, until he heard himself credited with the lion's share of the rescue, he had been a little doubtful in his own mind as to how much of it he might justly claim.

"Oh," said Percy, "a lot I did! You might as well say Raby lent a hand by lending Jeff her shawl."

"I was the cause of it all," said Raby. "But you forget dear old Julius; I'm sure he lent a hand."

"The dog was rather in the way than otherwise," said Scarfe; "dogs always are on the ice."

Jeffreys, as he walked silently beside them, could afford to smile at this last remark. But in other respects he found little cause for smiling. He was not yet a purified being, and even the peril he had been in had not cast out the fires of pride and temper that lurked within him.

It now stung him with an unspeakable misery to find that he was supposed to owe his life to one whom he so thoroughly mistrusted and dreaded as Scarfe. He persuaded himself that it was all a delusion—that he could easily have extricated himself without anybody's aid but that of the faithful Julius; that Scarfe had run absolutely no risk in crawling out to him on the ladder; that, in short, he owed him nothing—if, indeed, he did not owe him resentment for allowing himself to be credited with a service which he had no right to claim.

Ungrateful and unreasonable, you will say, and certainly not betokening a proper spirit in one so recently in great danger. Jeffreys, as he walked moodily along, was neither in a grateful nor reasonable mood, nor did he feel chastened in spirit; and that being so, he was too honest to pretend to be what he was not.

To any one less interested, there was something amusing in the manner in which Scarfe took his new and unexpected glory. At first he seemed to regard it doubtfully, and combated it by one or two modest protestations. Then, becoming more used to the idea, it pleased him to talk a little about the adventure, and encourage the others to recall the scene. After that it seemed natural to him to be a little languid and done-up by his exertions, and, as a hero, to establish a claim on Raby's admiration. And finally, being quite convinced he was a hero of the first water, he regarded Jeffreys with condescension, and felt a little surprise that he should remain both silent and apparently disdainful.

As Raby was beforehand with her in blaming herself, the wind was taken out of Mrs Rimbolt's sails in that quarter, even had she been disposed to let out in that direction. But it was so much more convenient and natural to blame Jeffreys, that the good lady was never in a moment's doubt upon the subject.

"How excessively careless of him!" said she; "the very one of the party, too, whom we expected to keep out of danger. It is a mercy every one of you was not drowned."

"It's a mercy he wasn't drowned himself," said Percy; "so he would have been if it hadn't been for Scarfe."

"It was a very noble thing of Mr Scarfe," said Mrs Rimbolt. "I'm sure, Louisa, my dear, you must be proud of your boy."

"He jolly well deserves a Royal Humane medal, and I mean to write and get him one."

"Don't be a young duffer," said the hero, by no means displeased at the threat; "they would laugh at the notion."

"Would they? If they didn't give you one, we'd make them laugh on the wrong side of their faces. I know that," replied the boy.

"You know, auntie, it was I broke the ice," said Raby. "Mr Jeffreys did not come to that part till he heard it crack."

"That is the ridiculously foolish part of it; he might have known that he ought to keep off when he heard it crack. Any sensible person would."

"Perhaps," said Raby, colouring, "he imagined I was in danger."

"You are a foolish child, Raby, to talk such nonsense, and should be thankful it was not you who fell in. I hope, Mr Scarfe," added she, "that Mr Jeffreys is grateful to you for your heroic service to him."

"There is nothing to be grateful for," said Scarfe, in an off-hand way; "indeed, I am afraid Jeffreys is rather offended with me for what I have done than otherwise."

"He could not be so base, my boy," said his mother, "when he owes you his life."

"After all," said Scarfe, with interesting resignation, "it really does not matter. All I know is, if it were all to happen over again I should do just the same thing."

With which noble sentiment the hero was borne off to his room, where a hot bath, warm clothing, a rousing fire, and steaming cordials somewhat consoled him for his self-sacrificing exertions.

After dinner Mrs Rimbolt could not resist the gratification of seeing honour done to her guest by the object of his devotion; a project which was the more easy of accomplishment as Mr Rimbolt was from home on that particular evening.

Jeffreys, just beginning to recover himself by the aid of a little hard work, was petrified by Walker's announcement that "the mistress desired that Mr Jeffreys would step into the drawing-room."

His good breeding was sorely taxed to find an excuse. He was indisposed, certainly; but if he could work in the library, he could bow and scrape in the drawing-room. Mr Rimbolt, too, was away, and to insult his lady in his absence seemed both cowardly and mean.

"I'll come presently," said he to Walker, and nerved himself desperately for the ordeal.

For he knew what was coming, and was resolved on the part he would play. Whatever he ought to feel, he knew exactly what he did feel; and he was determined he would not be hypocrite enough to pretend anything more.

Whereupon he walked defiantly forth and opened the drawing-room door, this time without knocking.

"Mr Jeffreys," said Mrs Rimbolt, feeling that the present was an "occasion," and worked up accordingly, "I have sent for you, as I have no doubt you will wish to express to Mrs Scarfe the feelings you entertain with regard to her son's brave conduct on the ice to-day."

"Hear, hear, ma!" cried the irreverent Percy, with mock-heroic applause. "I beg leave to second that."

"Percy, be silent, sir! Louisa, my dear, this is Mr Jeffreys, whose life your son saved."

Mrs Scarfe put up her glasses and inclined her head languidly in response to Jeffreys' stiff bow.

An awkward silence ensued—so awkward that Percy began to whistle. Mrs Rimbolt having made a wrong start, had not the tact to mend matters.

"Mrs Scarfe would be interested to hear, Mr Jeffreys," said she, after a minute or two, "your impressions of the accident."

"The only impression I had," said Jeffreys solemnly—and he too was worked up, and the master of his nervousness—"was that the water was very cold."

Percy greeted this with a boisterous laugh, which his mother instantly rebuked.

"Surely, Mr Jeffreys," said she severely, "this is hardly an occasion for a joke."

"It was no joke," replied he with dismal emphasis.

Again Percy enjoyed the sport.

"I should rather think it wasn't by the looks of you when you were fished out!" said he; "you were as blue as salmon!"

"Percy, cease your vulgar talk in this room, please!" said Mrs Rimbolt, whose equanimity was beginning to evaporate. "Mr Jeffreys, as we are not likely to be amused by your levity—"

"Excuse me, madam, I am quite serious," said Jeffreys, on whom the apparent jocularity of his last remark had suddenly dawned; "I had no intention of being rude, or treating your question as a joke."

"Then," said Mrs Rimbolt, slightly appeased in the prospect of gaining her object, "when I tell you Mrs Scarfe is kind enough to desire to hear about the accident from your own lips, perhaps your good manners will permit you to tell her about it."

"Get upon the chair and give us a speech, Jeff," said the irrepressible Percy; "that's what ma wants."

Jeffreys proceeded to give his version of the affair, distributing the credit of his rescue in the order in which he considered it to be due, and greatly disappointing both Mrs Rimbolt and her guest by his evident blindness to the heroism of Scarfe. He acknowledged warmly Percy's readiness to come to his help, and his promptitude in going for the ladder, and he did full justice to Julius's share in the affair. As to Scarfe's part, he stated just what had happened, without emotion and without effusiveness.

He despised himself for feeling so chilly on the subject, and would have been glad, for Mrs Scarfe's sake, had he felt more warmly his obligations to her son. But he spoke as he felt.

"You have had a narrow escape from a watery grave," said Mrs Scarfe, anxious to sum up in the hero's favour, "and my son, I am sure, is thankful to have been the means of saving your life."

Jeffreys bowed.

"I am glad he escaped falling in," said he.

"He had no thought of himself, I am sure," said Mrs Rimbolt severely, "and claims no thanks beyond that of his good conscience."

"We're going to get him a Royal Humane medal, Jeff," added Percy; "a lot of fellows get it for a good deal less."

