to fetch her home, intending to stay there two or three days. The
weather since she left had been going on in the same stupid way; a thin
coating of snow to be seen one day, the green of the fields the next.
But on the morning after old Jacobson started, the frost set in with a
vengeance, and we got our skates out. Another day came in, and the
Squire declared he had never felt anything to equal the cold. We had not
had it as sharp for years: and then, you see, he was too fat to skate.
The best skating was on a pond on old Jacobson's land, which they called
the lake from its size.
It was on this second day that I came across Dick Mitchel. Hastening
home from the lake after dark--for we had skated till we couldn't see
and then kept on by moonlight--the skates in my hand and all aglow with
heat, who should be sitting by the bank on this side the crooked stile
instead of getting over it, but little Mitchel. But for the moon shining
right on his face, I might have passed without seeing him.
"You are taking it airily, young Dick. Got the gout?"
Dick just lifted his head and stared a little; but didn't speak.
"Come! Why don't you go home?"
"I'm tired," murmured Dick. "I'm cold."
"Get up. I'll help you over the stile."
He did as he was bid at once. We had got well on down the lane, and I
had my hand on his shoulder to steady him, for his legs seemed to slip
about like Punch's in the show, when he turned suddenly back again.
"The harness."
"The what?" I said.
Something seemed the matter with the boy: it was just as if he had
partly lost the power of speech, or had been struck stupid. I made
out at last that he had left some harness on the ground, which he was
ordered to take to the blacksmith's.
"I'll get over for it, Dick. You stop where you are."
It was lying where he had been sitting; a short strap with a broken
buckle. Dick took it and we went on again.
"Were you asleep, just now, Dick?"
"No, sir. It were the moon."
"What was the moon?"
"I were looking into it. Mother says God's all above there: I thought
happen I might see Him."
A long explanation for Dick to-night. The recovery of the strap seemed
to have brightened up his intellect.
"You'll never see Him in this world, Dick. He sees you always."
"And that's what mother says. He sees I can't do more nor my arms'll let
me. I'd not like Him to think I can."
"All right, Dick. You only do your best always; He won't fail to see
it."
I had hardly said the last words when down went Dick without warning,
face foremost. Picking him up, I took a look into his eyes by the
moonlight.
"What did you do that for, Dick?"
"I don't know."
"Is it your legs?"
"Yes, it's my legs. I didn't mean it. I didn't mean it when I fell under
the horses to-day, but Hall he beated of me and said I did."
After that I did not loose him; or I'm sure he would have gone down
again. Arrived at his cottage, he was for passing it.
"Don't you know your own door, Dick Mitchel?"
"It's the strap," he said. "I ha' got to take it to Cawson's."
"Oh, I'll step round with that. Let's see what there is to do."
He seemed unwilling, saying he must take it back to Hall in the morning.
Very well, I said, so he could. We went in at his door; and at first I
thought I must have got into a black fog. The room was a narrow, poking
place; but I couldn't see across it. Two children were coughing, one
choking, one crying. Mrs. Mitchel's face, ornamented with blacks,
gradually loomed out to view through the atmosphere.
"It be the chimbley, sir. I hope you'll please to excuse it. It don't
smoke as bad as this except when the weather's cold beyond common."
"It's to be hoped it doesn't. I should call it rather miserable if it
did."
"Yes, sir. Mitchel, he says he thinks the chimbley must have frozed."
"Look here, Mrs. Mitchel, I've brought Dick home: I found him sitting in
the cold on the other side of the stile, and my belief is, he thought he
could not get over it. He is about as weak as a young rat."
"It's the frost, sir," she said. "The boys all feel it that has to be
out and about. It'll soon be gone, Dick. This here biting cold don't
never last long."
Dick was standing against her, bending his face on her old stuff gown.
She put her arm about him kindly.
"No, it can't last long, Mrs. Mitchel. Could he not be kept indoors
until it gives a bit--let him have a holiday? No? Wouldn't it do?"
She opened her eyes wide at this. Such a thing as keeping a ploughboy at
home for a holiday, had never entered her imagination.
"Why, Master Ludlow, sir, he'd lose his place!"
"But, suppose he were ill, and had to stay at home?"
"Then the Lord help us, if it came to that! Please, sir, his wages might
be stopped. I've heard of a master paying in illness, though it's not
many of 'em as would, but I've never knowed 'em pay for holidays. The
biting cold will go soon, Dick," she added, looking at him; "don't be
downhearted."
"I should give him a cup of hot tea, Mrs. Mitchel, and let him go to
bed. Good night; I'm off."
