"Percy, you ridiculous boy!" said Raby, biting her lips; "how can you talk such nonsense?"

"Oh! but he did," persisted the boy.

"I'm not talking about the ice," said she. "Mr Jeffreys and I are very good friends; chiefly on your account, too," added she, with a vague idea of qualifying her admission.

"Oh, ah, that won't wash, you know," said Percy. "Anyhow, it's nonsense you being so precious stiff with him; I'm sure he's as good as Scarfe."

"Percy, if you cannot talk sense," said Raby, nearly crying with vexation, "I shall not listen to you."

"Oh, all serene!" responded Percy. "Of course you're bound to make out it's all humbug, but I know better. Come, don't be in a rage, Raby; you forget I'm an invalid."

So they made it up on the spot, and Percy flattered himself he had done a great deal to make things right for Jeffreys.

Jeffreys, however, was still harassed by perplexity, and was gradually veering round to the conclusion that he must at all costs relieve his mind of his secret to Mr Rimbolt. He put the task off day after day, shrinking from the wrench of all the ties which made his life happy.

One day, however, finding himself alone with Mr Rimbolt in the library, he suddenly resolved then and there to speak out.

"Oh, Jeffreys," began Mr Rimbolt, "I am very anxious to get those books from the Wanley Abbey sale looked through and catalogued within the next few days if you can manage it. We all go up to London, you know, next week, and I should be glad to have all square before we start."

"I have no doubt they can all be gone through before then."

"I should like you to come to town, too," said Mr Rimbolt. "Percy sets great store by your companionship; besides which, there are some very important book sales coming on in which I shall want your help."

"I had been going to ask you—" began Jeffreys, feeling his temples throbbing like two steam-engines.

"Oh, by the way," interrupted Mr Rimbolt, taking a letter from his pocket, "did not you tell me you were at a school called Bolsover?"

"Yes," faltered Jeffreys, wondering what was coming.

"It's very odd. I have a letter from an old Oxford acquaintance of mine, called Frampton, who appears to be head-master there, and whom I have never heard of for about sixteen years. He is fond of books, and writes to ask if he may come and see the library. I've asked him to stay a night, and expect him here to-morrow. I dare say you will be glad to meet him. Perhaps he knows you are here?"

"No, I don't think so," said Jeffreys.

"Ah, then I dare say you will be glad to see one another again."

Jeffreys was considerably staggered by this unexpected announcement, but it relieved him of all present perplexity as to speaking to Mr Rimbolt of young Forrester. He would at least wait till Mr Frampton came, and put himself in his hands.

Mr Frampton came, as young and fresh as ever. He was taking a three days' run in the Lake country during a term holiday, and, determined to do and see all he could, had decided to visit his old college friend, and look over the now famous Wildtree library.

His surprise at meeting Jeffreys was very considerable; and at first it seemed to the quondam pupil that his old master was shy of him. This, however, was explained as soon as they were alone, and had to do with the seven pounds, which had burned holes in Mr Frampton's pockets ever since he received them, but which, not knowing Jeffreys' address, he had never been able to return.

"I was never more pained than when I received this money," said he. "Your guardian was written to by the clerk in ordinary course, but I never imagined the bill would be passed on to you."

Jeffreys had nothing for it but to take the money back, much as he disliked it. Until he did so, Mr Frampton was too fidgety to be approachable on any other subject.

The morning after his arrival, they went up Wild Pike together—the first time Jeffreys had been on the mountain since the death of Julius. They had a fine day and no difficulty; but the long talk which beguiled the way amply made up to Jeffreys for the lack of adventure.

Mr Frampton told him much about Bolsover, and of how it was at last beginning to thrive and recover from the dry-rot; how this winter the football team had got up a name for itself; how the school discussion society was crowded with members; how the cricket prospects were decidedly hopeful; and how two fellows had lately gained scholarships at Oxford. Then he began to ask Jeffreys about himself, and got from him a full account of all that had befallen him since he left school. Mr Frampton was a most sympathetic listener, and the poor "dog with a bad name," who had almost forgotten the art of speaking his mind fully to any one, warmed insensibly to this friend as they talked, and reproached himself for the pride and shortsightedness which had induced him to shut himself out so long from his friendship.

Then they talked of young Forrester. Mr Frampton made no attempt to gloss over the wickedness of that unhappy act of passion. But he showed how fully he made allowances for the poor blundering offender, and how he, at least, saw more to pity than to upbraid in it all.

He knew nothing of young Forrester's fate. He had seen in the papers the notice of Captain Forrester's death, from whom, months before, he had had a letter of inquiry as to his son's whereabouts, and to whom he had written telling all he knew, which was but little.

Then Jeffreys unfolded his present uncomfortable dilemma, and his intention of speaking to Mr Rimbolt, and they talked it over very seriously and anxiously. At last Mr Frampton said,—

"Let me speak to Mr Rimbolt."

"Most thankfully I will."

So Mr Frampton spoke to Mr Rimbolt, and told him frankly all there was to tell, and Mr Rimbolt, like a gentleman who knew something of Christian charity, joined his informant in pitying the offender.

"Jeffreys," said he, the day after Mr Frampton's departure, "your friend has told me a story about you which I heard with great sorrow. You are now doing all that an honest man can do, with God's help, to make up for what is past. What I have been told does not shake my present confidence in you in any way, and I need not tell you that not a single person in this house beyond yourself and me shall know anything about this unhappy affair."



CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

"GOING IT."

Jeffreys started for London with a lighter heart than he had known since he first came to Wildtree. When he contrasted his present sense of relief with the oppression which had preceded it, he marvelled how he could ever have gone on so long, dishonestly nursing his wretched secret under Mr Rimbolt's roof. Now, in the first reaction of relief, he was tempted to believe his good name was really come back, and that Mr Rimbolt having condoned his offence, the memory of Bolsover was cancelled.

It was a passing temptation only. Alas! that memory clung still. Nothing could alter the past; and though he might now feel secure from its consequences, he had only to think of young Forrester to remind him that somewhere the black mark stood against his name as cruelly as ever.

Yet, comparatively, he felt light-hearted, as with the Rimbolt family he stood at last on the London platform.

It was new ground to him. Some years ago Mr Halgrove had lived several months in the Metropolis, and the boy, spending his summer holidays there, and left entirely to his own devices, had learned in a plodding way about as much of the great city as a youth of seventeen could well do in the time.

The Rimbolts' house in Clarges Street was to Jeffreys' mind not nearly so cheerful as Wildtree. The library in it consisted of a small collection of books, chiefly political, for Mr Rimbolt's use in his parliamentary work; and the dark little room allotted to him, with its look-out on the mews, was dull indeed compared with the chamber at Wildtree, from which he could at least see the mountain.

Nor did he by any means enjoy the constant round of entertainments which went on in London, at which he was sometimes called upon in a humble way to assist. He had been obliged, in deference to Mrs Rimbolt's broad hints, to buy a dress suit, and in this he was expected on occasions to present himself at the end of a grand dinner-party, or when Mr Rimbolt required his professional attendance.

For, there being no books to take care of here, Mr Rimbolt availed himself of his librarian's services as a private secretary in some important political business, and found him so efficient and willing, that he proposed to him a considerable increase in his salary, in consideration of his permanently undertaking a good share of his employer's ordinary correspondence.

The chief portion of Jeffreys' time, however, still belonged to Percy, and it was a decided relief to him that that young gentleman scoffed at and eschewed the endless hospitalities and entertainments with which his mother delighted to fill up their life in London.

"I don't see the fun of gorging night after night, do you, Jeff? A good spread's all very well now and again, but you get sick of it seven nights a week. Makes me sleepy. Then all these shows and things! I've a good mind to get laid up again, and have a real good time. There's to be no end of a crowd here to-night—everybody. I shall cut it if I can; shan't you?"

"Mr Rimbolt wants me to come into the drawing-room after dinner," said Jeffreys.

"All serene! That won't be till nine. Come up to Putney, and have a row on the river this afternoon."

Percy was an enthusiastic oarsman, and many an afternoon Jeffreys and he, flying from the crowd, had spent on the grand old Thames. Jeffreys enjoyed it as much as he, and no one, seeing the boy and his tutor together in their pair-oar, would have imagined that the broader of the two was that ungainly lout who had once been an object of derision in the Bolsover meadows.

The party that evening was, as Percy predicted, a very large one, and Jeffreys had the discomfort of recognising a few of the guests who last autumn had helped to make his position so painful.

They, to do them justice, did not now add to his discomfort by recognising him. Even the lady who had given him that half-crown appeared wholly to have forgotten the object of her charity.

What, however, made him most uncomfortable was the sight of Mrs Scarfe, and hearing her say to Percy, "Edward is coming on Saturday, Percy; he is looking forward with such pleasure to taking you about to see the University sports and the Boat Race. Your dear mamma has kindly asked two of his college friends to come too, so you will be quite a merry quartette."

Jeffreys had nearly forgotten Scarfe's existence of late. He no longer dreaded him on his own account, but on Percy's he looked forward to Saturday with dismay. He would have liked to know also, as a mere matter of curiosity of course, what Raby thought about the promised visit.

