CHAPTER IV.
KELMERSDALE.
JANET found that the next boat would sail in four days; so, if she could be set free from her engagement at Gair and Co.'s, she could well be ready in time, even if she had to take the children with her. For, of course, if Mrs. Rayburn either could not or would not keep the little ones, they must needs go with her.
The first thing to be done now was to telegraph to Mrs. Rayburn. She passed an office on her way to Gair's. She sent her message, but only said, "Can you send to meet us at Rugeley to-morrow?"
"I can explain much better when I am with her," she thought; "and if she cannot take the boys, the expense is not very great, after all."
Having arranged for the answer to be sent to Gair's, she went thither herself, arriving five minutes late, for the first time.
"Has Mr. Simmons come yet?" she asked a young man who was arranging the window.
"He's in the office, Mrs. Rayburn."
And to the office Janet repaired. There she told her story, with certain reservations. Her brother, she said, had sent her money to go out to Canada to her husband, who was ill. When he recovered, her brother knew of a promising opening for him, in which her help would be necessary. Her month's salary was nearly due, but she was willing to forfeit it, if she might go at once. There was no press of work, and Miss Green was a very capable cutter-out. Mr. Simmons, a slow and solemn man, rather thought that such an abrupt departure was impossible, but would speak to Mr. Gair. Luckily for Janet, it was kind old Mr. Gair who was in the office, and he came out to speak to her himself.
"We're sorry to lose you, Mrs. Rayburn, but we will not stand in your way, as the matter seems of consequence. Pay Mrs. Rayburn up to the first of July, Simmons; she has been a steady and useful worker."
Finally, the old gentleman sat down and wrote her a regular discharge.
"Keep that, Mrs. Rayburn," he said, looking kindly at the anxious young face. "It may prove useful, though I hope your husband will do well. Do you take your children with you?"
"No, sir; I shall take them to Kelmersdale Castle, near Rugeley, where their grandmother is the housekeeper. If she can keep them, I am to leave them with her for a time."
"Well, good-bye, good-bye," said Mr. Gair, retreating hastily towards his private room, for his sons were wont to laugh at him for being always ready to interest himself in any one. But he took a parting glance at Janet, and something in the youth, sweetness, and determination in her face touched his heart. Muttering, "I will now; they may say what they like, just for once I will please myself," back he came.
"Are you sure you can manage all this for yourself, Mrs. Rayburn? Is there anything that I can do for you?"
Janet looked up in his face with a somewhat tremulous smile.
"I have been so afraid," she said, "but if every one is as kind as you are—but, indeed, that is not likely. I don't know how to thank you, sir; your kindness gives me such courage."
"I think you have plenty of courage," the old man answered, "and a better Friend than I can be. One who can go with you, and yet be with the children at home. Is it not so?"
"Oh, it is—it is indeed! Yes, I can say that sincerely."
"Then you serve my Master, and so you need never be afraid, for you will be cared for. God bless you, child."
Janet left the shop with that blessing warm at her heart. She went home, and busied herself in getting the boys' clothes together and packing them. She took a cabinet photograph of her husband and cut away the edges, to make it fit into a little miniature case she had among her few ornaments: this she meant to give to Frank. She made a list of the things in the trunk, which she carefully packed for the children. While thus employed, the answer to her telegram was sent on from Bold Street. It was brief, but said that a vehicle should be at the station to meet the 12 a.m. train.
Then the boys came home from school, and Janet nearly broke down when she heard their shout of rejoicing when they saw her at that unusual hour. When she had given them their dinner, she took Fred on her knee and put her arm round Frank, as he stood beside her.
"Now, listen to me, my little boys. I have something to tell you which you will not like, and neither do I; but it cannot be helped, and I want you both to be good—very good—and so help me to bear it. For I must go away and leave you for a time, and—and—it nearly breaks my heart."
"Leave us—here, muddie?" Frank said, fixing his blue eyes on her face, and growing white in the endeavour to "be good."
"Won't be left," said Fred, sturdily; "we go wif you."
"Not here, Frank, and not alone. To-morrow, I shall take you to a beautiful place in the country, where I hope to leave you with grandma. There you will have green fields to run about in, and grandma to take care of you. You remember grandma, Fred, don't you?"
Frank had slipped down, and sat on the floor at his mother's feet, staring up at her, and keeping unnaturally still, with every trace of colour gone from his face. And there he still sat, when Fred had forgotten all about this terrible parting and was playing merrily about the room, and Janet was completing the packing of the box.
"Why must you go, muddie?" he cried at last, catching at her dress as she passed him.
"My darling, my little Frank, don't look like that. I would not leave you if—if I could help it. Father is ill and, wants me. When he is well, you shall both come to us."
She sat down and lifted him upon her knee.
"The time will pass quickly, Frank. See, here is father's picture—I give it to you; keep it safe, and show it to Fred, that he may remember him. And you will be good, and not make poor muddie fret. And you will take care of Fred, and try to keep him from being troublesome to grandma."
"I will try," Frank said. "May I go to bed, muddie? I'm tired, and don't want any supper to-day."