"I hope he may get one," said Jeffreys. "You and Julius should have one, too. I thank you all."

This was all that could be extracted from this graceless young man, and the unsatisfactory interview was shortly afterwards terminated by Mrs Rimbolt's requesting him to go and tell Walker to bring some more coals for the fire.

His conduct was freely discussed when he was gone. Mrs Rimbolt looked upon it as a slight put upon herself, and was proportionately wrathful. Mrs Scarfe, more amiable, imagined that it was useless to look for gratitude among persons of Jeffreys' class in life. Scarfe himself said that, from what he knew of Jeffreys, he would have been surprised had he shown himself possessed of any good feelings. Percy, considerably puzzled, suggested that he was "chawed up with his ducking." And Raby, still more perplexed, said nothing, and hardly knew what to think.

The next day, as Scarfe was smoking in the park, Jeffreys overtook him. A night's rest had a good deal softened the librarian's spirit. He was ashamed of himself for not having done his rescuer common justice, and had followed him now to tell him as much.

"Scarfe," said he, "you will have considered I was ungrateful yesterday."

"You were just what I expected you would be."

"I am sorry," said Jeffreys, now beginning to feel he had better far have said nothing, yet resolved, now he had begun, to go through with it, "and I wish to thank you now."

Scarfe laughed.

"It is I who should be grateful for this condescension," said he sneeringly. "So disinterested, too."

"What do you mean? How could it be otherwise?"

"You have a short memory, Cad Jeffreys. Possibly you have forgotten a little event that happened at Bolsover?"

"I have not forgotten it."

"I dare say you have not thought it worth while to mention it to your employer, Mr Rimbolt."

"I have not mentioned it."

"Quite so. That is what I mean when I say it is disinterested in you to come and make friends with me."

"That is false," said Jeffreys glowing. "I neither want nor expect that."

"Kind again. At the same time you are not particularly anxious that people here should hear the tragical history of young Forrester?"

"For heaven's sake be silent, Scarfe!" said Jeffreys, to whom the mention of the name, after so many months, came like a blow. "I cannot bear it."

Scarfe laughed.

"Apparently not. All I want to say is, that I believe less in your gratitude than in your fear, and you can spare yourself the trouble of keeping up that farce."

"I am not afraid of you," said Jeffreys, drawing himself up. "Of my own conscience I am; and of the memory of poor young Forrester—"

"Hold your tongue. I have no wish to hear my friend's name on your lips."

Jeffreys turned to go.

"Look here," said Scarfe, calling him back, "I want to say one word. I am sufficiently interested in Percy Rimbolt to dislike the influence you use upon him. Your influence upon young boys is not to be trusted, and I warn you to let Percy alone. You are doing him no good as it is."

"Is that all you want to say?" said Jeffreys. "No. I have my own reason for choosing that you cease to offend Miss Atherton by your attentions. You are no fit companion for her; and she and I—"

Jeffreys turned on his heel, and did not hear the end of the sentence. He marvelled at himself that he had not struck the fellow contemptuously to the ground; and he absolutely smiled in the midst of his misery at the idea of Scarfe taking upon himself the moral upbringing of Percy and the protector-ship of Raby! In the midst of these reflections he became aware of the presence of Raby in the walk in front of him.

The rencontre was unexpected on both sides, and promised to be embarrassing for Jeffreys. Raby, however, came to the rescue.

"Mr Jeffreys," said she, holding out her hand, "I do hope you are none the worse for yesterday. I was greatly afraid you would catch cold."

"You took the kindest possible way of preventing it," said Jeffreys. "I never enjoyed a meal as much as the one Walker brought me yesterday, and I thank the kind sender."

Raby blushed.

"It was a shame no one else thought of it. But, Mr Jeffreys, you are thanking me, when it is I who ought to thank you for risking your life for me."

"That is a new version of the story," said Jeffreys. "It was somebody else who risked his life for me, and I know you despise me for appearing so churlish about it."

"I was very sorry indeed for you in the drawing-room last night."

"I deserved no sympathy."

"I fancied you might have gushed a little when you saw how much auntie's heart and Mrs Scarfe's were set on it. It would not have hurt you."

"I cannot gush, Miss Atherton; but I can value your kindness to me, and I do."

Raby smiled one of her pleasantest smiles.

"I wish I had half your honesty, Mr Jeffreys. I am always pretending to be something here which I am not, and I get sick of it. I wish I were a man."

"Why? Is honesty confined to the male sex?"

"No; I suppose we can be honest too. But if I was a man I could go and be of some use somewhere; I'm no good to anybody here."

Jeffreys coloured up furiously, and looked as if he would run from the spot. Then, apparently thinking better of it, he looked down at her and said—

"Excuse me, you are."

They walked on a little in silence, then Raby said—

"I am so glad, Mr Jeffreys, you managed Percy so well about that smoking yesterday; and how well he took it!"

"Of course; he's a gentleman and a fine fellow."

"He forgets how much older Mr Scarfe is than he, and he imagines it is a fine thing to do whatever others do. But I think it is such a pity he should waste so much time as he does now in the billiard-room and over the fire. Don't you think it is bad for him?"

"I do. The day on the ice yesterday made a new man of him."

"Do try to coax him out, Mr Jeffreys, you always do him good; and you may be able to pull him up now before he becomes an idler."

"I promise you I will do what I can."

"He ought to be my brother, and not my cousin," said Raby, "I feel so jealous on his account."

"He is fortunate—may I say so?—in his cousin. Here is Mr Rimbolt."

Mr Rimbolt had papers in his hand, and looked rather anxious.

Raby, with a daughter's instinct, rushed to him.

"Uncle, have you news from the war? Is anything wrong?"

"Nothing wrong," said her uncle reassuringly; "I brought you this paper to see. It reports that there has been an encounter with the Afghans near Kandahar, with complete success on the British side and comparatively trifling loss. Particulars are expected almost immediately. I telegraphed to town to get the earliest possible details. Meanwhile, Raby, don't alarm yourself unduly."

"I won't, uncle; but where exactly was the battle?"

"You will see the names mentioned in the telegram. Jeffreys can show you the exact spot in the atlas; we were looking at it the other evening."

Jeffreys thankfully accepted the task. He and Raby spent an hour over the map, talking of the absent soldier, and trying, the one to conceal, the other to allay, the anxiety which the incomplete telegram had aroused.

At the end of the hour Scarfe walked into the library. His face darkened as he saw the two who sat there.

"Miss Atherton," said he, looking not at her, but at Jeffreys, "have you forgotten we were to have a ride this morning?"

"I am so sorry, Mr Scarfe, but I have a headache, and don't feel as if I could ride to-day. You will excuse me, won't you?"

"Oh, certainly," replied Scarfe; "don't you think a turn in the park will do you good? May I have the pleasure of escorting you?"

Raby said, "Thank you." She was very sorry to disappoint any one, and had no valid excuse against a walk.

"Miss Atherton," said Scarfe, when they had gone some distance, chatting on indifferent topics, "I am anxious just to say a word to you, not in my own interest at all, but your own. Will you forgive me if I do?"

"What is it?" said Raby, mystified.

"I wish to put you on your guard against Jeffreys, who, I see, presumes on his position here to annoy you. You may not perhaps know, Miss Atherton, that not two years ago—"

"Excuse me, Mr Scarfe," said Raby quietly, stopping in her walk, "I hate talking of people behind their backs. Mr Jeffreys has never annoyed me; he has been kind to me. Shall we talk of something else?"

"Certainly," said Scarfe, startled at her decided tone. He had laid his plan for a little revelation, and it disconcerted him to see it knocked on the head like this.

However, just then he was not in the humour for making himself obnoxious to Miss Atherton, of whom, being a susceptible youth, he was decidedly enamoured. It was a deprivation, certainly, to find his tongue thus unexpectedly tied with regard to Jeffreys, of whose stay at Wildtree he had calculated on making very short work.