His own communications with that young lady had not been very frequent of late, although they continued friendly. Percy's nonsense gave them both a considerable amount of embarrassment; for although Jeffreys never for a moment supposed that Mr Rimbolt's niece thought twice about him except as a persecuted dependant and a friend to Percy, to have anything else suggested disturbed his shy nature, and made him feel constrained in her presence.

"You'll have to mind your eye with Raby now that Scarfe's coming," said Percy that night. "You bet he'll try to hook her. I heard his mother flying kites with ma about it, to see how the land lies."

Jeffreys had given up the formality of pretending, when Percy launched out on this delicate subject, not to know what he was talking about.

"Whatever Scarfe does," said he, "is nothing to me."

"What I don't you and Raby hit it off, then?"

"Hit what off?"

"I mean aren't you dead on her, don't you know?—spoons, and all that sort of thing?"

"I am not aware that I entertain feelings towards anybody which could be described by any article of cutlery at all."

"Well, all I can say is, when I blowed her up for being down on you, she blushed up no end, and cried too. I should like to know what you call that, if it isn't spoons?"

"I think it would be kinder, Percy, if you did not talk to your cousin about me; and I fancy she would as soon you did not talk about her to me."

"Well, that's rather what I should call a shut-up," said Percy. "It bothers me how people that like one another get so precious shy of letting the other fellow know it. I know I shan't. I'll have it out at once, before any other chap comes and cuts me out."

With which valiant determination Percy earned Jeffreys' gratitude by relapsing into silence.

He was, however, destined to have the uncomfortable topic revived in another and more unexpected quarter.

On the day before Scarfe's proposed visit, Walker accosted him as he was going out, with the announcement that my lady would like to speak to him in the morning-room.

This rare summons never failed to wring a groan from the depths of the librarian's spirit, and it did now as he proceeded to the torture- chamber.

The lady was alone, and evidently burdened with the importance of the occasion.

"Mr Jeffreys," said she, with a tone of half conciliation which put up Jeffreys' back far more than her usual severe drawl, "kindly take a seat; I wish to speak to you."

"It's all up with me!" groaned the unhappy Jeffreys inwardly, as he obeyed.

Mrs Rimbolt gathered herself together, and began.

"I desire to speak to you, Mr Jeffreys, in reference to my niece, Miss Atherton, who, in her father's absence, is here under my protection and parental control."

Jeffreys flushed up ominously.

"It does not please me, Mr Jeffreys, to find you, occupying, as you do, the position of a dependant in this house, so far forgetting yourself as to consider that there is anything in your respective positions which justifies you in having communications with Miss Atherton other than those of a respectful stranger."

Jeffreys found himself frivolously thinking this elaborate sentence would be an interesting exercise in parsing for the head class at Galloway House. He barely took in that the remarks were intended for him at all, and his abstracted look apparently disconcerted Mrs Rimbolt.

"I must request your attention, Mr Jeffreys," said she severely.

"I beg your pardon. I am all attention."

"I am quite willing to suppose," continued she, "that it is ignorance on your part rather than intentional misconduct which has led you into this; but from henceforth I wish it to be clearly understood that I shall expect you to remember your proper station in this house. Miss Atherton, let me tell you, has no need of your attentions. You perfectly understand me, Mr Jeffreys?"

Jeffreys bowed, still rather abstractedly.

"You do not reply to my question, Mr Jeffreys."

"I perfectly understand you, madam."

"I trust I shall not have to speak to you again."

"I trust not," said Jeffreys, with a fervour which startled the lady.

He left the room, outraged, insulted, sorely tempted to shake the dust of the place once and for all from off his feet. The evil temper within him once more asserted itself as he flung himself into his room, slamming the door behind him with a force that made the whole house vibrate.

The narrow room was insupportable. It stifled him. He must get out into the fresh air or choke.

On the doorstep he met Mr Rimbolt, alighting from his brougham.

"Oh, Jeffreys, so glad to have caught you. Look here. I find I must be in the House to-night and to-morrow, and I intended to go down to Exeter to attend that four days' sale of Lord Waterfield's library. I must get you to go for me. You have the catalogue we went through together, with the lots marked which I must have. I have put an outside price against some, and the others must be mine at any price—you understand. Stick at nothing. Take plenty of money with you for travelling and expenses. Do things comfortably, and I will give you a blank cheque for the books. Mind I must have them, if it comes to four figures. Go down by the Flying Dutchman to-night, and send me a telegram at the end of each day to say what you have secured."

The proposal came opportunely to Jeffreys. He was in the humour of accepting anything for a change; and this carte blanche proposal, and the responsibility it involved, contained a spice of excitement which suited with his present mood.

He went down to Exeter that night, trying to think of nothing but Lord Waterfield's books, and to forget all about Raby, and Percy, and Mrs Rimbolt, and Scarfe.

The last-named hero and his two friends duly presented themselves at Clarges Street next day. Scarfe was in great good-humour with himself, and even his antipathies to the world at large were decidedly modified by the discovery that Jeffreys was out of town.

His two friends were of the gay and festive order—youths who would have liked to be considered fast, but betrayed constantly that they did not yet know the way how.

Percy, with his usual facile disposition, quickly fell into the ways of the trio, and rather enjoyed the luxury of now and then getting a rise out of the undergrads by showing that "he knew a thing or two" himself.

They spent their first few days together in "going it"—that is, in seeing and doing all they could. Scarfe's friends began shyly, feeling their way both with their host and hostess and with their son. But then they saw that Mr Rimbolt was far too engrossed to think of anything beyond that they should all enjoy themselves and do as they liked—when they saw that Mrs Rimbolt swore by Scarfe, and, to use the choice language of one of them, "didn't sit up at anything as long as the Necktie was in it"—and when they saw that Percy was a cool hand, and, whatever he thought, did not let himself be startled by anything, these two ingenuous youths plucked up heart and "let out all round."

They haunted billiard saloons, but failed to delude any one into the belief that they knew one end of a cue from another. They went to theatres, where the last thing they looked at was the stage. They played cards without being quite sure what was the name of the game they played. They smoked cigars, which it was well for their juvenile stomachs were "warranted extra mild"; and they drank wine which neither made glad their hearts nor improved their digestions; and they spiced their conversation with big words which they did not know the meaning of themselves, and would certainly have never found explained in the dictionary.

Percy, after a few days, got sick of it. He had never "gone it" in this style before; and finding out what it meant, he didn't see much fun in it. Late hours and unwholesome food and never-ending "sport" did not agree with him. He had looked forward to seeing a lot of the boat practice on the river, and hearing a lot about University sport and life. But in this he was disappointed. The "boats" were voted a nuisance; and whenever the talk turned on Oxford it was instantly tabooed as "shop." Scarfe sneered to him in private about these two fools, but when with them he "went it" with the rest, and made no protest.

"Percy," said Raby, two or three days after this sort of thing had been going on, "you look wretchedly pale and tired. Why do you stay out so late every night?"

"Oh," said Percy wearily, "I don't know—we humbug about. Nothing very bad."

"If it makes you ill and wretched, I say it is bad, Percy," said the girl.

"Oh, I don't know. Scarfe goes in for it, you know."

"I don't care a bit who goes in for it. It's bad."

"You don't mean to say you think Scarfe is a bad lot?"

"Don't speak to me of Mr Scarfe. I hate him for this!"

Percy whistled.

"Hullo, I say! here's a go!" he cried. "Then you're really spoons on Jeff after all? How awfully glad he'll be when I tell him!"

"Percy I shall hate you if you talk like that!" said the girl. "I hate any one who is not good to you; and it is certainly not good to you to lead you into folly and perhaps wickedness."

This protest had its effect on Percy. The next day he struck, and pleaded an excuse for accompanying the precious trio on an expedition to Windsor, to be consummated by a champagne supper at the "Christopher."

They urged him hard, and tempted him sorely by the prospect of a row on the river and any amount of fun. He declined stubbornly. He was fagged, and not in the humour. Awfully sorry to back out and all that, but he couldn't help it, and wanted to save up for the Sports and Boat Race on Friday and Saturday.

They gave him up as a bad job, and started without him.

He watched them go without much regret, and then, putting on his hat, walked off towards Paddington to meet Jeffreys, who was due in about an hour.

The quiet walk through the streets rather revived him; and the prospect of seeing Jeffreys again was still more refreshing.

Of course he knew he should have to tell him of his folly, and Jeff would "sit on him" in his solemn style. Still, that was better than getting his head split open with cigars, and having to laugh at a lot of trashy jokes.

Jeffreys was delighted to see him; and the two were leaving Paddington arm-in-arm when Scarfe and his two friends, alighting from a cab, suddenly confronted them.



CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

THE BAD NAME.

Percy was riotously greeted by Scarfe's two friends. "Hullo, old man!" cried one of them; "then you thought better of it, after all, and mean to join us! That's the style!"

"Bring your handsome friend with you. More the merrier. There'll be champagne enough for the lot."

"Look alive," said Percy; "you'll lose your train. Jeff and I aren't coming."

"Why not?" said they.

"Because we're going the other way," replied Percy, who, when his mind was made up, did not appreciate anybody's importunity. "I've not seen Jeff for a week."

"Who is this precious Jeff?" said one of Scarfe's friends, pointing over his shoulder to the librarian.

"He's a gentleman employed by the month to look after Percy's morals," said Scarfe, with a sneer.