Janet was rather frightened, he looked so white and weak. She put him to bed, and brought him some bread and milk, which he took to please her. When she woke him next morning he seemed quite himself again, and, having said his prayers, he came and stood before her, saying earnestly—
"I will try to be good, muddie, and I promise to take care of Fred all I can."
And he was good, poor little fellow, giving no trouble whatever, and trying to keep Fred quiet during the journey. But Fred had bound himself by no such promise, and was in uproarious spirits, making noise enough for half a dozen.
At Rugeley she left the train and looked about for some one from Kelmersdale. Presently a short, square-built, awkward young man came up to her, making a clumsy bow, which he accompanied by a curious movement of one foot, like the pawing of an impatient horse. But it was shyness, not impatience, that made him paw.
"Be you Mrs. Fred Rayburn?"
"Yes; is Mrs. Rayburn here?"
"No, but I have the taxcart here for you and the children. Be this your box? Come along, then."
With a final paw, which sent the gravel flying, he picked up the box and led the way to where he had left the taxcart. Janet sat in front beside the driver, with Fred in her arms, for she could not trust the excited child out of her sight. Frank and the box kept each other company, and Frank was glad, for he wanted to cry just a little without "making muddie cry." It was a lovely drive, but none of them saw much of it.
At last they drove through a great heavy gate into a paved court, walled on three sides, and with a large pillared porch on the fourth, with a great broad flight of stone steps leading to a large iron-studded door. This was wide open, and just inside stood Mrs. Rayburn, and with her a young servant, in white cap and apron and blue satin bows.
"Well, Janet dear, here you are, and here are my darling boys," Mrs. Rayburn cried. "It was a surprise—your telegraph saying that you were coming. Why, Frank looks but poorly; a little country air will do him good. Jacob, bring in that box. Fred's grown a little; as to Frank, he's run up far too fast for strength. Come to my sitting-room—isn't this cosy? Maria, we'll have dinner as soon as 'tis ready."
Maria departed, and Mrs. Rayburn went on.
"So you have a holiday—how long is it, Janet? I hope you can stay some time. My lord is never here except during the shooting season, when he has a party for the sport; so I can do just as I like. And I advise you to leave the children with me just for a bit—just till Frank picks up a colour and a little flesh. He looks very peaky."
"Yes; Liverpool does not agree with him. May the boys run out and play in the court, Mrs. Rayburn? I want to talk to you alone."
"I'll just send and get the gate shut, and then they'll be as safe as possible."
She left the room, and soon a man crossed the yard and shut the gate. The two boys went out, but only into the porch. Fred was so sleepy that he was glad to sit on the stone steps with his head on his brother's shoulder. Frank, white and weary, knowing the whereabouts of every bone in his body by a separate ache, yet manfully held the little one in his arms, and sat gazing at the paved court and the high walls. Somehow he felt like a bird in a cage.
"Now, Janet, we're alone. Let's have a talk till dinner is ready."
"Mrs. Rayburn, do you think Lord Beaucourt would be annoyed if you had my boys here for a time?"
Having just asked them to stay, Mrs. Rayburn could not very well tell a different story now; but when she made that request, she had no idea that Janet would part with her darlings for so much as a week. But, after all, the boys could not be in her way. The house was large and the weather warm; they could be out for the greater part of the day, and they would not cost her a penny. So, after an almost imperceptible pause, she said—
"My lord annoyed? Oh, dear, not at all. My mother, you know, was a confidential servant—almost a friend; and he is just as kind to me. If you like to let Frank stay here, I'll take the best of care of him—you know that."
"Yes; so you said in the kind letter I sent on to Fred. And he has sent me word by my brother to leave them with you if you really can have them without being troubled about it afterwards."
"To leave them both?"
"Yes; Fred is ill and in trouble, and Gilbert says I had better go at once. Gilbert has plans for us, but it is not quite certain yet where we shall be. I am to go to Gattigo to my brother, and Fred will meet me there, and when we know where we shall settle, we will get the boys out. It will not be for long. Gilbert thinks of setting up an hotel in Gattigo, with Fred and me to manage it. And when we are quite settled, and can make you comfortable, you must come out to us, grandma. However pleasant things may be made for you here, it is not like being in your own house with your own people."
"No, indeed, Janet, it's a deadly dull life here for one used to sociability and a large town. I often think of Hemsborough and the dear old gatehouse. I might be of use, too, in an hotel. Well, Maria is a good girl, and will help me willingly, and, as you say, it will not be for long. And what trouble is Fred in, poor dear fellow?"
"He went into partnership with a man he had known before, and this man, Turner, was not dealing fairly, and he had to run away, and Fred's money was all lost."
"If this Turner is the man who broke some years ago in Hemsborough, Fred ought to have known better than to have dealings with him. So he lost all he had?"
"Yes—but it was not much. Gilbert has got on very well, and seems sure that this hotel will succeed. But Fred was ill when the letter was written, and Gilbert says I ought to be there. They both wish me to come without the boys, but if you cannot have them, I shall take them with me." And Janet's face brightened a little, for oh! How much rather would she take them than leave them!
But Mrs. Rayburn was determined not to say anything which could make Janet think that her position at Kelmersdale was not as independent and pleasant in every way as she had represented it, so she declared that my lord would be quite pleased to know that she had the darling boys for company.