I should have liked to say beer instead of tea; it would have put a bit
of strength into the boy; but I might just as well have suggested wine,
for all they had of either. Leaving the strap at the blacksmith's--it
was but a minute or two out of my road--I told him to send it up to
Mitchel's as soon as it was done.
"I dare say!" was what I got in answer.
"Look here, Cawson: the lad's ill, and his father was not in the way. If
you don't choose to let your boy run up with that, or take it yourself,
you shall never have another job of work from the Squire if I can
prevent it."
"I'll send it, sir," said Cawson, coming to his senses. Not that he had
much from us: we chiefly patronized Dovey, down in Piefinch Cut.
Now, all this happened: as Duffham and others could testify if
necessary; it is not put in to make up a story. But I never thought
worse of Dick than that he was done over for the moment with the cold.
Of all days in remembrance, the next was the worst. The cold was more
intense--though that had seemed impossible; and a fierce wind was
blowing that cut you in two. It kept us from skating--and that's saying
a good deal. We got half-way to the lake, and couldn't stand it, so
turned home again. Jacobson's team was out, braving the weather: we saw
it at a distance.
"What a fool that waggoner must be to bring out the team to-day!" cried
Tod. "He can't do any good on this hard ground. He must be doing it for
bravado. It is a sign his master's not at home."
In the afternoon, when a good hot meal had put warmth into us, we
thought we'd be off again; and this time gained the pond. The wind was
like a knife; I never skated in anything like it before; but we kept on
till dusk.
Going homewards, in passing Glebe Cottage, which lay away on the left,
we caught sight of three or four people standing before it.
"What's to do there?" asked Tod of a man, expecting to hear that old
Mrs. Parry had had a second stroke.
"Sum'at's wrong wi' Jacobson's ploughboy," was the answer. "He has just
been took in there."
"Jacobson's ploughboy! Why, Tod, that must be Dick Mitchel."
"And what if it is!" returned Tod, starting off again. "The youngster's
half frozen, I dare say. Let us get home. Johnny. What are you stopping
for?"
By saying "half frozen" he meant nothing. Not a thought of real ill was
in his mind. I went across to the house; and met Hall the ploughman
coming out of it.
"Is Dick Mitchel ill, Hall?"
"He ought to be, sir; if he bain't shamming," returned Hall, crustily.
"He have fell down five times since noon, and the last time wouldn't
get up upon his feet again nohow. Being close a-nigh the old lady's I
carried of him in."
Hall went back to the house with me. I don't think he much liked the
boy's looks. Dick had been put to lie on the warm brick floor before the
kitchen fire, a blanket on his legs, and his head on a cushion. Mrs.
Parry was ill in bed upstairs. The servant looked a stupid young country
girl, seemingly born without wits.
"Have you given him anything?" I asked her.
"Please, sir, I've put the kettle on to bile."
"Is there any brandy in the house?"
"_Brandy!_" the girl exclaimed with wonder. No. Her missis never took
anything stronger nor tea and water gruel.
"Hall," I said, looking at the man, "some one must go for Mr. Duffham.
And Dick's mother might as well be told."
Bill Leet, a strapping young fellow standing by, made off at this,
saying he'd bring them both. Hall went away to his team, and I stooped
over the boy.
"What is the matter, Dick? Tell me how you feel."
Except that Dick smiled a little, he made no answer. His eyes, gazing up
into mine, looked dim. The girl had taken away the candle, but the fire
was bright. As I took one of his hands to rub it, his fingers clasped
themselves round mine. Then he began to say something, with a pause
between each word. I had to bend close to catch it.
"He--brought--that--there--strap."
"All right, Dick."
"Thank--ee--sir."
"Are you in any pain, Dick?"
"No."
"Or cold?"
"No."
The girl came back with a candle and some hot milk in a tea-cup. I put a
teaspoonful into Dick's mouth. But he could not swallow it. Who should
come rushing in then but old Jones the constable, wanting to know what
was up.
"Well I never!--why, that's Mitchel's Dick!" cried Jones, peering down
in the candle-light. "What's took _him_?"
"Jones, if you and the girl will rub his hands, I'll go and get some
brandy. We can't let him lie like this and give him nothing."
Old Jones, liking the word brandy on his own score, knelt down on his
fat gouty legs with a groan, and laid hold of one of the hands, the girl
taking the other. I went leaping off to Elm Farm.
And went for nothing. Mr. and Mrs. Jacobson being out, the cellar was
locked up, and no brandy could be got at. The cook gave me a bottle of
gooseberry wine; which she said might do as well if hotted up.