The one comfort was, that there was little enough danger of her seeing in the ill-favoured Bolsover cad anything which need make him—Scarfe— jealous. Doubtless she took a romantic interest in this librarian; many girls have whims of that sort. But the idea of her preferring him to the smart Oxford hero was preposterous.

Jeffreys would still believe in the sword of Damocles which hung above him, and the time might come when Raby would cease to stand between him and his Nemesis.



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

WILD PIKE.

Before breakfast on the following morning, Scarfe, in fulfilment of a long-standing engagement with a college friend to spend a day with him, rode off to catch the train at Overstone, and consequently was not present when the post arrived, and with it a telegram from London for Mr Rimbolt. Raby, who had been on the watch, could scarcely allow her uncle time to examine its contents before claiming it; and had it contained bad news, the chance of breaking them would have been out of the question. But it did not contain bad news. On the contrary, as Raby devoured the few official lines she became radiant with pride and happiness. The telegram was a copy of a dispatch received the evening before at the War Office:—

"News is to hand of a sharp brush with the Afghans on the 4th inst. at —-, two days' march from Kandahar. About mid-day the—Hussars, commanded by Major Atherton, in advance of the main body, encountered and dislodged from a defile on the right bank of the river a considerable body of the enemy, who fled to the plain. It becoming evident the enemy was at hand in force, a battery of field guns was pushed forward, under the escort of a troop of Hussars; and the main body followed in two columns. The cavalry meanwhile, having cleared the defile and chased the enemy into the plain beyond, became involved in a desperate scrimmage, the Afghans having descended in full force into the plain with the evident intention of cutting them off from the main body. Major Atherton, completely hemmed in, made a desperate stand, in which upwards of twenty of his men perished, the gallant officer himself having his horse shot under him. The guns meanwhile, escorted by Captain Forrester, of the—Hussars, gained the head of the defile, where they were immediately surrounded by the enemy. A brilliant resistance here ensued, in which more than half of the escort were killed in their effort to save the guns. Towards the end, Captain Forrester nearly single-handed kept the enemy at bay until the cavalry, breaking through, and joining forces with the two columns of the main body as they emerged on the plain, effectually turned the position and saved the guns. The loss of the enemy was very considerable, and it is considered that this action clears the way to Kandahar, which the troops are expected to occupy in two days without further resistance. Our loss, considering the perilous position of the cavalry and gunners, was comparatively slight. Captain Forrester at the last moment fell after a resistance as heroic as any witnessed in the course of the campaign. Major Atherton received a scratch on the wrist; which, however, is not likely to disable him even temporarily. The main body never came into action at all, and suffered no casualties. A full list of the killed and wounded is appended."

Jeffreys, who found himself almost as eager for news as if he had been personally interested, found it difficult to wait patiently until Mr Rimbolt came after breakfast to the library.

"Is there news from the war?" he asked.

"Yes—good news, Miss Atherton has the telegram. Her father took part in a very brilliant engagement a day or two ago, which appears to have cleared the way to Kandahar. He was scratched, but not seriously."

Jeffreys received this good news with great satisfaction. It was a relief to him to hear it in the first instance not from Raby's lips, for he never knew what to do or say on such occasions.

"Miss Atherton must be very proud," said he, returning to his work.

He was not, however, destined to remain long undisturbed. Raby, radiant and excited, entered the library a few minutes later.

"Mr Jeffreys," said she, "such splendid news. Has uncle told you? I thought you would like to read the telegram; here it is."

Jeffreys looked his congratulations as he took the paper.

"Read it aloud, Mr Jeffreys," said the happy girl, "I should like to hear how it sounds." Jeffreys smiled and began to read; Raby, who knew it all by heart, seeming to check off every word.

Suddenly, however, in the middle of the narrative the reader started and changed colour, and became unaccountably breathless.

"The guns meanwhile, escorted by—" he had got so far.

"'Captain Forrester of the—Hussars.' Go on," said Raby.

It needed all his self-command to finish the reading, and when he came to the end and handed back the paper, Raby perceived that his hand shook and his face was deadly pale.

"Why, what is the matter, Mr Jeffreys?" said she, suddenly alarmed herself; "it is good news, isn't it? and he has only got a scratch!"

"Yes, it is good news; and I congratulate you."

"But you look—perhaps you know some one who has been killed. You never told me you had any friend out there."

"I have not. I think I must be not quite well; will you excuse me?"

And he went out into the open air, leaving Raby very much perplexed and concerned. She was relieved, however, to see him half an hour later starting off with Percy for what, to judge by their mountain boots and the luncheon box strapped across Jeffreys' shoulders, promised to be a long walk.

Jeffreys' first sensations on finding himself alone had been those of stupefaction. Although all that he knew of Forrester's father was that he had been in India, it never occurred to him now for a moment that the gallant officer mentioned in the telegram could be any other than the father whom he had so cruelly and irreparably wronged. And now once more he seemed suddenly face to face with his crime. He saw before him that fatal scene in the Bolsover meadow; he heard his comrades' howl of execration and saw the boy's white face on the grass turned up to meet his. It seemed but yesterday. Nay, it seemed all to be there that moment; he could feel the keen breeze on his cheek; his eye rested on the boy's cap where he had flung it; he was conscious of Mr Freshfield's look of horror—he could even see twenty yards away the football lying idle between the goals.

Strange, that the doubtful mention of an officer's name should call it all up thus! But so it was. He even seemed half guilty of that gallant death in Afghanistan. Had he not wronged him worse than death? and now if anywhere the friendless boy, whose whole hope was in his father, should read those lines and find himself orphaned as well as crippled!

Jeffreys in his misery groaned aloud.

"Hullo," said Percy, in the path before him, "you in the blues too! What a jolly sell! Here am I as miserable as an owl, and everybody I meet's miserable too. Scarfe's gone to Sharpfield, and won't be back till late. Raby's so taken up with her precious telegram that she won't look at me. Ma and Mrs Scarfe, have bagged the pony trap and Appleby, and now you're looking as if you'd just been hung."

"What are you in the blues about?" said Jeffreys, brightening up a bit.

"Oh, everything. It's so slow here, nothing to do. Can't play games all day, and you won't let me smoke, and the library hasn't a single story worth reading, and it's beastly cold; and upon my word," said the boy, who was genuinely miserable, "I'd as soon go and sit on the top of Wild Pike as fool about here."

"The best thing you could do—I'll go and sit with you," said Jeffreys.

"What!" said the boy, "do you mean it? Will you come?"

"Of course I will; I have nothing special to do to-day, and I've never been up a mountain in winter before."

"We shall get a splendid view. Sure it won't grind you?" said the boy, who, under Scarfe's influence, had come to look upon every exertion as a thing to be shirked.

"My dear fellow, I shall enjoy it, especially with you," said Jeffreys.

"Hurrah—bring Julius too—and I'll get some grub to take. It's only ten now, and it's not dark till after four, so we have a good six hours."

A few minutes later they started, Percy leaving word for his mother that they were going for a long tramp, and would be back for dinner.

It was a perfect winter's day. The air was keen and frosty and promised magnificent views. The wind was not strong enough to be benumbing, and the sun overhead was cheering and now and then even warm.

"Hadn't we better take overcoats, in case it comes on cold at the top?" said Jeffreys as they were starting.

"Oh no—they're a frightful grind to carry, and we are sure to be baked before we get up."

"I think I will take mine," said Jeffreys, "and it will be no bother to carry yours."

Percy protested, but, luckily for them, Jeffreys carried his point.

Wild Pike was one of those mountains, not uncommon in that district, which are approached from the back by a long gradual slope, but on the front present a scooped-out precipitous face, as if broken in half on that side.