"For he knows it is a lonely life here, and he is so kind-hearted. But, you see, things were going all wrong for want of a really trustworthy confidential person at the head of the household. He will not be here till the middle of August, and perhaps not till September. Of course, they might be in the way then. But there's time enough, and you know, Janet, I'd do anything for you and Fred."
"I knew you would do this, if you could, so I have brought all their clothes. I must get back to Liverpool; the steamer sails on Thursday, early."
"Then you can stay here to-night. Do you think I'm going to let you travel back to-night, and you looking so tired and worn? No, no, stay for the night, and you'll see where the little darlings are to sleep, and how comfortable I shall make them; as well I may, remembering all your kindness to me, and how you nursed me when I was ill."
Her cordiality increased as she thought over the hotel project, and considered how pleasant it would be, when all was comfortably settled, to rejoin her stepson in Gattigo. Life at Kelmersdale was very dull to a woman whose idea of enjoying herself meant much gossip and many sociable tea-parties.
"I will stay, as you are so kind," Janet said, yet in her heart she wished she had the courage to go, and have the parting over.
Maria, a good-natured girl, with very little to do, seemed rather pleased at the prospect of a visit from the children, and said that the last housekeeper had a niece who used to stay with her for months at a time. There was a turret-room, six-sided, at the end of the passage on which Mrs. Rayburn's rooms opened, and this was got ready for the boys. Janet unpacked and arranged their clothes herself; and at night she tucked them up in an old-fashioned little bedstead, with a high back of carved wood. Conspicuous among the carving was an earl's coronet, which had once been gilded; I suppose some baby Earl of Beaucourt had once slept in the bed which now held poor Janet's boys. They slept as sweetly as any earl, and even Janet slept, worn out.
Next day, Janet said she must catch the train for Liverpool, which was due at Rugeley at a little after eleven. She had still a good deal of packing to do, some things to buy which she would want on the passage, and she must go to the school the boys had attended and pay what was due there.
She would not take the boys to Rugeley with her. When Jacob and the taxcart came to the door, she kissed Mrs. Rayburn, and whispered—
"Be—be tender with them. They have never had a harsh word. Frank will give you no trouble, and if Fred is not quite so good, oh! Have patience with him, he is but a baby. Good-bye, and thank you for all your kindness."
Then she knelt down on the stone floor of the hall, and held her boys to her heart for a few moments. Fred set up a lamentable howl, but Frank only gazed at his mother with wide eyes and a pale face. Janet rose, and walked hurriedly out into the porch; Jacob helped her into the cart, and in a moment they were gone.
"Come back, come back, muddie!" shouted Fred; "Take me wif you. I won't stay here."
"Nonsense, child!" said Mrs. Rayburn, catching him as he broke away from Frank and ran towards the door. "You've got to stay here. Come along to my room and watch the cart; you can see it from the window there."
When the cart had passed the last turn in the long road through the park at which it could be seen, Fred set up another roar. Mrs. Rayburn lifted him up, and went to where her spacious easy-chair stood, where she sat down.
"Stop that, Fred. Come here, Frank. Now, listen to me, both of you. You are to stay here for a time, and if you're good, you'll have a pleasant time of it. And I dare say you will be good, after a time, but you're both just a bit spoiled, because your mother is too soft in her ways with you. Now, I'm not like her."
"No, grandma," said Frank, with conviction.
"And if you're naughty or noisy or mischievous or troublesome in any way, I'll give you a right good whipping. If you'll be good, you'll find yourself very well off. And when you've had a whipping or two, I've no doubt I shall have no more trouble with you. Come, now, get your hats, and I'll show you a place where you may run about and play."
She took them out into the paved court, and across to a small iron gate, and, when she had unlocked and opened this gate, Frank cried out with surprise and delight—
"Oh, muddie, muddie, if you could just see this!"
On hearing this imprudent mention of "muddie," Fred began to roar; but he received a very prompt cuff on the side of his curly head, and ceased, staring hard at grandma.
To confess the truth, Fred had been quite spoiled by being the pet and plaything of the school he attended with Frank—and, indeed, of the house where his mother lodged also. He was a very handsome child, being like his father, and he was also a self-willed little monkey, who liked his own way, and was but little used to contradiction. Seeing "muddie" but for a short time each day, he was always very happy and tolerably good with her, so that poor Janet had little idea that her son had learned to get his own way—entirely with Frank, and to a great extent with others—by howling loudly when not pleased. Thus I may say that I do not altogether grudge him a little discipline, though a box on the ears is not a safe way to apply it.
Frank took his brother's hand, and drew him through the little gate into a large, old-fashioned garden, primly and stiffly laid out, and full of various flowers, though there was nothing very fine or rare. But to a child a flower is a flower, and there were walks to run up and down, little thickets of evergreen to explore, and, in the middle, a marble basin full of gold-fish. In fact, it was a Paradise, and in this Paradise, these two little Adams were to be left to their own devices.