Duffham was stooping over the boy when I got back, his face long, and
his cane lying on the ironing-board. Bill Leet had met him half-way, so
no time was lost. He was putting something into Dick's lips with a
teaspoon--perhaps brandy. But it ran the wrong way; out instead of in.
Dick never stirred, and his eyes were shut. The doctor got up.
"Too late, Johnny," he whispered.
The words startled me. "Mr. Duffham! No?"
He looked into my eyes, and nodded YES. "The exposure to-day has been
too much for him. He is going fast."
And just at that moment Hannah Mitchel came in. I have often thought
that the extreme poor, whose lives are but one vast hardship from the
cradle to the grave, who have to struggle always, do not feel strong
emotion. At any rate, they don't show much. Hannah Mitchel knelt down,
and looked quietly at the white, shrunken face.
"Dicky," she said, putting his hair gently back from his brow; which now
had a damp moisture on it. "What's amiss, Dicky?"
He opened his eyes at the voice and feebly lifted one hand towards her.
Mrs. Mitchel glanced round at the doctor's face; and I think she read
the truth there. She gathered his poor head into her arms, and let it
rest on her bosom. Her old black shawl was on, her bonnet fell backwards
and hung from her neck by the strings.
"Oh, Dicky! Dicky!"
He lay still, looking at her. She gave one sob and choked the rest down.
"Be he dying, sir?--ain't there no hope?" she cried to Mr. Duffham, who
was standing in the blaze of the fire. And the doctor just moved his
head for answer.
There was a still hush in the kitchen. Her tears began to fall down her
cheeks slowly and softly.
"Dicky, wouldn't you like to say 'Our Father'?"
"I--'ve--said--it,--mother."
"You've always been a good boy, Dicky."
Old Jones blew his nose; the stupid girl burst into a sob. Mr. Duffham
told them to hush.
Dick's eyes were slowly closing. The breath was very faint now, and came
at long intervals. Presently Mr. Duffham took him from his mother, and
laid him down flat, without the cushion.
Well, he died. Poor little Dick Mitchel died. And I think, taking the
wind and the work into consideration, that he was better off.
Mr. Jacobson got back the next day. He sharply taxed the ploughman with
the death, saying he ought to have seen the state the boy was in on that
last bitter day, and have sent him home. But Hall declared he never
thought anything ailed the boy, except that the cold was cutting him
more than ordinary, just as it was cutting everybody else.
The county coroner came over to hold the inquest. The jury, after
hearing what Mr. Duffham had to say, brought it in that Richard Mitchel
died from exposure to the cold during the recent remarkable severity of
the weather, not having sufficient stamina to resist it. Some of the
local newspapers took it up, being in want of matter that dreary season.
They attacked the farmers; asking the public whether labourers' children
were to be held as of no more value than this, in a free and generous
country like England, and why they were made to work so young by such
hard and wicked task-masters as the master of Elm Farm. That put the
master of Elm Farm on his mettle. He retorted by a letter of sharp good
sense; finishing it with a demand to know whether the farmers were
expected to club together to provide meat and puddings gratis for the
flocks of children that labourers chose to gather about them. The Squire
read it aloud to every one, as the soundest letter he'd ever seen
written.
"I am afraid their view is the right one--that the children are too
thick on the ground, poor things," sighed Mrs. Todhetley. "Any way,
Johnny, it is very hard on the young ones to have to work as poor little
Dick did: late and early, wet or dry: and I am glad for his sake that
God has taken him."
X.
A HUNT BY MOONLIGHT.
This is another tale of our school life. It is not much in itself, you
may say, but it was to lead to lasting events. Curious enough, it is, to
sit down and trace out the beginning of things: when we _can_ trace it;
but it is often too remote for us.
Mrs. Frost died, and the summer holidays were prolonged in consequence.
September was not far off when we met again, and gigs and carriages went
bowling up with us and our boxes.
Sanker was in the large class-room when we got in. He looked up for a
minute, and turned his head away. Tod and I went up to him. He did shake
hands, and it was as much as you could say. I don't think he was the
sort of fellow to bear malice; but it took time to bring him round if
once offended.
Sanker had gone home with us to Dyke Manor when the holidays began. He
belonged to a family in Wales (very poor they were now), and was a
distant cousin of Mrs. Todhetley's. Before he had been with us long, a
matter occurred that put him out, and he betook himself away from the
Manor there and then. But I do not intend to go into that history now.
Things had been queer at school towards the close of the past term.