It was this steeper side which faced Wildtree, and Percy would have scorned to approach the monster from any other quarter. From where they stood the narrow path zigzagged for about one thousand feet onto one of the upper shoulders of the mountain. Following this, the track brought them to what seemed like the basin of some old volcano hollowed out under the summit.

It was necessary to cross this depression, and by a narrow ledge at the foot of the great cliff gain the other side, where another zigzag ascent brought them onto the rocky slope leading over a quarter of a mile of huge boulders to the summit.

The passage across the face of the mountain was the most difficult part of the ascent. It lay along a narrow ledge hanging, so it seemed, half- way down the perpendicular cliff which rose out of the hollow, crater- like basin sheer up to the summit.

It was tolerably level, but the narrowness of the track and the precipitous height above and below called for a cool head and a steady foot. In frosty weather like the present it needed special caution, and every step had to be carefully judged on the treacherous path. However, they passed it safely. Julius alone seemed to find it difficult. The dog was strangely awkward to-day.

He slid about where the others walked steadily, and whimpered at obstacles which they seemed scarcely to heed.

"Now for the grub," cried Percy, as they landed safely on the other side. "I say, Jeff, I call that something like a mountain, don't you? I'm quite sorry we're over the worst of it, aren't you?"

"We've got the view to see yet," responded Jeffreys.

"We shall be up in half an hour."

"And it will take us as long to come down as to go up to-day," said Jeffreys, "so we ought not to lose much time."

Off they started again after a hurried but highly appreciated meal, in which the dog took only a very moderate share. The remaining portion of the ascent was simple enough. The zigzag onto the top shoulder was if anything less steep than the lower one, and the path, being rougher underfoot, was less treacherous.

The scramble over the loose rocks at the top onto the cairn was not altogether plain sailing. In summer it was easy enough, but now, with the surface of the great boulders as slippery as glass, it was hardly to be traversed except on the hands and knees.

Poor Julius floundered about pitifully, unable to keep his feet, and disappearing bodily now and then among the interstices of the rocky way. Even Percy and Jeffreys stumbled once or twice awkwardly, and reached the summit with bruised limbs. But finis coronat opus, especially on a mountain.

As they sprang up the cairn a view unequalled in grandeur broke upon them. The frosty air was without haze in any quarter. The Scotch hills beyond the border and the broad heaving sea lay apparently equally within reach, and on the farthest western horizon even the fairy-like outline of the distant Irish hills, never visible except in the clearest winter weather, shone out distinctly.

"Isn't it scrumptious?" exclaimed Percy, as he flung himself breathless onto the cairn. "If we had waited a year we couldn't have picked out such a day. Why, that must be Snowdon we see over there, and the high ground out at sea, Holyhead?"

Thus they went on, delightedly recognising the landmarks north, south, east, and west, and forgetting both the hour and the rising breeze.

"Why, it's two o'clock!" cried Percy presently, looking at his watch, and shivering at the same time.

"Put on your coat," said Jeffreys; "the wind's getting up a bit, and we shall have it in our faces going down."

As they started to descend they became aware of a sudden change in the hitherto cloudless day. The western horizon, which had just now been unfolding its distant beauties, seemed lost in a fine haze, which spread north and south, blotting out one after another the glories of landscape on which they had scarcely ceased to feast their eyes.

"There's a mist out there," said Percy, as they scrambled down the boulders; "I hope to goodness it will keep away from us."

"The wind is a little north-west; it may drive it south of us, but it is spreading at a great rate."

"Never mind; it will be rather a joke if it comes. I could find the way down with my eyes shut, and I've often wanted to be in a regular fog up here," said Percy.

"I don't know what you feel," responded Jeffreys; "but I'm rather glad we brought our coats. Isn't it cold?"

The wind which met them seemed charged with cold, and after a while began to scatter a feathery sleet in their faces.

Percy whistled.

"We didn't bargain for that, I say," said he. "I hope it shuts up before we cross over the ledge down there."

Julius howled dismally. He, too, guessed what this blinding shower-bath foreboded, and stumbled along, miserable and shivering.

The higher zigzag, which had seemed easy enough two hours ago, tried them sorely now. The sleet half blinded them, and the fresh moisture, freezing as it fell, caused them to slip and slide at every step. Still they got down it somehow, and turned to face the narrow track along the cliff. Percy, much as he repined at the change in the elements, felt no doubt as to the possibility of getting over.

"We may have to crawl a bit of the way if this sort of thing goes on," said he, "but it's straight enough sailing."

"Would it be better," suggested Jeffreys, "to go to the top again and get down by the Sharpenholme track?"

"We shouldn't get home till midnight if we did; besides, I don't know the way. We're all right this way if we look sharp."

The wind had now increased to a tempest, and beat against the side of the great cliff with a sound like the sea breaking on an iron-bound shore. They could scarcely hear one another speak; and poor Julius's whines were drowned in the great clamour.

"Do you mind my going first?" said Percy; "I know the path better than you."

Jeffreys nodded, and they started. The first step they took on that ledge threatened for a moment to be their last. The wind, gathering fury every moment, beat Percy to his knees, and nearly sent Jeffreys staggering over the ledge.

"We shall have to crawl," said Percy. "It's no use waiting. The wind and sleet are going to make a night of it, and we shall gain nothing by waiting."

The start was begun again—this time cautiously and on all-fours. Even so the wind seemed once or twice as if it would sweep them from the ledge. Yard by yard they crawled on. The driving mist fell like a pall over the mountain, and in a few minutes they could not even see a yard in front of them. Had the wind blown crosswise, or in any other way than that in which it came, they would have been swept off before twenty yards were accomplished. As it was, they were almost pinned to the cliff by the fury of the blast.

They must have proceeded a quarter of the way across, and had reached a spot where the ledge rose slightly. Even up this slight incline, with the mist freezing under them, it was impossible to crawl; and Percy, drawing himself cautiously to his feet, attempted to stand.

As he did so, the wind, gathering itself into a furious blast, caught him and hurled him against the rocky wall. He recoiled with a sharp cry of pain, and next moment would have fallen into the abyss beneath, had not Jeffreys' strong arm caught him and held him. His legs were actually off the ledge, and for a moment it seemed as if both he and his protector were doomed. But with a tremendous effort the prostrate Jeffreys swung him back onto the track.

"Are you hurt?" he called.

"My arm," said Percy. "I'm afraid I can't get on. I'll try."

But the attempt only called up a fresh exclamation of pain.

"We must wait," said Jeffreys. "Try to sit up, old fellow. I'll help you."

It was evident that the boy's arm, if not broken, was so severely damaged as to render it powerless.

"I could stay here, I think," said he, "if you went on, Jeff."

"Nonsense!" said Jeffreys; "we'll send Julius to fetch help. Here, Julius, good dog," said he, patting the dog's head and pointing down to the valley, "go and fetch them here. Fetch Appleby, and Walker, and Mr Rimbolt. Go along, good fellow."

The dog, who had been crawling behind them, looked wistfully at his master and licked the hand that caressed him. Then, stepping carefully across them as they sat with their backs to the rock and their feet beyond the edge of the path, he departed.

He was out of sight almost a yard away, but they heard him whine once as the wind dashed him against the cliff.

"Julius, good dog, fetch them!" shouted Jeffreys into the mist.

A faint answering bark came back.

Next moment, through the storm, came a wild howl, and they heard him no more.

Jeffreys guessed only too well what that howl meant; but he never stirred, as with his arm round Percy, and his cloak screening him from the wind, he looked hopelessly out into the night and waited.



CHAPTER NINETEEN.

SCARFE PROMISES TO REMEMBER.

"Jeff," said Percy, after a minute or two, "it's nonsense your staying here to get frozen; do go on."

"No, old fellow; I prefer your company to my own."

"But, Jeff, we may not last out till the morning."