"A parson! What a game! No wonder Percy draws in his horns a bit when he comes home. Anyhow, we must save him from the paws of the lion if we can. I say, Percy, you must come, old man. We made all the arrangements for four, boat and everything; and if you don't want to stay late we'll give up the supper. Only don't spoil our day, there's a good fellow. You'll be able to see lots of your friend when we've gone."

"You be hanged," observed Percy, now in an uncomplimentary mood; "haven't I told you I'm not coming? What more do you want?"

"Oh, of course, if you're so taken up with this reverend thing of beauty," said one of them sulkily, "we're out of it. I should have thought he could have snuffled to himself for a day without wanting you to help him."

Scarfe all this time stood by in a rage. The sight of Jeffreys was to him like the dead fly in the apothecary's ointment. It upset him and irritated him with everybody and everything. He had guessed, on receiving no reply to his recent polite letter, that he had exposed his own poor hand to his enemy, and he hated him accordingly with a double hatred.

He contrived, however, to keep up an appearance of scornful indifference.

"You are still reaping the rewards of virtue, pious homicide," he sneered.

"I still envy the upright man who does his duty," replied Jeffreys, scarcely less bitterly.

"What do you mean, you—"

"I mean what I say," said Jeffreys, turning on his heel, and taking Percy's arm.

They walked home, and before Clarges Street was reached Percy had told his friend an unvarnished story of the follies of the last few days, and enlisted his support in his determination to pull up.

There was something touching in the mingled shame and anger of the proud boy as he made his confession, not sparing himself, and full of scorn at those who had tempted him. Jeffreys was full of righteous wrath on his behalf, and ran up a score against Scarfe which would have astonished that worthy, listlessly loafing about at Windsor, had he guessed it.

"I've promised to go and see the Boat Race with them," said Percy; "but you must come too. I know you'll hate it, and so will they; but somehow I can't do without a little backing up."

"I'll back you up, old fellow, all I can, I only wish," added he, for the boy's confidence in him humiliated him, "I had a better right to do it."

"Why, Jeff, I don't suppose you ever did a bad thing in your life."

"Don't say that," said Jeffreys almost appealingly, "I have!"

The boy looked up at him, startled for a moment by his tone. Then he said, with a return of his old look of confidence—

"Poor old Jeff! That's what makes you so blue sometimes. If it weren't for you, I'd have a precious good right to be in the blues too."

Jeffreys, who had not entered the house since his interview with Mrs Rimbolt, felt anything but comfortable as he again set foot within it; and had it not been for Percy's countenance, he would have felt it still more of an ordeal.

He had, however, plenty to occupy his mind during the hour or two which followed. Mr Rimbolt was waiting for him eagerly, to hear all about the sale and the purchases which had been made.

"You've done a capital stroke of business for me, Jeffreys," said he, when the report had been concluded. "Those three Caxtons I would not have missed for anything. I am quite glad that business will take me North next week, as I shall be able to run over to Wildtree and see some of the treasures unpacked. I shall, however, leave them for you finally to arrange when we all go back in June. You've seen Percy? I fancy he has been racketing rather too much with these friends of his; but I imagine Scarfe would see he went into no mischief. However, I am glad you have come back, for the boy's sake, as you understand him. This summer I think you should take him a little run in Normandy or Switzerland. It would do him good, and you, too, to knock about abroad for a week or two. However, there's time enough to talk about that. And I dare say you will be glad now to get a little rest after your journey."

Jeffreys returned to his room very contentedly. The confidence Mr Rimbolt reposed in him was soothing to his spirits, and went far to obliterate the memory of that hideous interview last week.

Percy was out when, after washing and changing his travelling garb, he came down to the morning-room, which he usually occupied during the afternoon.

To his surprise, and even consternation, Raby was there, writing.

She rose, brightly, almost radiantly, as he entered.

"Oh, Mr Jeffreys, how glad I am to see you back! Poor Percy has been in such want of you! These Oxford friends of his, I am certain, have not been doing him any good. Have you seen him? I am so happy you have come back!"

Jeffreys was not made of adamant, and a greeting like this, even though it was offered on some one else's behalf, was enough to drive Mrs Rimbolt completely out of his head.

"I am very fortunate to be able to make you happy so easily," said he. "Yes, I have seen Percy, and heard all his troubles. How could any one help being grateful for a confidence like his? You know, Miss Atherton, I would do anything for him."

"I believe you," said she warmly. "You are good and unselfish."

"Do you mind my saying," said Jeffreys, colouring, "that it is an additional pleasure to do what I can for Percy if it makes you happy?"

"I don't mind your saying it if it is true. It does make me happy."

And her face was the best witness to her sincerity.

Jeffreys was not the only person who saw that bright smile. Mrs Rimbolt, entering the room at that moment, saw it too, and heard the words which it accompanied.

She glared round witheringly on Jeffreys.

"So, Mr Jeffreys, you are here. What brings you here?"

"Mr Jeffreys—" began Raby, feeling and looking very confused.

"Silence, Raby, I asked Mr Jeffreys."

"I came here not knowing the room was occupied. It was a pleasant surprise to find Miss Atherton here, and she has been making me happy by talking to me about Percy."

"Mr Jeffreys," said the lady, "allow me to say I do not believe you."

"Auntie!" exclaimed Raby, firing up in a manner unusual to her; "it is true. Mr Jeffreys always tells the truth!"

"Raby, my dear, you had better leave the room."

"No, auntie!" exclaimed the girl. "You have no right to charge Mr Jeffreys with saying what is not true. It's not fair—it's wrong—it's wicked!"

"You forget, my dear, of all persons you should not address me like this."

"No," said the girl, going to the door, which Jeffreys opened for her. "I don't forget, and I shall not forget. You have no right to say it. I wish father was home again, and would take me away!"

In the midst of his own indignation, Jeffreys could not help admiring this outbreak of righteous indignation on the part of the spirited girl.

Mrs Rimbolt little guessed how much she herself was doing to defeat her own ends.

"Mr Jeffreys," said she, after Raby had gone, "after our interview last week, your conduct is both disgraceful and dishonourable. I should not have believed it even of you."

"Pardon me, madam. You have charged me with telling you a lie just now. Is that so?"

His tone was strangely peremptory. Mrs Rimbolt had never seen him like this before—and for the moment it disconcerted her.

"What I heard as I entered the room had no reference to Percy," said she.

"Excuse me—it had. Miss Atherton—"

"If it had, I must believe you. I wish to hear no more about it. But after your promise last week—"

"I made no promise, and should decline to do so. I am quite aware of my position here, and am ready to give it up when called upon. But while I stay here and do my work, Mrs Rimbolt, I claim to be protected from insult."

"It is useless to prolong this interview, Mr Jeffreys," said Mrs Rimbolt, half-scared by the turn things had taken. "I never expected to be addressed in this way in my own house by one who is dependent on my husband for his living. You can leave me, sir."

Jeffreys bowed, and retired to his room, where he awaited as calmly as he could what appeared to him the inevitable end of the scene—a notice to quit.

But it did not come. Mrs Rimbolt knew herself to be in the wrong. Her husband, she knew, if she laid the case before him, would judicially inquire into its merits, and come to the same conclusion. In that case her dominion would be at an end. Even the Mrs Rimbolts have an eye to the better half of valour sometimes, and so Jeffreys was left sitting for an ultimatum which did not come.

Raby had a still worse ordeal before her. At first her indignation had reigned supreme and effaced all other emotions. Gradually, however, a feeling of vague misery ensued. She longed to be away in India with her dear soldier father; she wished Jeffreys had never come under the Wildtree roof to bring insult on himself and wretchedness to her. She dreaded the future for her boy cousin without his protector, and half wished him dead and safe from temptation.

In due time her brave spirit came back. She despised herself for her weakness, and, resolved boldly to face her aunt and every one, she came down to dinner.

It was strictly a family party, with Mrs Scarfe added; for the other three visitors had not yet returned from Windsor. Raby sought protection from her aunt by devoting herself to Mrs Scarfe, and quite delighted that good lady by her brightness and spirit. Mrs Scarfe took occasion in the drawing-room afterwards to go into rhapsodies to her young friend regarding her son; and when about ten o'clock the holiday- makers arrived home, in high spirits and full of their day's sport, she achieved a grand stroke of generalship by leaving the two young people together in the conservatory, having previously, by a significant pressure of her son's arm, given him to understand that now was his time for striking while the iron was hot.

Scarfe was in an unusually gay mood, and still a little elevated by the festivities of the day.

"I'm sure you missed us," said he, "didn't you?"

"The house was certainly much quieter," said Raby.

"Do you know," said he, "it's rather pleasant to feel that one is missed?"

Raby said nothing, but began to feel a desire to be safely back in the drawing-room.

"Do you know we drank toasts to-day, like the old knights, to our lady loves?" continued Scarfe.

"Indeed," replied Raby, as unconcernedly as she could.

"Yes—and shall I tell you the name I pledged? Ah, I see you know, Raby."

"Mr Scarfe, I want to go back to the drawing-room; please take me."

Scarfe took her hand. His head was swimming, partly with excitement, partly with the effects of the supper.