"I shall come for you at two—that's my dinner-time, children. You must not walk on the beds nor pick flowers nor do any mischief, but play about and amuse yourselves. And I do hope, Frank, that you'll pick up a little colour, for at present, you're a show. I shall lock you in. Now mind, if you do any mischief, I shall whip you soundly."
To leave two boys, one not quite seven and the other only four, alone in a garden full of flowers, and to expect them to gather none is to expect too much of such very young human nature. Frank would never have done it, but Fred did; and Frank, though he disapproved, did not actually interfere to stop him.
Mrs. Rayburn spent the rest of the morning in writing to Lord Beaucourt, telling him what had happened (in her own way), and asking leave to keep the boys with her until their parents sent for them. As she had before given Lord Beaucourt to understand that Fred Rayburn was a ne'er-do-weel, who had ruined her, and his wife a silly, shiftless body, who never saw what mischief was going on, while she herself was a most amiable, trustful being, whose little all had been made away with by this thriftless pair, the earl was quite ready to pity her. He wrote that he was sorry that she had new difficulties with her stepson, but that the children would be in no one's way at Kelmersdale, and she could keep them, if she liked. This answer, of course, did not come for two or three days.
At two, Mrs. Rayburn went to the garden for the two boys, caught them red-handed—that is to say, Fred had his hand full of some gaudy tulips and china roses—and proceeded to administer what she called justice at once. She had found them near the marble basin, and on the edge of this she sat down.
"Did you hear me say that you were not to touch the flowers? Yes, you certainly did. And I said that if you did, I should whip you soundly."
"If we did any mischief, you said, grandma," answered Frank.
"And what do you call that?" pointing to the flowers in Fred's hand. "And what do you suppose Mr. Ross, the gardener, will say when he misses them? And the beds all trampled on, I suppose?"
"No, indeed, grandma, we never went on the beds at all. We did no mischief—flowers don't mind being picked."
"Don't you stand arguing there, sir; you were always one for arguing. It was all your fault, for Fred's only a baby, so I shall let him off this time."
And seizing Frank, she proceeded to lay him across her knees, and gave him a smart whipping. Then she set him on his feet, all flushed and giddy. The first thing he saw was the row of windows that overlooked the garden, and I think that the shame of having possibly been seen undergoing such disgrace was worse than the whipping.
Fred, hitherto staring, open-mouthed and terrified, now began to whimper.
"Oh, Fwank, was it for the f'owers? You said she'd be angwy. Beat me too, you bad woman. 'Twas me took 'em; Fwank begged me not."
Mrs. Rayburn was quite willing. Many a time at Hemsborough had her fingers itched to whip one or the other, or both, for she had scant patience with children, and Janet had perhaps too much. But as she put forth a hand to take hold of Fred, Frank pushed in between them, keeping the child behind him, and crying, as he faced her like a little lion—
"No, you've whipped me, and that's enough. If you touch Fred, I'll—I'll push you into the water! We'll run away and be lost; you shan't—you shan't touch Fred."
"Here's a row," said Mrs. Rayburn, half frightened at the violence of the usually gentle child, and the angry spark in his eyes. "I told you," she continued, "that I'd let him off this time, and I will, though he'd provoke a saint. But if you're to stay here, you must obey me, and I just mean to let you see that at once. There, now, come to dinner, and let me hear no more nonsense."
They followed her, a sad, quenched little couple as ever you saw. Frank could eat no dinner; the remembrance of that terrible scene was too much for him; and Fred, seeing this, shook his wee white fist at grandma—when her back was turned.
Dinner over, Mrs. Rayburn seated herself in her easy-chair, and took from her pocket Janet's list of the boys' belongings.
"What picture of your father is this on your list?" she asked. "It is not among your clothes. You'd best give it to me to keep for you."
"Muddie said I was to keep it, and show it to Fred every day, for fear we'd forget him. He's been so long away, you see."
"Well, show it to me."
Reluctantly, Frank drew from his pocket a little square brown case, and, opening it, showed the handsome, pleasant face of his father.
"Oh, only that! Why, it's the cabinet one just cut to fit the case. Yes, you can keep it. Fred there is very like him. You're like your mother. Eh, what's that child doing over there?"
"Nuffin," said Fred, hurriedly abandoning his design to pull the needles out of her knitting.
"You may both go now and play in the court," said Mrs. Rayburn. "There's no flowers there for you to spoil. I'm going to take a nap, for I'm tired out running after you. Now, mind me, boys, particularly Frank, as he's the eldest. I'll be good to you, if you're good; but you may as well give in at once, for I'm not like your mother, that never brought you into order by so much as a smack. Now, you know that I'm in earnest, so run away."
They stole away, hand-in-hand. Frank sat down on the white stone steps.
"Fred, dear," he said, "I do feel so sick and foolish."
"Poo' Fwank, mine own Fwankie," and the little arms stoles round Frank's neck, and the rosy cheek was fondly rubbed against the white one. "It was bad of Fwed not to mind you; Fwed will mind you always now; and be so good. Oh, Fwank, where's muddie?"
"She'll send for us as soon as ever she can. Muddie did not know that grandma would be cross."
But, it was curious enough, Frank was not one whit surprised to find her so.
CHAPTER V.
ALL THE WAY TO GATTIGO.