Petty pilferings took place: articles and money alike disappeared. A
thief was amongst us, and no mistake: but we did not know where to look
for him. It was to be hoped that the same thing would not occur again.
"My father and Mrs. Todhetley are in the drawing-room," said Tod. "They
are asking to see you."
Sanker hesitated; but he went at last. The interview softened things a
little, for he was civil to us when he came back again.
"What's that about the plants?" he asked me.
I told him what. They had been destroyed in some unaccountable manner.
"Whether it was done intentionally, or whether moving them into the hall
and back again did it, is not positively decided; I don't suppose it
ever will be. You ought to have come over to that ball, Sanker, after
all of us writing to press it."
"Well," he said, coldly. "I don't care for balls. Monk was suspected,
was he not?"
"Yes. Some of us suspect him still. He was savage at being accused
of--But never mind that"--and I pulled myself up in sudden recollection.
"Monk has left, and we have engaged another gardener. Jenkins is not
good for much."
"Hallo! What has _he_ come back?"
Ned Sanker was looking towards the door as he spoke. Two of them were
coming in, who must have arrived at the same time--Vale and Lacketer.
They were new ones, so to say, both having entered only last Easter.
Vale was a tall, quiet fellow, with a fair, good-looking face and mild
blue eyes; his friends lived at Vale Farm, about two miles off. Lacketer
had sleek black hair, and a sharp nose; he had only an aunt, and was
from Oxfordshire. I didn't like him. He had a way of cringing to those
of us who were born to position in the world; but any poor friendless
chap, who had nothing but himself and his work to get on by, he put upon
shamefully. As for him, we couldn't find out that he'd ever had any
relations at all, except the aunt.
I looked at Sanker, to see which he alluded to; his eyes were fixed on
Vale with a stare. Vale had not been going to leave, that the school
knew of.
"Why are you surprised that he has come back, Sanker?"
"Because I--didn't suppose he _would_," said Sanker, with a pause where
I have put it, and an uncommonly strong emphasis on the "would."
It was just as though he had known something about Vale. Flashing across
my memory came the mysterious avowal Sanker had made at our house about
the discovery of the thief at school; and I now connected the one with
the other. They call me a muff, I know, but I cannot help my thoughts.
"Sanker! was _he_ the thief?"
"Hold your tongue, Ludlow," returned Sanker, in a fright. "I told you
I'd give him a chance again, didn't I? But I never thought he would come
back to take it."
"I would have believed it of any fellow rather than of Vale."
Sanker turned his face sharp, and looked at me. "Oh, would you?" said
he, after a pause. "Well, then, you'd _better_ believe it of any other.
Mind you do. It will be safer, Johnny Ludlow."
He walked away into a group of them, as if afraid of my saying more. I
turned out at the door leading to the playground, and came upon Tod in
the porch.
"What was that you and Sanker were saying about Vale, Johnny?"
I was aware that I ought not to tell him; I knew I ought not: but I
_did_. Tod read me always as one reads a book, and I had never attempted
to keep from him any earthly thing.
"Sanker says it was Vale. About the things lost last half. He told me,
you know, that he had discovered who it was that took them."
"What, he the thief! Vale?"
"Hush, Tod. Give him another chance, as Sanker says."
Tod rushed out of the porch with a bound. He had heard a movement on the
other side the trellis-work, but was only in time to catch a glimpse of
a tassel disappearing round the corner.
We went in for noise at Worcester House just as much as they do at other
schools; but not this afternoon. Mrs. Frost had been a favourite, and
Sanker told us about her funeral. Things seemed to wear a mournful look.
The servants were in black, the Doctor was in jet black, even to his
gaiters. He wore the old style of dress always, knee breeches and
buckles: but I have mentioned this before. We used to call him old
Frost; this afternoon we said "the Doctor."
"You can't think what it was like while the house was shut up," said
Sanker. "Coal-pits are jolly to it. I never saw the Doctor until the
funeral. Being the only fellow at school, was, I suppose, the reason
they asked me to go to it. He cried ever so much over the grave."
"Fancy old Frost crying!" interrupted Lacketer.
"I cried too," avowed Sanker, in a short sharp tone, as if disapproving
of the remark; and it silenced Lacketer. "She had been ailing a long
time, as we all knew, but she only grew very ill at the last, she told
me."
"When did you see her?"
"Two days before she died. Hall came to me, saying I was to go up. It
was on Wednesday at sunset. The hot red sun was shining right into the
room, and she sat back from it on the sofa in a white gown. It was very
hot these holidays, and she felt at times fit to die of it: she never
bore heat well."