"Not till I tell you I love you, and—"

"Mr Scarfe, I don't want to hear all this," said Raby, snatching her hand away angrily, and moving to the door.

He seized it again rudely.

"You mean you don't care for me?" asked he.

"I want to go away," said she.

"Tell me first," said he, detaining her; "do you mean you will not have me—that you don't love me?"

"I don't," said she.

"Then," said he, sober enough now, and standing between her and the door, "there is another question still Is the reason because some one else in this house has—"

"Mr Scarfe," said Raby quietly, "don't you think, when I ask you to let me go, it is not quite polite of you to prevent me?"

"Please excuse me," he said apologetically. "I was excited, and forgot; but, Raby, do let me warn you, for your sake, to beware of this fellow Jeffreys. No, let me speak," said he, as she put up her hand to stop him. "I will say nothing to offend you. You say you do not care for me, and I have nothing to gain by telling you this. If he has—"

"Mr Scarfe, you are quite mistaken; do, please, let me go."

Scarfe yielded, bitterly mortified and perplexed. His vanity had all along only supposed one possible obstacle to his success with Raby, and that was a rival. That she would decline to have him for any other reason had been quite beyond his calculations, and he would not believe it now.

Jeffreys may not have actually gone as far as to propose to her, but, so it seemed, there was some understanding between them which barred Scarfe's own chance. The worst of it all was that to do the one thing he would have liked to do would be to spoil his own chance altogether. For Raby, whether she cared for Jeffreys or not, would have nothing to say to Scarfe if he was the means of his ruin.

The air during the next few days seemed charged with thunder. Mrs Rimbolt was in a state of war with every one, Mrs Scarfe was poorly, the two Oxford visitors began to vote their visit slow, Scarfe was moody, Raby was unhappy, Jeffreys felt continually half-choked, Percy alone kept up his spirits, while Mr Rimbolt, happiest of all, went up North to look at his old books.

No one was particularly sorry when the visits came to an end. Even the Sports and Boat Race had failed to revive the drooping spirits of the Oxonians, and on the Monday following it was with a considerable stretch of politeness that they all thanked Mrs Rimbolt for a very pleasant visit.

Scarfe, taking farewell of Raby, begged that some time, later on, he might come to see her again, but was quite unable to gather from her reply whether she desired it or not. Jeffreys wisely kept out of the way while the departures were taking place, despite Mrs Rimbolt's suggestion that he should be sent for to help the cabman carry out the boxes.

The first evening after they were all gone the house seemed another place. Even Jeffreys felt he could breathe, despite Mr Rimbolt's absence, and the hostile proximity of his lady.

As to Raby and Percy, they made no concealment of the relief they felt, and went off for a row on the river to celebrate the occasion.

Jeffreys judiciously excused himself from accompanying them, and went a long walk by himself.

Two days later, after lunch, just as Percy and Raby had departed for a ride in the park, and Jeffreys had shut himself up in Mr Rimbolt's study to write, a letter was delivered by the post addressed to Mrs Rimbolt, bearing the Oxford post-mark. It was from Scarfe, and Mrs Rimbolt opened her eyes as she perused it:—

"Christchurch, April 2."

Dear Mrs Rimbolt,—I reached here from home this morning, and hasten to send you a line to thank you for the very pleasant visit I spent in London last week. I should have written sooner, but that I was anxious to write you on another and less pleasant subject, which I felt should not be done hurriedly. You will, I dare say, blame me for not having told you earlier what I now feel it my duty to tell, and I trust you will understand the feelings which have prevented my doing so. John Jeffreys, who is in Mr Rimbolt's employment, is, as you know, an old schoolfellow of mine. I was surprised to see him at Wildtree last Christmas, and took the trouble to inquire whether he had come to you with a character, or whether you had any knowledge of his antecedents. I imagined you had not, and supposed that, as he was only engaged as a librarian, inquiries as to his character were not considered necessary. But when I saw that he was being admitted as a member of your household, and specially allowed to exercise an influence on Percy, I assure you I felt uncomfortable, and it has been on my mind ever since to tell you what I feel you ought to know. Jeffreys ran away from school after committing a cruel act which, to all intents and purposes, was murder. His victim was a small boy whom we all loved, and who never did him harm. The details of the whole affair are too horrible to dwell upon here, but I have said enough to show you what sort of person it is who is at present entrusted with the care of your own son, and allowed to associate on a footing of equality with your niece, Miss Atherton. I can assure you it is very painful to me to write this, for I know how it will shock you. But I feel my conscience would not give me peace till I told you all. May I now ask one special favour from you? It is well known, and you probably have noticed it yourself, that Jeffreys and I naturally dislike one another. But I want you to believe that I write this, not because I dislike Jeffreys, but because I like you all, and feel that Percy particularly is in peril. What I ask is that if you think it right to take any action in the matter, my name may not be mentioned. It would be considered an act of spite on my part, which it is not; and perhaps I may mention to you that I have special reasons for wishing that Miss Atherton, at least, should not think worse of me than I deserve. She would certainly misunderstand it if my name were mentioned. I feel I have only done my duty, and I assure you it will be a great relief to me to know that you are rid of one who cannot fail to exercise a fatal influence on the pure and honest mind of my friend Percy.

"Believe me, dear Mrs Rimbolt, most sincerely yours,—

"E. Scarfe."

The shock which this astounding communication gave to Mrs Rimbolt can be more easily imagined than described. It explained everything—her instinctive dislike of the man from the first, his moroseness and insolence, and the cunning with which he had insinuated himself first into her husband's and then into Percy's confidence! How blind she had been not to see it all before! She might have known that he was a villain! Now, however, her duty was clear, and she would be wicked if she delayed to act upon it a moment. If Mr Rimbolt had been at home, it would have fallen on him to discharge it, but he was not, and she must do it for him.

Whereupon this worthy matron girded herself for the fray, and stalked off to the study.

Jeffreys was busy transcribing some bibliographical notes which he had brought away with him from Exeter. The work was not very engrossing, and he had leisure now and then to let his mind wander, and the direction his thoughts took was towards Mr Rimbolt's little plan of a run on the Continent for Percy and himself this summer. Jeffreys had been afraid to acknowledge to himself how much the plan delighted him. He longed to see the everlasting snows, and the lakes, and the grand old mediaeval cities, and the prospect of seeing them with Percy, away from all that could annoy or jar—

He had got so far when the door opened, and Mrs Rimbolt stood before him.

The lady was pale, and evidently agitated beyond her wont. She stood for a moment facing Jeffreys, and apparently waiting for words. The librarian's back went up in anticipation. If it was more about Raby, he would leave the room before he forgot himself.

"Mr Jeffreys," said the lady, and her words came slowly and hoarsely, "I request you to leave this house in half an hour."

It was Jeffreys' turn to start and grow pale.

"May I ask why?" he said.

"You know why, sir," said the lady. "You have known why ever since you had the meanness to enter Wildtree on false pretences."

"Really, Mrs Rimbolt," began Jeffreys, with a cold shudder passing through him, "I am at a loss—"

"Don't speak to me, sir! You knew you had no right to enter the house of honest, respectable people—you knew you had no right to take advantage of an accident to insinuate yourself into this family, and impose upon the unsuspecting good-nature of my husband. No one asked you for your character; for no one imagined you could be quite so hypocritical as you have been. You, the self-constituted friend and protector of my precious boy—you, with the stain of blood on your hands and the mark of Cain on your forehead! Leave my house at once; I desire no words. You talked grandly about claiming to be protected from insult in this house. It is we who claim to be protected from a hypocrite and a murderer! Begone; and consider yourself fortunate that instead of walking out a free man, you are not taken out to the punishment you deserve!"

When Jeffreys, stunned and stupefied, looked up, the room was empty.

Mechanically he finished a sentence he had been writing, then letting the pen drop from his hand, sat where he was, numbed body and soul. Mrs Rimbolt's words dinned in his ears, and with them came those old haunting sounds, the yells on the Bolsover meadows, the midnight shriek of the terrified boy, the cold sneer of his guardian, the brutal laugh of Jonah Trimble. All came back in one confused hideous chorus, yelling to him that his bad name was alive still, dogging him down, down, mocking his foolish dreams of deliverance and hope, hounding him out into the night to hide his head indeed, but never to hide himself from himself.

How long he sat there he knew not. When he rose he was at least calm and resolved.

He went up to his own room and looked through his little stock of possessions. The old suit in which he had come to Wildtree was there; and an impulse seized him to put it on in exchange for the trim garments he was wearing. Of his other goods and chattels he took a few special favourites. His Homer—Julius's collar—a cricket cap—a pocket compass which Percy had given him, and an envelope which Raby had once directed to him for her uncle. His money—his last quarter's salary—he took too, and his old stick which he had cut in the lanes near Ash Cottage. That was all. Then quietly descending the deserted stairs, and looking neither to the right hand nor the left, he crossed the hall and opened the front door.

A pang shot through him as he did so. Was he never to see Percy again, or her? What would they think of him?

The thought maddened him; and as he stood in the street he seemed to hear their voices, too, in the awful clamour, and rushed blindly forth, anywhere, to escape it.



CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

A PLUNGE DOWNWARD.