JANET hardly knew how the time passed during her journey back to Liverpool. She was not asleep, though her fellow-travellers thought she was, for she sat perfectly still with her eyes shut. She felt so awfully alone that she did not know how to bear it.
Arrived in Liverpool, her first care was to secure a berth on board the ship; she had not done so before, not being certain that the children would not be with her. She saw the stewardess, and got her to give her a list of the few things she might want during the passage more than what was supplied by the company. Then she went back to her lodgings, paid up her few debts, packed up everything, went to the school and settled things there; finally, she had everything ready in good time.
It was well that she had so much to do, and so little time in which to do it. For she was very unhappy, when she had time to think. She could not reconcile herself to the step she had taken at her husband's desire. To part with her boys—ah! It seemed cruel. Surely she could not have done it? Surely the door would open, and a baby face peep in, and a merry shout of "Muddie, Muddie, we've come home!" would be heard. But no, all was silence. Fred's loudest howl would have been music to his mother.
And there was another thing that she could not help feeling uncomfortable about. She had not told Mrs. Rayburn that Fred's trouble was so serious that he had been imprisoned and must stand his trial. She had no suspicion that Mrs. Rayburn was not the good-tempered, obliging person she had always appeared, but she did know that she was a great talker and a great gossip. She might write all this to her sister-in-law in Hemsborough; she might even tell the boys, from whom their father so much desired to conceal it.
It had seemed to Janet that there could be no harm in keeping back the worst part of the story, but now she felt uneasy at having done so, being a very truthful and candid woman. Events proved that it would have been wiser to tell all; yet I do not think Janet was to blame for her reticence.
At last the time came for her to go on board; and she and her luggage reached the vessel in safety. It was a lovely evening, and the Mersey as smooth as glass, yet before the vessel left the river, poor Janet was lying in her berth, deadly sick, and only hearing a voice as at a great distance, saying—
"Dear, dear, fancy being took like this before we're out of the river!"
On the river, or on the broad Atlantic, it was all much the same to poor Janet. She was never free from sickness till she found herself landed alone in a strange land. They told her on board that she would feel all right the moment she landed, but she did not feel much better than when at sea. Then she dimly hoped that a night's sleep would cure her, and that everything would cease to swim before her eyes, and leave off coming into violent contact with her when she tried to move. But the night brought no sleep, and no refreshment.
"I must go on to Gattigo. I must get to Fred and Gilbert. I'm going to be ill," she said aloud. And she dressed herself with much difficulty, and made her way to the railway station named in Gilbert's notes.
How she remembered her route, as sent her by Gilbert, how she contrived to drag herself from place to place, and to keep her luggage together—but that is, I believe, easier in Canada than at home—she never could remember. Her head ached so dreadfully that the effort of moving or speaking was agony, and every now and then she lost all sense of her present surroundings and fell into a half-conscious state of fear and misery, only to be realized by those who have endured the slow coming-on of a bad fever.
She reached Gattigo at last. No Fred was visible, but Gilbert was waiting for her.
"Why, here you are, my brave girl," he said pityingly, "and, as things have turned out, I need not have hurried you so."
Janet caught at his arm to keep herself from falling, crying out—
"Gilbert—is he dead?"
"No, no; hold up, Janet. Why, the poor girl has fainted! Here, Brett!"—to a passing railway clerk. "Lend me a hand."
"Your sister that you were expecting? Ah, poor girl, no doubt it was a shock."
"I hadn't time to shock her; she took me up wrong, and thought her husband was dead. Help me, and I'll get her into my waggon and make tracks for home. I think she's ill by the look of her, and finding every one curious about her would make her worse. I must get her home to my wife; she'll manage her."
With his friend's help, he got Janet out of the station, and into his light spring-waggon, where they made her as comfortable as possible. She had revived a little by this time, and obediently swallowed something hot which Brett brought for her. But before they had passed over the fifteen miles of rough road which lay between Gattigo and "Old Man's Ferry," she was almost unconscious; and in that state she lay for hours. Even when this passed off, and she seemed more alive, she never spoke, nor looked as if she knew what they were doing to her.
Mrs. Gray, a bright-looking little French Canadian, who, without a single really good feature except her dark, vivacious eyes, was a very pretty woman, was lost in admiration of Janet's regular features and white skin.
"But you never told me that your sister was so pretty, Gilbert?"
"I declare, I never thought about it," he answered. "Poor mother used to be very proud of her looks, and her good marriage, poor child!"
"Gilbert, is there no chance that we may keep them here? Now that she is getting better, we ought to settle what to say to her."
"You wish to keep them?"
"Well, think of our long, lonely winters! Even the children would be glad of two new companions. And for me, a woman like her—ah, what a comfort!"
"But, Aimée, the hotel notion won't work—not with Rayburn as manager; he's done for that plan."
"I suppose so; but, should you try it with another manager, you would want help here, and so should I. And you would have to drive to Gattigo much oftener than now. You could trust him?"
"Well, I hope so."
"Why, Gilbert, you always say you think him innocent."
"Yes; but he failed to convince the court of it. It is a tangled skein, Aimée, and we can settle nothing till we have him here and Janet well again."