"We won't give it up yet, though." Jeffreys had great faith in the caloric of hope, especially for a boy of Percy's temperament. For himself he saw enough to guess that their position was a desperate one. The ledge on which they sat was narrow and slanting, and the wind, shifting gradually to the west, began to get round them menacingly, and cause them now and then to grip at the stones while some specially furious gust blew past. Add to that, Percy's arm was probably broken, and, despite a makeshift bandage and sling, adjusted at imminent peril of being swept away in the operation, increasingly painful. The mist wrapped them like a winding-sheet, and froze as it fell.

"How long will Julius take getting down?" asked the boy.

"Not long," said Jeffreys, with a shudder, not wholly caused by the cold.

"An hour? He could bring them up in three hours, couldn't he?"

"Less, perhaps. We can hold out for three hours."

"Jeff, old fellow, do go; what is the use of you staying?"

"Harder work for the wind to lift two of us than one. It can't last long, I'm certain; it's chopping already."

They relapsed into silence, and listened to the storm as it dashed on the cliffs above them.

A quarter of an hour passed. Then Jeffreys felt the boy's head drop on his shoulder.

"Percy, old man, no sleeping," said he, raising his head.

"I'm not sleeping; only wondering where Julius is."

But his voice was drowsy, and the words drawled out slowly and dreamily.

"Perhaps he's down the lower zigzag now," said Jeffreys, giving his companion a shake, under pretext of readjusting the wraps.

"I guess he'll go to Raby first," said Percy. "Won't she be scared?"

"She will probably go to your father, and he'll get Appleby and Kennedy and some of the men, and they'll—Percy! hold up your head!"

"Scarfe would like to get engaged to Raby, but she would sooner—"

"Percy, old man, you're talking rubbish. Unless you sit up and keep awake we shall both come to grief."

"I'll try," said the boy, "but I don't know how."

"Tell me something about your year at Rugby. I want to hear about it so much. What form were you in?"

Then followed a desperate half-hour of cross-examination, Jeffreys coming down with a question at the slightest symptom of drowsiness, and Percy, with all the cunning of a "somno-maniac," taking time to think before each answer, and even shirking a syllable here or there in order to snatch a wink.

The daylight slowly faded out of the mist, but still the wind howled and shook them on their narrow perch at every gust. Jeffreys, with dismay, found his limbs growing cramped and stiff, boding ill, unless relief soon came, for the possibility of moving at all.

Surely, though, the wind was abating. The dash overhead sounded a trifle less deafening; and the driving sleet, which an hour ago had struck on their faces, now froze their ears.

Yes, the wind was shifting and falling.

In the half-minute which it took Jeffreys to make this discovery Percy had once more fallen asleep, and it required a shake more prolonged than ever to arouse him.

"What!" said he, as he slowly raised his head, "are they here? Is father there?"

"No, old boy, but the wind is going down, and we may be able to move soon. Where did you field in that cricket match you were telling me of?"

"Short leg, and I made two catches."

"Bravo! Were they hard ones? Tell me."

So for another half-hour this struggle with sleep went on. Jeffreys had more to do than keep his companion awake. He accompanied every question with a change of position of his knees and arms, that he might be able when the time came to use his limbs. It was little enough scope he had for any movement on that narrow ledge, but he lost no chance, and his self-imposed fidgets helped not only himself but Percy.

At last the roar on the cliffs changed into a surly soughing, and the gusts edged slowly but surely round behind the great buttress of the mountain.

"Percy," said Jeffreys, "we must try a move. Can you hold yourself steady while I try to get up?"

Percy was wide awake in an instant.

"I can hold on, but my other arm is no good for scrambling."

"I'll see to that, only hold on while I get up."

It was a long and painful operation; every joint and muscle seemed to be congealed. At length, however, by dint of a terrible effort, he managed to draw up his feet and even to stand on the path. He kicked up the earth so as to make a firm foothold, and then addressed himself to the still more difficult task of raising the stiff and crippled Percy.

How he did it, and how he half dragged, half carried him back along the ledge to the firmer ground of the upper zigzag path, he never knew. He always counted it as one of the miracles of his life, the work of that stronger than human arm which had already helped him along his path, and which in this act showed that it still was with him. To stand even on that steep mountain path was, after the peril of that fearful ledge, like standing on a broad paved road.

"Where next?" said Percy.

"Over the top and down by the Sharpenholme track. Do you see the moon is coming out through the mist?"

"All serene!"

The heroism of that night's adventure was not all absorbed by the elder traveller. The boy who with indomitable hopefulness toiled up that steep ascent with a broken arm bandaged to his side, making nothing of his pain, was a type of English boy happily still to be met with, giving promise of men of the right stuff yet to come to maintain the good name of their country.

They were not much in the humour for admiring the wonderful beauty of the scene as the mist gradually cleared and above them rose the full white moon flooding the mountain and the hills beyond with its pure light. They welcomed the light, for it showed them the way; but they would have sold the view twenty times over for a pot of hot coffee.

At the top they met the tail end of the gale spending its little remaining force on the mountain's back. It seemed like a balmy zephyr compared with the tempest of a few hours ago.

The descent down the broad grass track with its slight covering of snow towards Sharpenholme had little difficulty; but the jolting tried Percy's arm as the steep climb with all its exertion had not done.

Jeffreys noticed the boy's steps become more unsteady, and felt him lean with increasing heaviness on his arm.

"Percy, old boy, you are done up."

"No—I—Suppose we rest a minute or two; I shall be all right."

But while he spoke he staggered faintly and would have fallen but for Jeffreys' arm in his.

"I think if you went on," said he, "I could rest a bit and follow slowly."

Jeffreys' answer was curt and decisive.

He took the boy up in his arms as if he had been a baby, and, despite all protestations, carried him.

On level ground and under ordinary circumstances it would have been a simple matter. For Jeffreys was brawny and powerful; and the light weight of the slender, wiry boy was nothing to him. But on that slippery mountain-side, after the fatigue and peril of the afternoon, it was as much as he could do to stagger forward under the burden.

Yet—was it quite unnatural?—a strange sort of happiness seemed to take possession of him as he felt this helpless boy's form in his arms, the head drooped on his shoulder, and the poor bruised arm tenderly supported in his hand. There seemed hope in the burden; and in that brotherly service a promise of expiation for another still more sacred service which had been denied him! He tramped down that long gradual slope in a contented dream, halting often to rest, but never losing heart. Percy, too exhausted to remonstrate, yielded himself gratefully, and lay only half conscious in his protector's arms, often fancying himself at home in bed or lolling idly in the summer fields.

It may have been midnight, or later still, when Jeffreys, looking beyond the shadows projected by the moon in front of him, perceived a gleam of light far down in the valley.

"Probably," thought he, "some honest shepherd, after his day's work, is happily going to rest. Think of a bed, and a pillow, and a blanket!"

But no, the light—the lights, there were two—were moving—moving rapidly and evenly.

Jeffreys stood still to listen. The wind had long since dropped into rest, and the clear night air would have carried a sound twice the distance. Yes, it was a cart or a carriage, and he could even detect the clatter of the horses on the hard road. Possibly some benighted wagoner, or a mail cart.

He raised a shout which scared the sleeping rabbits in their holes and made the hill across the valley wake with echoes. The lights still moved on. He set Percy down tenderly on the grass with his coat beneath him. Then, running with all his speed, he halved the distance which separated him and the road, and shouted again.

This time the clatter of the hoofs stopped abruptly and the lights stood still.

Once more he shouted, till the night rang with echoes. Then, joyful sound! there rose from the valley an answering call, and he knew all was safe.

In a few minutes he was back again where Percy, once more awake, was sitting up, bewildered, and listening to the echoes which his repeated shouts still kept waking.

"It's all right, old fellow; there's a carriage."

"They've come to look for us. I can walk, Jeff, really."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, and they'd be so scared if they saw me being carried."

So they started forward, the answering shouts coming nearer and nearer at every step.