A chill October squall was whistling through the trees—in Regent's Park, stirring up the fallen leaves on the footpaths, and making the nursemaids, as they listlessly trundled their perambulators, shiver suddenly, and think of the nursery fire and the singing kettle on the hob. The gathering clouds above sent the park-keeper off to his shed for a waterproof, and emptied the carriage-drive of the vehicles in which a few semi-grand people were taking an afternoon airing at half a crown an hour. A little knot of small boys, intently playing football, with piled-up jackets for goals, and an old parti-coloured "bouncer" for a ball, were the last to take alarm at the lowering sky; nor was it till the big drops fell in their midst that they scattered right and left, and left the park empty.

No; not quite empty. One young man sat on through the rain on the seat from which he had been watching the boys' game. A shabby, almost ragged young man, with a disagreeable face and an almost contemptuous curl of the lips, as the rain, gathering force every second, buffeted him in the face and drenched him where he sat. There were a hundred seats more sheltered than that on which he sat, and by walking scarcely fifty yards he could have escaped the rain altogether. But he sat recklessly on, and let the rain do its worst, his eyes still on the empty football field, and his ears ringing still with the merry shouts of the departed boys.

My reader, had he chanced to pass down that deserted walk on this stormy afternoon, would hardly have recognised in the lonely occupant of that seat the John Jeffreys he had seen six months ago at Clarges Street. It was not merely that he looked haggard and ill, or that his clothes were ragged. That was bad enough, but the reader has seen him in such a plight before. But what he has not seen before—or if at all, only in passing moments—is the bitter, hard look on his face, changing it miserably. A stranger passing him that afternoon would have said—

"There sits a man who hates all the world."

We, who know him better, would have said—

"There sits our poor dog with a bad name, deserted even by hope."

And so it was.

Jeffreys had left Clarges Street smarting under a sense of injury, but still resolved to keep up the fight for his good name, in which for so many months past he had been engaged.

Not by appealing to Mr Rimbolt. Although he knew, had Mr Rimbolt been at home, all this would not have happened, his pride forbade him now to take a single step to reinstate himself in a house from which he had been so ignominiously expelled. No, not even when that house held within its walls Percy and Raby. The idea of going back filled him with horror.

On the contrary, he would hide himself from them, even though they sought to find him; and not till his name was as good as theirs would he see them again or come near them.

Which surely was another way of resolving never to see them again; for the leopard cannot change his spots or the Ethiopian his skin! A bad name is a stain which no washing can efface; it clings wherever you go, and often men who see it see nothing else in you but the scar.

So thought poor Jeffreys as he slowly turned his back on all that was dear to him in life, and went out into the night of the unsympathetic city.

At first, as I said, he tried to hold up his head. He inquired in one or two quarters for work. But the question always came up—

"What is your character?"

"I have none," he would say doggedly.

"Why did you leave your last place?"

"I was turned away."

"What for?"

"Because I am supposed to have killed a boy once."

Once indeed he did get a temporary job at a warehouse—as a porter—and for a week, a happy week, used his broad back and brawny arms in carrying heavy loads and lifting weights. Hope sprang again within him as he laboured. He might yet, by beginning at the lowest step, rise above his evil name and conquer it.

Alas! One day a shilling was lost from the warehouseman's desk. Jeffreys had been seen near the place and was suspected. He resented the charge scornfully at first, then savagely, and in an outbreak of rage struck his accuser. He was impeached before the head of the firm, and it was discovered that he had come without a character. That was enough. He was bundled out of the place at five minutes' notice, with a threat of a policeman if he made it six. And even when a week later the shilling was found in the warehouseman's blotting-paper, no one doubted that the cashiered rogue was as cunning as he was nefarious.

After that he had given up what seemed the farce of holding up his head. What was the use, he said, when, as sure as night follows day, that bad name of his dogged him wherever he went?

So Jeffreys began to go down. In after years he spoke very little of those six months in London, and when he did it was about people he had met, and not about himself. What he did, where he lodged, how he lived, these were matters he never mentioned and never liked to be asked about.

I am quite sure myself that the reason of this silence was not shame. He was not one of those fellows who revenge themselves on fate by deliberately going to the bad. At his worst, he had no taste for vice or any affinity for it. He may have sunk low, not because he himself was low, but because in his miserable feud with all the world he scorned not to share the lot of others as miserable as himself.

His money—he had a few pounds when he left Clarges Street—soon failed him. He made no great effort to keep it, and was relieved to see the end of it. His companions in misery soon helped him away with it, and he let them.

But when it was gone the old necessity for work came back. By day he hardly ever ventured out of his court, for fear of being seen by some one who would attempt to rescue him from his present condition. At night he wandered restlessly about in the narrow streets picking up an early morning job at Covent Garden or in the omnibus stables.

He moved his lodgings incessantly, one week inhabiting a garret in Westminster, another sharing a common room in Whitechapel, another doing without lodgings altogether. He spoke little or not at all to his fellow-miserables, not because he despised them, but because they fought shy of him. They disliked his superior ways and his ill-concealed disgust of their habits and vices. They could have forgiven him for being a criminal in hiding; that they were used to. But a man who spoke like a gentleman, who took no pleasure in their low sports, and sat dumb while they talked loud and broad, seemed to them an interloper and an intruder.

Once—it was about the beginning of August—in a lodging-house across the river, he met a man to whom for a day or two he felt drawn. His story was a sad one. His father had been a gentleman, and the boy had been brought up in luxury and virtue. While at school his father had died, and before he had left school his mother had been married again to a brute who not only broke her heart, but, after setting himself to corrupt his stepson, had at last turned him adrift without a penny in the world. The lad, with no strong principle to uphold him, had sunk deep in vice. Yet there lurked about him occasional flashes of something better.

"After all," he would say to Jeffreys, as the two lay at night almost on bare boards, "what's the odds? I may be miserable one day, but I'm jolly the next. Now you seem to prefer to be uniformly miserable."

"Hardly a case of preference," said Jeffreys; "but I'm not sure that it wouldn't be more miserable to be jolly."

"Try it. You'd give a lot to forget all about everything for an hour, wouldn't you?"

"It would be pleasant."

"You can do it."

"By dropping asleep?"

"Sleep! That's the time I'm most miserable. I remember the old days then, and my mother, and—I say, Jeffreys, I was once nearly drowned at Eton. Just as I was going down for the last time I put up my hand, and a fellow saw it and came in and fished me out. What a born fool I was to do it! I was grateful to the fellow at the time. I hate him now!"

And the poor fellow, with all the manhood out of him, cried himself to sleep; and Jeffreys in mercy said not a word to stop him.

A pitiful sort of friendship sprung up between the two—the bitter strong one, and the vicious weak one. It kept a soft corner in Jeffreys' heart to find some one who held to him even in this degradation, and to the poor prodigal it was worth anything to have some one to talk to.

Coming home one wet morning from one of his nocturnal expeditions, Jeffreys found his fellow-lodger up, with a bottle in his hands.

"My boy, my boy," cried the lad, "you're in luck, and just in time. Who says I'm lost to all decency after this? Why, I might have hidden it away when I heard you coming up. No. There's something of the nobleman left in me yet. Half of this is yours, Jeffreys; only help yourself quickly, man, or I may repent."

He held out the bottle tremblingly and with a wince that spoke volumes.

"Take it. I never went halves before, and perhaps I never shall again."

Jeffreys took the bottle. It was brandy.

"Half a tumbler of that, Jeffreys, will make another man of you. It will send you into dreamland. You'll forget there is such a thing as misery in the world. Don't be squeamish, old fellow. You're cold and weak, you know you are; you ought to take it. You're not too good, surely—eh? Man alive, if you never do anything worse than take a drop of brandy, you'll pass muster. Come, I say, you're keeping me waiting."

Jeffreys sunk on a chair, and raised the bottle half-way to his lips.

What was it, as he did so, which flashed before his eyes and caused him suddenly to set it down and rise to his feet?

Nothing real, it is true, yet nothing new. Just a momentary glimpse of a boy's pale face somewhere in the dim gloom of that little room, and then all was as before. Yet to Jeffreys the whole world was suddenly altered.

He set the bottle down, and neither heeding nor hearing the expostulations of his companion, he left the house never to return.

That night he slept in another part of the town; and the poor bewildered prodigal, deserted by his only friend, cried half the night through, and cursed again the Eton boy who had once saved his life.

Jeffreys, hidden in another part of the great city, sunk to a lower depth of misery than ever. To him it seemed now that his bad name had taken form in the face of young Forrester, and was dogging him in adversity more relentlessly even than in prosperity. It comforted him not at all to think it had saved him from a drunkard's ruin. He despised himself, when he came to himself, for having been scared so weakly. Yet he avoided his old quarters, and turned his back on the one friend he had, rather than face his evil genius again.

His evil genius! Was he blinded then, that he saw in all this nothing but evil and despair? Was he so numbed that he could not feel a Father's hand leading him even through the mist? Had he forgotten that two little boys far away were praying for him? Had he ceased to feel that young Forrester himself might be somewhere, not far away, ready to forgive?

He was blinded, and could see nothing through the mists.

He half envied his new fellow-lodgers in the den at Ratcliff. Four of them, at least, stood a chance of being hanged. Yet they managed to shake off care and live merrily.