He got up and walked once or twice up and down the long, low room, with a cooking-stove at one end and an open grate for burning wood at the other. Coming to a standstill near the stove, at which Aimée was busy, he said, as if to himself—
"And one thinks of the disgrace, too."
"Now, Gilbert, the case went against him, no doubt; but there were many who, like you, believed him innocent of all but careless folly. It would be forgotten in time if he works steadily here, and makes people like him."
"To like him would be easy; he's a taking kind of fellow enough. Whether he has it in him to bear up under all this misfortune, and live it down, is a different question."
"He would have a better chance here, under your eye, than in any other place."
"That is true. Anyhow, I have Janet and the two boys to think of."
This conversation passed one day that Janet had seemed a little better, but it was not for some time afterwards that she was really quite herself again; even then her weakness was very great. The first time she spoke was a great joy to Aimée, who had begun to fear that her mind was really affected.
Aimée had come to the bedside with a cup of soup and a dainty little bit of toast, when something in the wistful gaze she met, made her say with a smile—
"It is your soup, my dear. Let me raise you up a little."
"You are so kind!" Janet whispered. "Tell me, am I in a hospital? I do not remember coming here."
"No, you were so ill. This is your brother's house, and I am his wife, Aimée."
"And my husband—is dead," Janet said slowly.
"Not he. What made you think that? He will be here in a day or two, and will tell you all about it himself, and why he could not come sooner."
Janet took the speaker's hand, and held it with more strength than she looked capable of.
"You are sure—you do not say this only to quiet me?"
"No, my dear, indeed I would not be so cruel. Your Fred is in good health, and will be here very soon now."
Janet closed her eyes and fell asleep; indeed, it seemed to her that she did nothing but sleep until one day she awoke to find Fred sitting beside her, watching for the opening of her eyes.
CHAPTER VI.
MRS. RAYBURN'S CAP.
WE must now return to Kelmersdale. Happily for us, we can do so without being sick like poor Janet!
In spite of little Fred's good resolutions, things frequently went wrong between him and Mrs. Rayburn. She was not fond of children. Her one idea about them was that they must be well fed, go to bed early, and never be in the way at any time. Now, Fred was nearly always in the way. The children had no employment and amusement, for they never went out except into the stone court, and though they could play there for a time, when Frank got tired of running (which he did very quickly) Fred positively could not keep out of mischief of a very babyish, innocent kind; but his misdemeanours made Mrs. Rayburn very angry, and once or twice she whipped Frank for being so lazy, sitting half asleep and not seeing after his little brother.
If she had whipped Fred, she would have done no harm, for Fred was a boy to whom a whipping would have been a small affliction. He would no doubt have roared during the infliction, and laughed in her face five minutes afterwards. But Frank was very different—a sensitive, delicate child, to whom such a punishment was a real cruelty. Not that she whipped him severely; that she never did, but the injustice of her proceedings and the disgrace of the punishment was breaking Frank's heart and ruining Fred's temper. The little creature began to hate her with an intensity of which she had no idea; she never even observed the way in which he would sit staring at her with a frown on the smooth little forehead, and a sidelong look occasionally at some of her belongings, against which he was forming plans. As long as Fred lives, he will never forget her face.
Weeks passed, and no letter came from Janet. Mrs. Rayburn grumbled, but she really did not mind, as the children were no expense to her. But, after a time, she received a letter from her sister-in-law at Hemsborough which made her very angry. The letter informed her that her married niece, Mrs. John Martin, had heard from her husband, who had gone to America on business, and he had sent her the newspaper now forwarded to Mrs. Rayburn. Mr. Martin had been at New Durham, had heard people speaking of the trial that was soon to take place, and had, of course, recognized the Hemsborough name. The paper contained an account of Mr. Turner's transactions, his escape, the arrest of his partner, and the trial. The account was very brief. The prisoner had denied being a partner, though he had been assisting in the business. Of the foundry and the actual work he knew nothing. But it came out that he had advanced a sum of money to carry on the works, and the court was not satisfied that he knew nothing of the deceptions practised. The upshot was that Rayburn was sentenced to a term of imprisonment. There was no doubt that the Frederick Rayburn so sentenced was really Hopper and Mason's late manager, for Martin had been present at the trial, and knew him very well.
"Here's a pretty kettle of fish, Maria!" Mrs. Rayburn cried, as the girl entered her sitting-room just as she finished reading all this. "There's my precious stepson been cheating right and left, somewhere in Canada, and sent to jail for it, and no doubt, he and his wife mean to make off as soon as he gets out, and leave the boys to me! And what can I do but send them to the workhouse?"
"The poor little things!" said Maria. "La! Ma'am, they do no harm here."
"But what's to become of them? I can't put them to school; I haven't a penny, thanks to their father. I just ask you what's to become of them?"
"Well, my lord will be here soon, ma'am, and maybe he'll be able to advise you about them."
For Lord Beaucourt's visits were looked upon as the time when knotty questions would be decided for the inmates of the Castle.
Presently it was time to summon the children to dinner, and when they were seated at table, and Mrs. Rayburn was carving, she said to Maria—
"Poor unfortunate little souls, what's to become of them now?"