"That's Appleby," said Percy, as a particularly loud whoop fell on their ears. It was, and with him Mr Rimbolt and Scarfe.

When darkness came, and no signs of the pedestrians, the usual uneasiness had prevailed at Wildtree, increased considerably by Walker's and Raby's report as to the mountaineering garb in which the missing ones had started. The terrible tempest which had attacked the face of Wild Pike had swept over Wildtree too, and added a hundredfold to the alarm which, as hour passed hour, their absence caused. Scarfe, arriving at home about ten o'clock, found the whole family in a state of panic. Mr Rimbolt had been out on the lower slopes of the mountain, and reported that a storm raged there before which nothing could stand. The only hope was that they had been descending the back of the mountain, and taken refuge somewhere in the valley for the night. The carriage was ordered out, and Mr Rimbolt and Scarfe started on what seemed a forlorn hope. For an hour or two they passed and repassed the valley road, inquiring at every cottage and farm without result.

At last, just as they were resolving to give it up for the night, Appleby pulled up the horses suddenly, and said he had heard a shout. Instantly they jumped out and shouted back; and now, following the direction of the voice, far up the great slope, they met Jeffreys, with the boy leaning on his arm safe, but almost exhausted.

Neither of them retained a vivid recollection of that drive home. Jeffreys was vaguely conscious of them calling on the way for the doctor, and taking him along in the carriage. He also heard Scarfe say something to Mr Rimbolt in tones of commiseration, in which something was added about the inconsiderateness and untrustworthiness of Jeffreys. But for the rest he reclined back in his seat, scarcely conscious of anything but the rest and warmth.

At Wildtree, the now familiar scene of the whole household gathered panic-struck an the threshold drove him precipitately to his room. He knew what to expect if he stayed there.

Jeffreys dropped asleep with the dog's howl ringing weirdly in his ears. In his dreams it seemed to change into that still more terrible howl which had stunned him long ago on the Bolsover meadow. It followed him as he carried young Forrester in his arms across that fatal ledge. It was pitch dark; and on the ledge Scarfe stood to drive him back. Then suddenly a new bright path seemed to open at his side, into which he stepped with his precious burden. And as he did so he saw, far off, Raby standing at the end of the way.

It was ten o'clock when he awoke; but the house was still asleep. Only a few servants were stirring; and even Walker had taken advantage of the occasion to "sleep in."

Jeffreys was tough and hardy; and the night's rest had done more for him than twenty doctors. He got up, shook himself, and behold his limbs were strong under him, and his head was clear and cool. He dressed himself quietly and descended to the kitchen, where he begged an early breakfast of the servants. Then he sallied forth with his stick towards Wild Pike.

The grand pile on this bright winter's morning looked almost hypocritically serene and benignant. The sunlight bathed the stern cliff which yesterday had buffeted back the wind with a roar as fierce as itself; and in the quiet spring-like air the peaceful bleating of sheep was the only sound to be heard on the steep mountain-side.

But Jeffreys did not turn his steps upward. On the contrary, he kept to the lowest track in the valley, and took the path which led him nearest to the base of that terrible wall of rock. A hard scramble over the fallen stones brought him to a spot where, looking up, the top of the wall frowned down on him from a sheer height of five hundred feet, while half-way down, like a narrow scratch along the face of the cliff, he could just detect the ledge on which last night they had sat out the storm.

There, among the stones, shattered and cold, lay all that remained of the brave Julius. His fate must have overtaken him before he had gone twenty yards on his desperate errand, and almost before that final howl reached his master's ears all must have been over.

Jeffreys, as he tenderly lifted his lost friend in his arms, thought bitterly and reproachfully of the dog's strange conduct yesterday—his evident depression and forebodings of evil—the result, no doubt, of illness, but making that last act of self-devotion all the more heroic.

He made a grave there at the base of that grand cliff, and piled up a little cairn to mark the last resting-place of his friend. Then, truly a mourner, he returned slowly to Wildtree.

At the door he encountered Mrs Rimbolt, who glared at him and swept past.

"How is Percy this morning?" he inquired.

"No thanks to you, Mr Jeffreys," said the lady, with a double venom in her tones, "he is alive."

"His arm, is it—?"

"Go to your work, sir," said the lady; "I have no wish to speak to you."

Jeffreys bowed and retreated. He had expected such a reception, and just now it neither dismayed nor concerned him.

On the staircase he met Raby. She looked pale and anxious, but brightened up as she saw him.

"Mr Jeffreys," said she, "are you really up, and none the worse?"

"I am well, thank you," said he, "but very anxious to hear about Percy."

"He has had a bad night with his arm, but the doctor says he is going on all right. What a terrible adventure you had. Percy told me a little of it. Oh, Mr Jeffreys, it is all my fault!"

Jeffreys could not help smiling.

"By what stretch of ingenuity do you make that out?"

"It was I suggested your coaxing Percy out, you know; I might have been the death of you both."

"You did not send the wind, did you, or the mist? If you did, of course you are quite entitled to all the credit."

"Don't laugh about it, please. Percy was telling me how if it had not been for you—"

"He would never have been in any danger. Perhaps he is right. By the way. Miss Atherton, is there any chance of seeing him?"

"He has asked for you already; but auntie, I believe, would have a fit if you went near him. She seems to consider you are his evil genius; instead of being just the opposite. Tell me how Julius is—he went with you, did he not?"

"I have been out this morning to bury Julius at the place where he fell."

Raby, already unduly excited by the events of the past few days, broke into tears, and at the same moment Scarfe, descending the stairs, stood before them.

He looked first at Jeffreys, next at the girl. Then, taking her arm, he said—

"What is the matter? May I take you downstairs?"

"Oh no," she cried, pushing away his hand, and dashing the tears from her eyes.

"Mr Jeffreys, I am so sorry, do forgive me!" and she ran upstairs to her own room.

Jeffreys and Scarfe stood facing one another.

"What is the meaning of this?" said the latter wrathfully.

"It would not interest you. I was telling Miss Atherton about my dog."

"Hang your dog! Did not I tell you that I did not choose for you to obtrude yourself on Raby?"

"You did, and I should be sorry to obtrude myself on any one, whether you choose it or not."

"You appear to forget, Cad Jeffreys—"

"I forget nothing—not even that I am keeping you from your breakfast."

And he quitted the scene.

Later in the morning, as he was working in the library, Mr Rimbolt entered and greeted him cordially.

"Jeffreys, my dear fellow, you are constantly adding new claims on my gratitude. What can I say to you now to thank you for your heroism yesterday, about which Percy has just told us?"

"Pray say nothing, and discount Percy's story heavily, for he was the hero. With his broken arm and in all the danger he never lost heart for a moment."

"Yes, he is a brave boy, too. But I came now to tell you he is asking for you. Will you come and see him?"

Jeffreys followed the father gratefully to the sick-chamber. At the door he encountered Mrs Rimbolt, who, having evidently been present at the boy's narrative, was pleased to regard him almost graciously, and, delightfully ignoring the previous encounter, to wish him good morning. Percy looked hot and feverish, but brightened up at once as he caught sight of his protector.

"Hullo, old Jeff," said he, "isn't this all nonsense? They say I'm in for a mild congestion, and shall have to stick in bed for a fortnight. Just sit down; do you mind, and stay with me. You've pulled me through so far; you may as well finish the job."

Thus informally, and without consulting anybody, Jeffreys was constituted nurse-in-chief in the sick-chamber. The boy would tolerate no discussion or protest on the part of the authorities. He must have old Jeff. Bother a hospital nurse, bother the doctor, bother Scarfe, bother everybody. He wanted Jeff; and if Jeff couldn't come he didn't mean to take his medicine or do anything he ought to do. Walker had better put up a chair-bed in the dressing-room for Jeff, and Jeff and he (Percy) could have their grub together. Of course all the others could come and see him, especially Raby—but he meant to have Jeff there for good, and that was flat. Thus this selfish young invalid arranged for his own pleasure, and upset all the sober arrangements of his friends.