"Come, old gallus," said one young fellow, who in that place was the hero of a recent "mystery" in the West End, "perk up. You're safe enough here. Don't be down. We're all in the same boat. Save up them long faces for eight o'clock in the morning at Old Bailey. Don't spoil our fun."

It was half pathetic, this appeal; and Jeffreys for a day tried to be cheerful. But he could not do it, and considerately went somewhere else.

How long was it to go on? A time came when he could get no work, and starvation stared him in the face. But a dying boy bequeathed him a loaf, and once again he was doomed to live.

But a loaf, and the proceeds of a week's odd jobs, came to an end. And now once more, as he sits in the rain in Regent's Park, he faces something more than the weather. He has not tasted food for two whole days, and for all he knows may never taste it again.

So he sits there, with his eyes still on that football ground, and his ears ringing still with the merry shouts of the departed boys.

The scene changes as he stays on. It is a football field still, but not the brown patch in a London park. There are high trees, throwing shadows across the green turf, and in the distance an old red school- house. And the boys are no longer the lively London urchins with their red, white, and blue bouncer. They are in flannels, and their faces are familiar, and the names they call each other he knows. Nor is the game the same. It, like the London boys' game, has ended suddenly, but not in a helter-skelter stampede in the rain. No. It is a silent, awe- struck group round something on the ground; and as he, Jeffreys, elbows his way among them, he sees again a boy's face lying there pallid and perhaps lifeless. Then instinctively he lifts his hands to his ears. For a howl rises on all sides which deafens him, stuns him.

After all, it is only the last effort of the October squall in Regent's Park buffeting him with a fusillade of rain and withered leaves. He takes his hands from his ears, and with a sigh gets up and walks away, he cares not whither.

His steps lead him round the park and into the long avenue. The rain and the wind are dying down, and already a few wayfarers, surprised by the sudden storm, are emerging from their shelters and speeding home. The park-keeper boldly parades the path in his waterproof, as if he had braved the elements since daybreak. A nursemaid draws out her perambulator from under the trees and hastens with it and its wailing occupant nursery-wards. And there, coming to meet him, sheltered under one umbrella, are two who perhaps have no grudge against the storm for detaining them in their walk that afternoon.

It is long since Jeffreys has seen anything to remind him of the world he has left, but there is something about these two as they advance towards him, their faces hidden by the umbrella, which attracts him. The youth is slim and well-dressed, and holds himself well; his companion's figure reminds him of a form he knew—can it be only six months ago?—light, gentle, courageous, beside which he has walked in the Wildtree Park and on the London pavements. Ah, how changed now!

Where, he wonders, is she now? and what is she thinking of him, if she thinks of him at all?

They meet—the tramp and the young couple. They never heed him; how should they? But a turn of the umbrella gives him a momentary glimpse of them, and in that glimpse poor hapless Jeffreys recognises Raby and Scarfe! Surely this blow was not needed to crush him completely! Scarfe! How long he stood, statue-like, looking down the path by which they had gone neither he nor any one else could tell. But it was dark when he was roused by a harsh voice in front of him.

"Come, sheer off, young fellow! It's time you was out of the park!"

"Yes, I'll go," said he, and walked slowly to the gate.

It was ridiculous of him, of course, to writhe as he did under that chance meeting. What else could he have expected? A hundred times already he had told himself she had forgotten all about him, or, worse still, she remembered him only to despise him. And a hundred times, too, he had seen her in fancy beside the enemy who had stabbed him.

For Scarfe might have spared his precaution in begging Mrs Rimbolt not to name him as Jeffreys' accuser. Jeffreys needed no telling to whom he owed his ruin, and he needed no telling the reason why.

That reason had made itself clear this afternoon, at any rate, and as the wretched outcast wandered out into the night, it seemed as if the one ray of light which yesterday had glimmered for him, even across the darkness, was now quenched for ever, and that there was nothing left either to hope or dread.

He could not quit the park, but wandered round and round it, outside its inhospitable palings, covering mile after mile of wet pavement, heedless of the now drenching rain, heedless of his hunger, heedless of his failing limbs.

The noisy streets had grown silent, and a clock near at hand had struck two when he found himself on the little bridge which crosses the canal. It was too dark to see the water below, but he heard the hard rain hissing on its surface.

He had stood there before, in happier days, and wondered how men and women could choose, as they sometimes did, to end their misery in that narrow streak of sluggish water.

He wondered less now. Not that he felt tempted to follow them; in his lowest depths of misery that door of escape had never allured him. Yet as he stood he felt fascinated, and even soothed, by the ceaseless noise of the rain on the invisible water beneath. It seemed almost like the voice of a friend far away.

He had been listening for some time, crouched in a dark corner of the parapet, when he became aware of footsteps approaching.

Imagining at first they were those of a policeman coming to dislodge the tramp from his lurking-place, he prepared to get up and move on. But listening again he remained where he was.

The footsteps were not those of a policeman. They approached fitfully, now quickly, now slowly, now stopping still for a moment or two, yet they were too agitated for those of a drunkard, and too uncertain for those of a fugitive from justice.

As they drew near to the bridge they stopped once more, and Jeffreys, peering through the darkness, saw a form clutching the railings, and looking down in the direction of the water. Then a voice groaned, "Oh my God!" and the footsteps hurried on.

Jeffreys had seen misery in many forms go past him before, but something impelled him now to rise and follow the footsteps of this wanderer.

The plashing rain drowned every sound, and it was with difficulty that Jeffreys, weak and weary as he was, could keep pace with the figure flitting before him, for after that glance over the bridge the fugitive no longer halted in his pace, but went on rapidly.

Across the bridge he turned and followed the high banks of the canal. Then he halted, apparently looking for a way down. It was a long impatient search, but at last Jeffreys saw him descend along some railings which sloped down the steep grass slope almost to the towing- path.

Jeffreys followed with difficulty, and when at last he stood on the towing-path the fugitive was not to be seen, nor was it possible to say whether he had turned right or left.

Jeffreys turned to the right, and anxiously scanning both the bank and the water, tramped along the muddy path.

A few yards down he came upon a heap of stones piled up across the path. Any one clambering across this must have made noise enough to be heard twenty yards away, and, as far as he could judge in the darkness, no one had stepped upon it. He therefore turned back hurriedly and retraced his steps.

The sullen water, hissing still under the heavy rain, gave no sign as he ran along its edge and scanned it with anxious eyes.

The high bank on his left, beyond the palings, became inaccessible from below. The wanderer must, therefore, be before him on the path.

For five minutes he ran on, straining his eyes and ears, when suddenly he stumbled. It was a hat upon the path.

In a moment Jeffreys dived into the cold water. As he came to the surface and looked round there was nothing but the spreading circles of his own plunge to be seen; but a moment afterwards, close to the bank, he had a glimpse of something black rising for an instant and then disappearing. Three strokes brought him to the spot just as the object rose again.

To seize it and strike out for the bank was the work of a moment. The man—for it was he—was alive, and as Jeffreys slowly drew him from the water he opened his eyes and made a faint resistance.

"Let me go!" he said with an oath; "let me go!"

But his head fell heavily on his rescuer's shoulder while he spoke, and when at last he lay on the path he was senseless.

Jeffreys carried him to the shelter of an arch, and there did what he could to restore animation. It was too dark to see the man's face, but he could feel his pulse still beating, and presently he gave a sigh and moved his head.

"What did you do it for?" he said piteously.

Jeffreys started. He knew the voice, hoarse and choked as it was.

"What's your name?" he said, raising the form in his arms and trying to see the face. "Who are you?"

"I've got no name! Why couldn't you let me be?"

"Isn't your name Trimble—Jonah Trimble?"

The poor fellow lifted his head with a little shriek.

"Oh, don't give me up! Don't have me taken up! Help me!"

"I will help you all I can, Trimble."

"Why, you know me, then?—you're—Who are you?"

"I'm John Jeffreys."



CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

AN ANGEL UNAWARES.

In a wretched garret of a house in Storr Alley, near Euston, at the sick-bed of his old enemy, Jeffreys reached a turning-point in his life. How he conveyed the half-drowned Jonah on the night of the rescue from the canal bank to his lodgings he scarcely knew.

The hand of a friend is often near when it is least expected. So Jonah had found, when he believed all hope and life to be gone; and so Jeffreys had found, when, with his poor burden in his arms, he met, beside a barge at daybreak, a dealer in vegetables for whom he had sometimes worked at Covent Garden, and who now, like a Good Samaritan, not only gave the two a lift in his cart, but provided Jeffreys with an opportunity of earning a shilling on the way.

This shilling worked marvels. For both Trimble and Jeffreys were on the verge of starvation; and without food that night rescue would have been but a farce.

It was soon evident that Jonah had far more the matter with him than the mere effects of his immersion. He was a wreck, body and soul. The dispensary doctor who called to see him gave him a fortnight to live, and the one or two brave souls who penetrated, on errands of mercy, even into Storr Alley, marked his hollow cough and sunken cheeks, and knew that before long one name more would drop out of their lists.

It was slowly, and in fragments only, that Jeffreys heard his story. Jonah was for ever reproaching him with what had happened on the canal bank.

"Why couldn't you have left a fellow alone? I know, you wanted to gloat over me. Go on, be as happy as you like. Enjoy your revenge. I did you a bad turn; now you've done me one, so we're quits!"