"What's the matter?" asked Frank. "Have you had a letter from muddie?"
"No, indeed, and I doubt I never shall. I wonder, Maria, did she know of this when she was here?"
"Know of what?" Frank cried. "Do tell me, grandma."
"Indeed, I suppose you must know it sooner or later. Your father's in trouble again. First, he loses his good place, and then he goes to Canada and gets put in jail for cheating."
Fred was frightened, though he did not understand. Frank did, and said boldly—
"It's not true. Father never did that—never!"
"Poor child!" said Maria. "Never mind, it's no fault of yours, if he did."
"But he did not. He couldn't," Frank insisted.
"Don't tell him not to mind, Maria, for he'll have to know it. It is all here in black and white, printed in a newspaper."
"It's a mistake, grandma. Father did not—do that."
"My poor child, there's no use denying it. You remember John Martin—he married my niece, Annie Thompson that was—he was foreman at Timpson and Booth's, in Hemsborough? Do you remember him?"
"Yes, I do," Frank admitted.
"Well, he was at this place—New Durham, or Dorset, I forget which exactly—and he saw your father tried and found guilty. He's in jail for it now, and it would be a good thing, if they'd keep him there."
"Do you mean always? Will they keep him always?"
"It's much the same as far as you're concerned. He's got your mother out now, and got rid of you two—I only hope it wasn't a plan laid between them. Eat your dinner, child. Goodness knows how you're to get a dinner when my lord puts you out of this, and it stands to reason he will not keep you for ever."
"I can't eat. It's not that I believe it; muddie would never leave us here always—she wants us—but—but—" the clear little voice broke down—"muddie will come for us soon," he said, with a sob.
"I wish I could think so," Mrs. Rayburn said dolefully, "for I see nothing before you but the poorhouse. What's that, Maria?"
"A telegram from my lord, ma'am."
The telegram gave notice that Lord Beaucourt was coming that evening to get through some business with the steward and keepers, and to arrange with Mrs. Rayburn about rooms, etc., for the shooting-party which was presently to assemble at Kelmersdale.
All was now bustle and preparation. The notice was short, but still all could easily be got ready in time. The children were sent out into the court, and told that Lord Beaucourt must now be informed that they were left on their grandmother's hands, and that he would probably insist on their being sent away.
"And that means the poorhouse," Mrs. Rayburn said mournfully.
Frank sat on the steps, and for a time Fred was with him. The poor child, being very wretched, did not observe that the young rogue soon left him, and stole into the house.
Jacob was going in the cart to do some errands for Mrs. Rayburn. He drove into the court presently, and the great gates were left open for him to drive out again. Frank was looking wistfully out at the green glades in which he was not allowed to wander, and he felt a wild longing to run out, if only for a minute, when suddenly Fred ran out of the house, looking somewhat scared.
"Fwank, Fwank, turn and put it out—turn quick!"
"Put what out?" said Frank, getting up.
"Gwandma's cap. Oh, I only meant to burn a hole in the wibbon, just to vex her, but when I stwuck the match, it all blazed up—all the cap—all blazes, and the bed! Fwank, make haste."
The little monkey had been watching grandma, and, seeing her leave the bedroom, he had stolen in to see what she had been about. She had been laying out her best attire to wear for the earl's arrival; on the bed lay a silk dress and a large cap, with streamers and flowers enough for three; on the table lay a matchbox. Here was a glorious opportunity! How vexed grandma would be! But lace caps are highly inflammable, and the result of his experiment frightened Fred.
The boys raced through the hall, and just as they reached the bedroom, Mrs. Rayburn opened the door of her sitting-room, which was just opposite. Frank scarcely saw her; he was old enough to know something of the danger. He flung the bedroom door wide, and at the sight that met her eyes, Mrs. Rayburn set up an appalling shout. At the sound, Fred turned and ran off to hide. Jacob and several others came running; the fire was soon put out, but Mrs. Rayburn's silk gown and cap were destroyed.
"It's all out, mum; you don't need to be frightened any more," Jacob said, looking ruefully at his singed and blackened garments. "But how on earth did the things take fire?"
Mrs. Rayburn looked round. There stood Frank—and Frank (against his will, for he tried not to do it) looked at the matchbox that lay open on the floor.
"It was your doing!" she cried excitedly. "Well, that settles the matter! My lord will insist on my sending you away, and I have nowhere to send you but to the poorhouse. The boy who could set fire to things that way certainly will not be kept here. You might have burned down the Castle. It's an offence you might be sent to prison for."
"Indeed, I wish my lord would insist upon his being sent to prison, the wicked little cub," said Jacob; "but I'm sure he'll send him out of the Castle. Lock him up safe, mum, till my lord comes."
"I shall, Jacob; but he really ought to get a good flogging at once. I never thought he'd do such a wicked thing."
"I'll give him a flogging that he won't forget in a hurry," said Jacob, who, having been much frightened, was now very angry. He laid hands on the supposed culprit, and led him out into the hall. There he took a whip from its place on the wall, and desired Frank to take off his jacket, which Frank, trembling and tearful but silent, was doing, when, from some hiding-place, Fred rushed out, crying—
"'Twas me did it; you s'ant beat Fwank."