Jeffreys delightedly accepted his new duty, and faced the jealousy of Mrs Rimbolt and Scarfe unflinchingly. It was certainly an unfortunate position for the fond mother; and little wonder if in her mind Jeffreys' brave service should be blotted out in the offence of being preferred before herself in the sick-chamber. She readily lent an ear to the insinuations which Scarfe, also bitterly hurt, freely let out, and persuaded herself miserably that her boy was in the hands of an adventurer who had cajoled not only the boy but the father, and in short personated the proverbial viper at the fireside.

So the fortnight passed. Percy turned the corner; and the time for the departure of Mrs Scarfe and her son drew near.

Percy on the evening before they went had been less bright than usual, and had alarmed Jeffreys by a slight return of feverishness. He had just dropped off to sleep, and seemed about to settle quietly for the night, when the door opened and Scarfe came in.

Jeffreys was there in an instant with his hand raised in warning.

"Hush, please," said he, "he has just gone over."

"Whom are you telling to hush? you canting brute!" said Scarfe, raising his voice in a passion unusual for him. "Let me come in, do you hear?"

And he moved forward, as if to force his way into the room.

Jeffreys caught him by the two elbows and lifted him bodily out into the landing, and then stood with his back to the door.

Scarfe, livid with rage, made no attempt to get back into the room. Turning on his adversary, he said between his teeth—

"I shall remember this," and departed.



CHAPTER TWENTY.

A POLITE LETTER-WRITER.

Scarfe descended to the drawing-room, where he found Mrs Rimbolt alone.

"I am so sorry you are going," said she. "Your visit has been greatly spoiled, I fear. You must come to us at Easter, when we shall be in London, you know."

"Thank you; I shall be glad to come. I hope to find Percy well again. I went to wish him good-bye just now, but was pretty abruptly denied admission, so I must ask you to say good-bye for me."

"Dear me, it is very annoying. I cannot understand the craze the boy has taken for this companion of his. I am so sorry you should have been annoyed."

"I assure you I am far more annoyed on Percy's account than my own. I happen to know something of Jeffreys before he came to Wildtree. To tell you the truth, Mrs Rimbolt, I don't think he is a safe companion for Percy at all."

"I have long felt the same; but what is to be done, Mr Scarfe? Mr Rimbolt has almost the same craze as Percy for this librarian of his, and I have really no voice in the matter. He contrives to leave nothing definite to lay hold of; I should be thankful if he did. But it is most uncomfortable to feel that one's own son is perhaps being ruined under this roof."

"It must be. It is no business of mine, of course, except that I am fond of Percy, and should be sorry to see harm come to him; and knowing what I do—"

At that moment Mr Rimbolt, with Mrs Scarfe, entered the room.

"What secrets are you two talking?" said the latter.

"Your son was just telling me how fond he is of Percy; and I am sure it will be a great loss to Percy when he is gone. He has promised me to come to see us in town at Easter."

"It is a satisfaction that you can leave with the assurance that Percy is virtually well again," said Mr Rimbolt. "Really, I do not know how we should have got on without Mr Jeffreys to nurse him. I never knew such devotion. He has never wanted for a thing all the time; and Jeffreys' influence is of the highest and manliest sort. Percy will be able to reckon this illness among the blessings of his life."

Mr Rimbolt spoke feelingly and warmly.

Scarfe and Mrs Rimbolt exchanged glances; and the conversation shortly afterwards turned to the journey before the travellers.

Scarfe had come down to the drawing-room resolved, cost what it would, to settle scores with Jeffreys there and then by denouncing him to the family on whose favour he was dependent; and had Mr Rimbolt's entrance been delayed a few minutes, Mrs Rimbolt would have known all about young Forrester. Once again, however, he was stopped in time, and a few moments' reflection convinced him it was as well.

Raby, he knew, whatever she might think of Jeffreys, would never forgive the informant who should be the means of turning him out of Wildtree, still less would Percy. Nor was Mr Rimbolt likely to esteem his guest more highly in the capacity of tale-bearer; and he decidedly wished to "keep in" with all three.

And there was another reason still.

Scarfe was at the bottom of his heart not quite a villain, and much as he detested Jeffreys, and longed to be revenged—for what injury do certain minds feel half so much as that which one man commits in being better than another?—he had an uncomfortable suspicion in his mind that after all Jeffreys was not quite the miscreant he tried to imagine him.

That he was guilty in the matter of young Forrester there was no doubt; but much as he should have liked to believe it, he could not be quite sure that the accident at Bolsover was the result of a deliberate murderous design, or indeed of anything more than the accidental catastrophe of a blundering fit of temper—criminal, if you like, and cowardly, but not fiendish. And his conscience made coward enough of him just now to cause him to hesitate before plunging into ruin one who, hateful as he was to him, was after all a poor wretch, miserable enough for any one.

Not having done what he intended to do, Scarfe felt decidedly virtuous, and considered himself entitled to any amount of credit for his forbearance! It seemed a pity Raby should not know of this noble effort of self-denial.

"Miss Atherton," said he, just as they were about to separate for the night, "I'm afraid you will have forgotten all about me when you see me next."

"You are very uncomplimentary, Mr Scarfe."

"I do not mean to be; and I'm sure I shall not forget you."

"Thank you. This has been a very eventful visit."

"It has; but I shall never regret that day on the ice, although I fear I made one enemy by what I did."

"You don't understand Mr Jeffreys; he is very shy and proud."

"I understand him quite well, and wish for Percy's sake every one here did too. But I am not going to disobey you, and talk of people behind their backs, Miss Atherton. I am sure you will approve of that."

"I do; I never like it unless it is something nice of them."

"Then I certainly had better not talk to you about Mr Jeffreys," said Scarfe with a sneer, which did him more damage in Raby's eyes than a torrent of abuse from his lips. "Do you know you have never yet shown me the telegram you had about your father's last battle? It came the morning I was away, you know."

"Yes. I fancied perhaps you did not care to see it, as you never asked me," said Raby, producing the precious paper from her dress, where she kept it like a sort of talisman.

"How could you think that?" said Scarfe reproachfully, who had quite forgotten to ask to see it.

He took the paper and glanced down it.

"Hullo!" said he, starting as Jeffreys had done. "Captain Forrester! I wonder if that's poor young Forrester's father?"

"Who is poor young Forrester?" inquired Raby.

Scarfe read the paper to the end, and then looked up in well-simulated confusion.

"Poor young Forrester? Oh—well, I dare say Jeffreys could tell you about him. The fact is, Miss Atherton, if I am not allowed to talk of people behind their backs it is impossible for me to tell you the story of poor young Forrester."

"Then," said Raby, flushing, as she folded up the paper, "I've no desire to hear it."

Scarfe could see he had gone too far.

"I have offended you," said he, "but really I came upon the name so unexpectedly that—"

"Do you expect to be working hard this term at Oxford?" said Raby, doing the kindest thing in turning the conversation.

It was hardly to be wondered at if she retired that night considerably perplexed and disturbed. There was some mystery attaching to Jeffreys, which, if she was to set any store by Scarfe's insinuations, was of a disgraceful kind. And the agitation which both Scarfe and Jeffreys had shown on reading the telegram seemed to connect this Captain Forrester, or rather his son, whom Scarfe spoke of as "poor young Forrester," with the same mystery. Raby was a young lady with the usual allowance of feminine curiosity, which, though she was charity itself, did not like to be baulked by a mystery.

She therefore opened a letter she had just finished to her father, to add the following postscript:—

"Was this brave Captain Forrester who saved the guns a friend of yours? Tell me all about him. Had he a wife and children? Surely something will be done for them, poor things."

Early next morning Mrs Scarfe and her son left Wildtree.