Here a fit of coughing would shake the breath out of the sufferer, and it would be a minute or two before he could proceed.

Jeffreys wisely avoided all expostulations or self-excuse. He smoothed the poor fellow's pillow, and supported him in his arms till the cough was over and he could proceed. "It was a bad day you ever came to our school, John"—Jonah had adopted the name by which Jeffreys was known in Storr Alley—"I hated you the first time I saw you. You've got the laugh on your side now; but I can tell you you wouldn't have had it then if you knew the way I followed you up. Yes"—and here came a shadow of his own sinister smile—"I made it all fit in like a puzzle. Did you never miss a letter you had that day you called at the York post- office—a letter about the dead burying their dead, and young Forrester? oh yes, you may start; I know all about it. I took that letter out of your pocket. And I know where you buried his body; do you suppose I didn't see you throw yourself on the very place and say, 'It was here'? You held your nose in the air, didn't you, in the school, and palmed yourself off on Freddy and Teddy for a model? But I bowled you out. I showed you up. That was the day of my laugh. Now you've got yours."

The cough again stopped him; and when he recovered his breath Jeffreys said quietly—

"Don't talk, Jonah; you bring on your cough. Let me read to you."

Then for the remainder of that day the story would rest; till later on Jonah would abruptly return to it.

"Mother believed in you, and cried a whole day after you had gone. Yes, and you'll be glad to hear the school broke up all to pieces. Farmer Rosher took away his boys and spread a report about us; and at the end of a month we had scarcely a dozen urchins. Mother and I lived like cat and dog. I struck work, and she had to do everything, and it broke her up. It would never have happened if you hadn't come into the place. I couldn't live there any longer. Mother had a little bit saved, fifty pounds or so, and one night, after we had had a terrible row, I took every penny of it out of her money-box and came up to London. Now are you pleased? Hadn't she something to bless you for? I say, John, get us some water quick, I'm parched!"

On another day Jeffreys heard the rest.

"I came up to London, but it wasn't the fun I expected. Everybody I met I thought was a detective, and all night long I dreamed of my mother. I tried to drown it, and lived as wild a life as you like till my money was done. Then it would have been worth your while to see me. Everybody was against me. Fellows I'd stood treat to kicked me out into the street, and fellows who owed me money laughed in my face. I thought I'd go back to York after all and get mother to take me back; but when I came to start I couldn't face it. That's all. I stood it as long as I could. I pawned everything, and when that was done I stole—and got three months on the treadmill. How do you like that? When I got out, a city missionary heard of me and found me a job; but I stole again, and ran away. You wouldn't have thought I had it in me at York, would you? I was a respectable young fellow there. But it was all there; and it was you brought it all out. Last week I made up my mind to put an end to it all. It took me a struggle to face it; but I was settled to do it—and then, as if you hadn't done enough harm, you come and spoil my last chance."

"Not your last chance, Jonah."

"No. I've a week more to live. Then you'll be rid of me. Who's to save me then?"

"Some one, Jonah. We have both forgotten Him, but He's not forgotten us."

"Oh yes, I know," said Jonah; "but it's all very well for you, who've got years to get right in. It's too short notice for me to begin all that over again. I don't want to hear about it."

He lingered on day after day, and it was absolutely necessary for Jeffreys to go and seek work in order to keep even that wretched roof above their heads.

One evening when he returned with a few coppers, Jonah met him with a face brighter than any that he had yet seen.

"I've had some one here to-day. A better sort than you. One that's got a right to talk about what's better. A lady, John, or else an angel. Did you send her?"

"I? No; I know no ladies."

"I don't know how it was, I could tell her anything—and, I say, John, it would make you cry to hear her voice. It did me. You never made me cry, or saw me; I hate to hear you preach; but she—why, she doesn't preach at all, but she says all you've got to say a hundred times better."

He was excited and feverish that night, and in his sleep murmured scraps of the gentle talk of his ministering angel, which even from his lips fell with a reflected sweetness on the trouble-tossed spirit of the watcher.

Jeffreys had succeeded in getting a temporary job which took him away during the next two days. But each night on his return he found his invalid brighter and softened in spirit by reason of his angel's visits.

"She'll come to-morrow, John. There's magic in her, I tell you. I see things I never saw before. You've been kind to me, John, and given up a lot for me, but if you were to hear her—"

Here the dying youth could get no farther.

He seemed much the same in the morning when Jeffreys started for work. The last words he said as his friend departed were—

"She's coming again to-day."

When Jeffreys came home in the evening the garret was silent, and on the bed lay all that remained on earth of the poor wrecked life which had been so strangely linked with his own.

As he stood over the lifeless body his eyes fell on a scrap of paper lying on the pillow. It was folded and addressed in pencil, "To the fellow-lodger."

Jeffreys caught it eagerly, and in a turmoil of agitation read the few lines within.

"Your friend was not alone when he died, peacefully, this afternoon. He left a message for you. 'Tell him he was right when he told me I had a chance. If it had not been for him I should have lost it.' He also said, 'Some day he may see mother and tell her about me. Tell her I died better than I lived.' Dear friend, whose name I do not know, don't lose heart. God is merciful, and will be your friend when every one else is taken from you."

It was not the words of this touching little message from the dead which brought a gasp to Jeffreys' throat and sent the colour from his cheeks as he read it. The writing, hasty and agitated as it was, was a hand he had seen before. He had in his pocket an envelope, well-worn now, addressed to him months ago in the same writing, and as he held the two side by side he knew Raby had written both.

He quitted the garret hurriedly, and entered the room of a family of five who lived below him.

"Mrs Pratt," said he to the ragged woman who sat nursing her baby in the corner, "did you see who Trimble had with him when he died?"

"He's dead, then, sir"—these fellow-lodgers of Jeffreys called him "sir" in spite of his misery. "I knew that cough couldn't last. My Annie's begun with it: she'll go too. It's been hard enough to keep the children, but it will be harder to lose them!" she cried.

Jeffreys went to the bed where the little consumptive girl lay in a restless sleep, breathing heavily.

"Poor little Annie!" said he; "I did not know she was so ill."

"How could you? Yes, I saw the lady come down—a pretty wee thing. She comes and goes here. Maybe when she hears of Annie she'll come to her."

"Do you know her name?"

"No. She's a lady, they say. I heard her singing upstairs to Trimble; it was a treat! So Trimble's dead. You'll be glad of some help, I expect? If you'll mind the children, Mr John, I'll go up and do the best we can for the poor fellow."

And so Jeffreys, with the baby in his arms, sat beside the little invalid in that lonely room, while the mother, putting aside her own sorrows, went up and did a woman's service where it was most needed. Next day he had the garret to himself. That letter—how he treasured it!—changed life for him. He had expected, when Jonah's illness ended, to drift back once more into the bitterness of despair. But that was impossible now.

He made no attempt to see the angel of whose visits to the alley he now and again heard. Indeed, whether he was in work or not, he left early and came back late on purpose to avoid a meeting. He had long been known by his neighbours only as John, so that there was no chance of her discovering who he was. Sometimes the memory of that October day in Regent's Park came up to haunt him and poison even the comfort of the little letter. Yet why should she not have forgotten him? and why should not Scarfe, the man with a character, be more to her than he, the man with none? Yet he tried bravely to banish all, save the one thought that it was she who bade him hope and take courage.

He worked well and patiently at the temporary manual labour on which he was employed, and when that came to an end he looked about resolutely for more.

Meanwhile—do not smile, reader—he made an investment of capital! In other words, he spent threepence in pen, ink, paper, and a candle, and spent one night in his lonely garret writing. It was a letter, addressed to a stranger, on a public question. In other words, it was an article to a London paper on, "Life in a Slum, by One who Lives There." It was a quiet, unsensational paper, with some practical suggestions for the improvement of poor people's dwellings, and a few true stories of experiences in which the writer himself had taken a part.

He dropped it doubtfully into the editor's box and tried to forget about it. He dared not look at the paper next day, and when two days passed and he heard nothing, he concluded that the bolt had missed fire.

But it was not so. A week later, the postman entered Storr Alley—an unheard-of event—and left a letter. It contained a money order for ten shillings, and read:—

"The editor encloses ten shillings for the letter on Slum Life, contributed by Mr John to the paper of the 23rd. He can take two more on the same subject at the same terms, and suggests that Mr John should deal specially with—" And here the editor gave an outline of the topics on which the public would be most likely to desire information.

With overflowing heart, and giving Raby the credit, he sat down and wrote the two articles.

His first half-sovereign went in a deed of mercy. Little Annie lay dead in her bed the night it arrived. Jeffreys that morning, before he started to work, had watched the little spark of life flicker for the last time and go out. The mother, worn-out by her constant vigils, lay ill beside her dead child. The father, a drunkard, out of work, deserted the place, and the two other children, the baby, and the sister scarcely more than baby, wailed all day for cold and hunger. What could he do but devote the first-fruits of his pen to these companions in distress? The half-sovereign sufficed for the child's funeral, with a little over for the sick mother. For the rest, he took the baby to his own garret for a night or two, and tended it there as best he could.

The two fresh letters to the paper in due time brought a sovereign; but at the same time a chilling notification to the effect that the editor did not need further contributions, and would let Mr John know if at any future time he required his services.