"You! I don't believe it," said Mrs. Rayburn; "why, you're only a baby."
"I'm not!" cried Fred. "I stwuck a match and set your cap in a blaze, and then I wan for Fwank to put it out."
"Hold your tongue, Fred," said the elder boy; "he'd kill you; you're too little to bear it."
Jacob, uttering some queer, inarticulate sound, hung up the whip and walked oft. As long as he lived, he never forgot the look of the slender little lad standing there ready to bear anything to shield his little brother.
Mrs. Rayburn, thus left to her own devices, took the two children to her sitting-room, and opened a queer little hiding-hole in the thickness of the wall, into which she pushed Frank, saying—
"There you both stay, till my lord says what is to be done with you;" and she was in the act of pushing Fred in too, when he dived suddenly under her ample skirts and fled, nor could she find him, though she followed as soon as she had shut Frank in.
Frank sat down on the floor of his prison, and tried to collect his thoughts. He had not quite succeeded when the door of the closet was softly opened, and little Fred crept in.
"Oh, Fwank, she'll send me away and keep you!"
"How do you know?"
"I was hid away in the big room, and she and Mawia came in to dust it and make weady; and she was telling Mawia."
"Yes; tell me what they said."
"Said I was a awful bad child, and that there was no managing the two of us. Gwandma said she'd keep you and send me away; my lord would manage it for her."
Frank scrambled to his feet.
"She'd send you to the poorhouse! Fred, it was very bad of you to set the cap on fire, and you must never do such a thing again. But she shan't part us. Who would take care of you? And I promised muddie I would. I will, too. We'll slip out—the great gate is open still, or I'd have heard the clang—and we'll run away."
"Oh, jolly, jolly!" cried Fred, performing as lively a dance as the space would permit. "We'll wun away and be beggars! Won't it be fun?"
"It can't be wrong," Frank said thoughtfully. "She'd part us, and—no, it must be right for me to save you. We'll go to Liverpool, and find our school. Mrs. Crane was very kind to us, and she'll find out where muddie is for us. That's what we'll do. Fred, stay here till I come back. I must go to our room to get my money."
He was the proud possessor of a few shillings, which his mother had given him, and a sixpence with a hole in it, given him "by father years ago," he said himself.
He shut Fred into the closet, and stole like a little mouse out of the room and along the passage. He took a brush and comb bag, and stuffed some of Fred's clothes into it, with its usual contents. Another bag—a work-bag when it was new—held some of his own clothes. The big red comforter might be useful, for if they could not reach Liverpool before night, they must sleep in the fields. Then the money. Father's picture was safe in his pocket.
Then he stole back and released Fred. They crept across the hall and into the porch. The cart was still there, for Jacob had gone to make himself presentable after his adventures as a fireman, and the great gate was still open. In a few moments Janet's two darlings were out of the court, and had darted into a side path, where some shrubs concealed them from view.
"But we must get back to the big road when we are far enough from the Castle," said Frank, "and get to the gate. I remember the gate. Jacob called 'gate,' and an old woman came and opened it."
"I can call 'gate' just like Jacob," said Fred. "Listen—gate!"
"Hush, hush! We'll be caught, if you shout. Come, let us get back into the road."
The poor little souls were as merry as grigs, running and jumping, then walking hand-in-hand, talking and laughing in the delights of their newfound freedom. They never heard the sound of wheels, till Jacob called "Hullo, boys!" When they stood gazing, and gave themselves up for lost.
"Hullo, boys! What brings you here?"
"We—came out—the gate was open," Frank answered.
"And you wanted a breath of fresh air? And, indeed, 'tis a shame to keep you mewed up in the court. But you'll be lost, and that won't do. Come now, jump in here, and I'll take you as far as the north gate, and then you can run back to the Castle. I'm doing this for you, Frank—you're a right brave little chap; not for you, Fred, that wanted to burn the old place down."
"No, not the place at all, Jacob; only grandma's cap. The west happened of itself," Fred explained.
"Fred, it was not right," put in Frank.
"I never will again, Fwank—weally never."
"You won't have a chance, you little fool," said Jacob. "Maria was telling me Mrs. Rayburn won't keep you, even if my lord would let her. You'll be sent away, and Frank will stay till he's old enough to go as a page-boy at Beaucourt. That's what Mrs. Rayburn has made up her mind to."
Fred, thoroughly frightened, clung to his poor little protector, who whispered—
"I'll save you; only don't say a word."
They soon reached the north gate. It was open, and Jacob said to the boys—
"Out with you now, and run home. I want to speak to Mrs. Price."
The boys tumbled out, clutching their bags. Jacob went to the lodge: when he came back, the boys were gone. They had run across the road and scrambled over the low fence into a field, where they hid, until Jacob came out and put his horse into a brisk trot.
"We won't go by that road, because we'd meet him coming back," said Frank. "We'll go along by the wall; it's nice and shady, too. By-and-by, we'll buy some bread, and ask the way to Liverpool. This bag is very heavy."
"So is mine," said Fred; "but come along. It's very jolly!"
Away they went—poor Janet's babies!