Jeffreys, from Percy's window, watched them drive away.

"Very glad you must be to see the back of them," said Percy.

"I am glad," responded Jeffreys honestly.

"I'm not so frightfully sorry," said Percy. "Scarfe's a jolly enough chap, but he's up to too many dodges, don't you know? And he's dead on Raby, too. Quite as dead as you are, Jeff."

"Percy, a fortnight's congestion has not cured you of the bad habit of talking nonsense," said Jeffreys.

"All very well, you old humbug, but you know you are, aren't you?"

"Your cousin is very good and kind, and no one could help liking her. Everybody is 'dead on her,' as you call it, even Walker."

Percy enjoyed this, and allowed himself to be led off the dangerous topic. He was allowed to sit up for the first time this day, and held a small levee in his room.

Jeffreys took the opportunity to escape for a short time to the library, which he had scarcely been in since the day on the mountain.

He knew Mrs Rimbolt would enjoy her visit to the sick-chamber better without him, and he decidedly preferred his beloved books to her majestic society.

Percy, however, was by no means satisfied with the arrangement.

"Where's old Jeff?" said he presently, when his mother, Raby, and he were left alone. "Raby, go and tell Jeff, there's a brick. You can bet he's in the library. Tell him if he means to cut me dead, he might break it gently."

"Raby," said Mrs Rimbolt, as her niece, with a smile, started on his majesty's errand, "I do not choose for you to go looking about for Mr Jeffreys. There is a bell in the room, and Walker can do it if required. It is unseemly in a young lady."

"One would think old Jeff was a wild beast or a nigger by the way you talk," said Percy complainingly. "All I know is, if it hadn't been for him, you'd all have been in deep mourning now, instead of having tea up here with me."

"It is quite possible, Percy," said his mother, "for a person—"

"Person!" interrupted the boy. "Jeff's not a person; he's a gentleman. As good as any of us, only he hasn't got so much money."

"I fear, Percy, your illness has not improved your good manners. I wish to say that Mr Jeffreys may have done you service—"

"I should think he has," interrupted the irrepressible one.

"But it by no means follows that he is a proper companion for a good innocent boy like you."

Percy laughed hilariously.

"Really, ma, you are coming it strong. Do you see my blushes, Raby?"

"You must make up your mind to see a great deal less of Mr Jeffreys for the future; he is not the sort of person—"

"Look here, ma," said Percy, terrifying his parent by the energy with which he sprang to his feet. "I'm jolly ill, and you'd be awfully sorry if I had a fit of coughing and brought up blood, wouldn't you? Well, I shall if you call Jeff a person again. Where is Jeff, I say? I want Jeff. Why don't you tell him, Raby?"

After this, for a season at any rate, Percy was allowed to have his own way, and jeopardised his moral welfare by unrestricted intercourse with the "person" Jeffreys.

They spent their time not wholly unprofitably. For, besides a good deal of reading of history and classics (for which Percy was rapidly developing a considerable taste), and a good deal of discussion on all sorts of topics, they were deep in constructing the model of a new kind of bookcase, designed by Percy, with some ingenious contrivances for keeping out dust and for marking, by means of automatic signals, the place of any book which should be taken from its shelf. This wonderful work of art promised to eclipse every bookcase ever invented. The only drawback to it was that it was too good. Percy insisted on introducing into it every "dodge" of which he was capable, and the poor model more than once threatened to collapse under the burden of its own ingenuity. However, they stuck to it, and by dint of sacrificing a "dodge" here and a "dodge" there, they succeeded in producing a highly curious and not unworthy model, which Percy was most urgent that his father should forthwith adopt for his library, all the existing bookcases being sacrificed for firewood to make way for the new ones.

Mr Rimbolt diplomatically promised to give the matter his consideration, and consult authorities on the subject when next in London, and meanwhile was not unsparing in his compliments to the inventor and his coadjutor.

So the time passed happily enough for Jeffreys, until about three weeks after the Scarfes' departure, when the following amiable letter reached him with the Oxford post-mark on the envelope:—

Christ Church, February 20th.

"Jeffreys,—You may have supposed that because I left Wildtree without showing you up in your proper character as a murderer and a hypocrite, that I have changed my opinions as to what is my duty to Mr Rimbolt and his family in this matter. It is not necessary for me to explain to you why I did not do it at once, especially after the blackguardly manner in which you acted on the last evening of my stay there. You being Mr Rimbolt's servant, I had to consider his convenience. I now write to say that you can spare me the unpleasant duty of informing the Wildtree household of what a miscreant they have in their midst by doing it yourself. If, after they know all, they choose to keep you on, there is nothing more to be said. You are welcome to the chance you will have of lying in order to whitewash yourself, but either I or you must tell what we know. Meanwhile I envy you the feelings with which I dare say you read of the death of poor young Forrester's father in Afghanistan. How your cowardly crime must have brightened his last hours!

"Yours,—

"E. Scarfe."

Jeffreys pitched this elegant specimen of polite Billingsgate contemptuously into the grate. He was not much a man of the world, but he could read through the lines of a poor performance like this.

Scarfe, for some reason or other, did not like to tell the Rimbolts himself, but he was most anxious they should know, and desired Jeffreys to do the dirty work himself. There was something almost amusing in the artlessness of the suggestion, and had the subject been less personally grievous, Jeffreys could have afforded to scoff at the whole business.

He sat down on the impulse of the moment and dashed off the following reply:—

"Dear Scarfe,—Would it not be a pity that your sense of duty should not have the satisfaction of doing its own work, instead of begging me to do it for you? I may be all you say, but I am not mean enough to rob you of so priceless a jewel as the good conscience of a man who has done his duty. So I respectfully decline your invitation, and am,—

"Yours,—

"J. Jeffreys."

Having relieved himself by writing it, he tore the note up, and tried to forget all about it.

But that was not quite so easy. Scarfe's part in the drama he could not forget, but the question faced him, not for the first time. Had he any right to be here, trusted, and by some of the family even respected? Was he not sailing under false colours, and pretending to be something he was not?

True, he had been originally engaged as a librarian, a post in which character was accounted of less importance than scholarship and general proficiency. But he was more than a librarian now. Circumstances had made him the mentor and companion of a high-spirited, honest boy. Was it fair to Percy to keep a secret what would certainly shut the doors of Wildtree against him for ever? Was it fair to Mr Rimbolt to accept this new responsibility without a word? Was it fair to Raby, who would shrink from him with detestation, did she know the whole story?

Scarfe would have been amply satisfied had he been present to note the disquietude which ensued for some days after the arrival of his letter. Jeffreys felt uncomfortable in his intercourse with Mr Rimbolt; he avoided Raby, and even with Percy he was often unaccountably reserved and pensive.

"What are you in the blues about?" demanded that quick-sighted young gentleman on the first day out of doors after his illness. "Are you sorry I'm all serene again?"

"Rather," said Jeffreys; "it's not been a bad time."

"No more it has; but I must say I don't mind feeling my legs under me. I shall soon be ready for the top of Wild Pike again. But, I say, aren't you well? I expect you've been knocking yourself up over me?"

"Not a bit of it; I'm as well as anything." Percy, however, was not satisfied. He had a vague idea that young gentlemen in love were as a rule sickly, and by a simple process of reasoning he guessed that Jeffreys and Raby "had had a row." He therefore took an early opportunity of mentioning the matter to his cousin, greatly to that young lady's confusion.

"Raby, I say, look here!" he began, a day or two afterwards, as he and his cousin were walking together. "What makes you so jolly down on Jeff?"

"I down on Mr Jeffreys? What do you mean?"

"Well, he's so dismal, I'm certain he's eating his heart out about you! Why don't you back him up? He's a good enough chap and no end of a brick, and say what you will, he meant to fish you out that day on the ice. He went off like a shot directly after the ice cracked."