It was the abrupt closing of one door of promise. Still Jeffreys, with hope big within him, did not sit and fret.

Literary work might yet be had, and meanwhile bodily labour must be endured.

Towards the beginning of December, any one taking up one of the London penny papers might have observed, had he been given to the study of such matters, three advertisements. Here they are in their proper order:—

"Should this meet the eye of John Jeffreys, late private secretary to a gentleman in Cumberland, he is earnestly requested to communicate with his friend and late employer."

Readers of the agony column were getting tired of this advertisement. It had appeared once a week for the last six months, and was getting stale by this time.

The next advertisement was more recent, but still a trifle dull:—

"Gerard Forrester.

"If Gerard Forrester (son of the late Captain Forrester, of the— Hussars) who was last heard of at Bolsover School, in October, 18—, where he met with a serious accident, should see this, he is requested to communicate with Messrs. Wilkins & Wilkins, Solicitors, Blank Street, W.C., from whom he will hear something to his advantage. Any person able to give satisfactory information leading to the discovery of the said Gerard Forrester, or, in the event of his death, producing evidence of his decease, will be liberally rewarded."

The third advertisement, in another column, appeared now for the first time:—

"A young man, well educated, and a careful student of Bibliography, is anxious for literary work. Searches made and extracts copied.—Apply, J., 28a, Storr Alley, W.C."

It would have puzzled any ordinary observer to detect in these three appeals anything to connect them together. Jeffreys, however, glancing down the columns of the borrowed paper for a sight of his own advertisement, started and turned pale as his eye fell first on his own name, then on Forrester's.

It was like a conspiracy to bewilder and baffle him at the moment when hope seemed to be returning. He had convinced himself that his one chance was to break with every tie which bound him to his old life, and to start afresh from the lowest step of all. And here, at the outset, there met him two calls from that old life, both of which it was hard to resist. Mr Rimbolt, he decided to resist at all hazards. He still shuddered as he recalled the stiff rustle of a certain silk dress in Clarges Street, and preferred his present privations a hundredfold. Even the thought of Percy, and the library, and Mr Rimbolt's goodness, could not efface that one overpowering impression.

The other advertisement perplexed and agitated him more. Who was this unknown person on whose behalf Messrs. Wilkins & Wilkins were seeking information respecting young Forrester? It might be Scarfe, or Mr Frampton, or possibly some unheard-of relative, interested in the disposal of the late gallant officer's effects. He could not assist the search. The little he knew was probably already known to the lawyers, yet it excited him wildly to think that some one besides himself was in search of the lad whose memory had haunted him for so many months, and whom, even in his most despairing moments, he had never quite given up for lost.

True, he had long since ceased to believe that he was really to be found by searching. Everything combined to baffle search, almost to forbid it, and yet he had constantly lived in a vague expectation of finding or hearing of him some day accidentally and unawares. But this advertisement filled him with self-reproach. What right had he to do anything, to rest a day, till he had found this lost boy—lost by his fault, by his sin? No wonder he had not prospered. No wonder the bad name had haunted him and dragged him down! One thing was certain— whether what he knew was known to others or not, it was his duty to aid now in this new search. So he wrote as follows to Messrs. Wilkins & Wilkins:—

"Private and Confidential.

"The writer of this knew Gerard Forrester at Bolsover School two years ago, and was responsible almost wholly for the accident referred to. The writer left Bolsover in consequence, and has not seen Forrester since. In May of the following year he made inquiries at Grangerham, Forrester's native place, where he ascertained that the boy had been removed there from Bolsover and had remained for some time with his grandmother, Mrs Wilcox. Mrs Wilcox, however, was ordered to the South for her health, and died at Torquay. Forrester, who appears to have been a cripple, and unable to help himself, was then left in charge of his old nurse, who left Grangerham shortly afterwards, it is said, in order to take the boy to a hospital—where, no one could say. That is the last the writer heard. Messrs. W. & W. might do well to apply to the clergyman and Wesleyan minister at Grangerham, who may have some later news. The writer would be thankful to be of any service in helping to find one whom he has so terribly wronged; and any letter addressed 'J., at Jones's Coffee-House, Drury Lane,' will find him.

"It should be said that when Forrester was last seen, only faint hopes were held out as to his recovery, even as a cripple."

An anxious time followed. It was hard to work as usual—harder still to wait. The idea of Forrester being after all found took strange possession of his mind, to the exclusion of all else. The prospect which had seemed to open before him appeared suddenly blocked; he could think of nothing ahead except that one possible meeting.

So preoccupied was he, that his own advertisement for work was forgotten the day after it appeared; and when two days later he found a letter pushed under the door, his heart leaped to his mouth with the conviction that it could refer to nothing but the one object before him. It did not; it was a reply to his advertisement.

"J— is requested to call to-morrow, at 10 a.m., on Mr Trotter, 6, Porson Square, in reference to his advertisement for literary work."

With some trepidation, and no particular expectations, Jeffreys presented himself at the appointed time, and found himself face to face with a testy little gentleman, with by no means large pretensions to literary authority.

He took in the shabby-looking advertiser at a glance, and suited his tone accordingly.

"So you're the chap, are you? You're the nice educated literary chap that wants a job, eh?"

"I am."

"What can you do? Write poetry?"

"I never tried."

"Write 'istory, or 'igh hart, and that sort of thing?"

"I have not tried. I know mostly about bibliography."

"Bibli—who? You'll turn your 'and to anything for a crust, I suppose. Do you ever do anything in the puff line?"

Jeffreys admitted he had not.

"'Cos I want a chap to crack up my 'Polyglot Pickle' in proper literary style. None of your commonplace maunderings, but something smart and startling. What do you say? Can you do it or not?"

Jeffreys heart sank low. "I'll try—"

"Can you do it?" demanded the proud inventor.

"Yes," said Jeffreys desperately.

"All right," said Mr Trotter, greatly relieved. "I want a book of twenty pages. Write anything you like, only bring the pickles in on each page. You know the style. Twenty blood-curdling ballads, or Aesop's fables, or something the public's bound to read. Something racy, mind, and all ending in the pickle. It's a good thing, so you needn't be afraid of overdoing it. You shall have a bob a page, money down, or twenty-five bob for the lot if you let me have it this time to- morrow. Remember, nothing meek and mild. Lay it on thick. They're the best thing going, and got a good name. Polyglot, that's many tongues; everybody tastes 'em."

Jeffreys, with a dismal sense of the humour of the situation, accepted his noble task meekly, and sat down in Mr Trotter's back room with a bottle of the pickles on the table before him.

The reader shall be spared the rubbish he wrote. To this day he flares up angrily if you so much as mention the Polyglot Pickle to him.

The public, who laughed next week over the ridiculous bathos of those twenty loud-sounding ballads, little guessed the misery and disgust they had cost their author.

The one part of the whole business that was not odious was that in six hours Jeffreys had twenty-five shillings in his pocket; and to him twenty-five shillings meant a clear week and more in which to devote himself to the now all-absorbing task of seeking young Forrester.

On his way back to Storr Alley that evening he called as usual at the coffee-house, and found a further letter awaiting him:—

"Messrs. Wilkins & Wilkins will be much obliged if the writer of the letter of the sixth inst. will favour them with a call on Wednesday forenoon, as he may be able to assist them materially in the search in which they are engaged. Messrs. W. & W. will treat an interview as confidential."



CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

HIGH DUDGEON.

Things had not been going well with Percy Rimbolt since we saw him last, six or eight months ago, just before Jeffreys' expulsion from the house in Clarges Street. Mrs Rimbolt had some reason to modify her self- congratulations on that occasion, when Percy and Raby, who, it will be remembered, had been out riding at the time, returned home. Percy returned in high spirits; his new horse had turned out a beauty, and the canter in the park had acted like a tonic.

"Hullo, mother!" he said, as his parent came into the hall to meet him. "We've had a grand time, Raby and I. We saw the Prince of Wales and W.G. Grace, and the Queen, and everybody, and I gave Raby two hundred yards from the corner and ran her down before we were off Knightsbridge, and nearly got hauled up for furious riding. I say, I mean to make father get a horse for old Jeff, and we'll go out early in the mornings, when the Row's empty, and try handicaps, eh, Raby? Where's Jeff, I say?" and he ran whistling upstairs.

His mother, with some premonitory misgivings followed him.

"Where are you, Jeff?" she heard him shout. "I say, mother," he added, as Mrs Rimbolt approached, "where's Jeff? Is he out?"

"He is," said Mrs Rimbolt solemnly. "I want to speak to you, Percy."

"All right. But I say, when will he be in? He said he couldn't leave his work this afternoon. I want him to see Bendigo before he goes round to the stables."

"You had better tell the groom he need not wait, and then please come to my room, Percy," said Mrs Rimbolt.

Percy shouted down to Walker to send away the horse, and followed his mother into her boudoir.

"Percy, my dear boy," began the lady, "I am sorry to say I have just had to perform a very unpleasant duty. You can hardly understand—"

"What about—anything about Jeff?" interrupted the boy, jumping at the truth.

"It is. It has been necessary, for everybody's sake, that he should leave here."

"What!" thundered Percy, turning pale and clutching the back of his chair; "you've sent Jeff away—kicked him out?"