To hear Sanker tell this was nearly as good as a play. A solemn play I
mean. None of us made the least noise as we stood round him: it seemed
as if we could see Mrs. Frost's room, and her nice placid face, drawn
back from the rays of the red hot sun.
"She told me to reach a little Bible that was on the drawers, and sit
close to her and read a chapter," continued Sanker. "It was the seventh
of St. John's Revelation; where that verse is, that says there shall be
no more hunger and thirst; neither shall the sun light on them nor any
heat. She held my hand while I read it. I had complained of the light
for her, saying what a pity it was the room had no shutters. 'You see,'
she said, when the chapter was read, 'how soon all discomforts here
will pass away. Give my dear love to the boys when they come back,'
she went on. 'Tell them I should like to have seen them all and said
good-bye. Not good-bye for ever; be sure tell them that, Sanker: I leave
them all a charge to come to me _there_ in God's good time. Not one of
them must fail.' And now I've told you, and it's off my mind," concluded
Sanker, in a different voice.
"Did you see her again?"
"When she was in her coffin. She gave me the Bible."
Sanker took it out of his pocket. His name was written in it, "Edward
Brooke Sanker, with Mary Frost's love." She had made him promise to read
in it daily, if he began only with one verse. He did not tell us that
then.
While we were looking at the writing, Bill Whitney came in. Some of them
thought he had left at Midsummer. Lacketer shook hands; he made much of
Whitney, after the fashion of his mind and manners. Old Whitney was a
baronet, and Bill would be Sir William sometime: for his elder brother,
John, whom we had so much liked, was dead. Bill was good-natured, and
divided hampers from home liberally.
"_I_ don't know why I am back again," he said, in answer to questions;
"you must ask Sir John. I shall be the better for another year or two of
it, he says. Who likes grapes?"
He was beginning to undo a basket he had brought with him: it was filled
with grapes, peaches, plums, and nectarines. Those of us who had plenty
of fruit at home did not care to take much; but the others went in for
it eagerly.
"Our peaches are finer than these, Whitney," cried Vale.
Lacketer gave Vale a push. "You big lout, mind your manners!" cried he.
"Don't eat the peaches if you don't like 'em."
"So they were," said Vale, who never answered offensively.
"There! that's enough insolence from _you_."
Old Vale was Sir John Whitney's tenant. Of course, according to
Lacketer's creed, Vale deserved putting down for only speaking to
Whitney.
"He is right," said Whitney, who thought no more of being his father's
son than he would of being a shopkeeper's. "Mr. Vale's peaches this year
were the finest in the county. He sent my mother some, and she said they
ought to have gone up to a London fruit-show."
"I never saw such peaches as Mr. Vale's," put in Sanker, talking at
Lacketer, and not kindly. "And the flavour was as good as the look. Mrs.
Frost enjoyed those peaches to the last: it was almost the only thing
she took."
Vale's face shone. "We shall always be glad at home that they were so
good this year, for her sake."
Altogether, Lacketer was shut up. He stood over Whitney, who was undoing
a small desk he had brought. Amidst the things, that lay on the ledge
inside, was a thin, yellow, old-fashioned-looking coin.
"It's a guinea," said Bill Whitney. "I mean to have a hole bored in it
and wear it to my watch-chain."
"I'd lock it up safely until then, Whitney," burst forth Snepp, who
came from Alcester. "Or it may go after the things that were lost last
half-year."
Turning to glance at Sanker, I found he had left the room. Whitney was
balancing the guinea on his finger.
"Fore-warned, fore-armed, Snepp," he said. "Who the thief was, I can't
think; but I advise him not to begin his game again."
"Talking of warning, I should like to give one on my own score," said
Tod. "By-gones may be by-gones; I don't wish to recur to them; but if I
lose anything this half and can find the thief, I'll put him into the
river."
"What, to drown him?"
"To duck him. I'll do it as sure as my name's Todhetley."
Vale dropped his handkerchief and stooped to pick it up again. It might
have been an accident; and the redness of his face might have come of
stooping; but I saw Tod did not think so. Ducking is the favourite
punishment in Worcestershire for a public offender, as all the county
knows. When a man misbehaves himself on the race-course at Worcester,
they duck him in the Severn underneath.
"The guinea would not be of much use to any one," said Lacketer. "You
couldn't pass it."
"Oh, couldn't you, though!" answered Whitney. "You'd better try. It's
worth twenty-one shillings, and they might give a shilling or two in for
the antiquity of the coin."
"Gentlemen."
We turned to see the Doctor, standing there in his deep mourning, with
his subdued red face. He came in to introduce a new master.
* * * * *