Jeffreys, as the reader will have discovered, did not possess the art of
doing himself common justice. He had brooded so long and so bitterly
over his fatal act of violence at Bolsover, that he had come almost to
forget that accident had had anything to do with poor Forrester's
injuries. And now, when confronted with his crime, even by a despicable
wretch like Trimble, he had not the spirit to hold up his head and make
some effort at any rate to clear himself of all that was charged against
him.
Jeffreys was still a blunderer, or else his conscience was unusually
sensitive. You and I, reader, no doubt, would have put a bold face on
the matter, and insisted the whole affair was entirely an accident, and
that we were to be pitied rather than blamed for what had happened. And
a great many people would have pitied us accordingly. But Jeffreys
claimed no pity. He saw nothing but his own ruthless fault; and he
chose to take the whole burden of it, and the burden of the accident
besides, on his own shoulders.
And so it was he left Galloway House without a word, and cast himself
and his bad name once more adrift on a pitiless world.
But as he walked on he was not thinking of Galloway House, or Farmer
Rosher, or Freddy or Teddy. The last words of Trimble rang in his ears,
and deafened him to all beside.
"He's dead--_I_ can tell you that!"
It never occurred to him to wonder whence Jonah had derived his
information, or whether it was true or false.
Mr Brampton's letter five months ago had left little hope of the boy's
recovery, but not till now had Jeffreys heard any one say, in so many
words "He is dead." Jonah apparently knew the whole story. How he had
discovered it, it was useless to guess. And yet for a moment Jeffreys
was tempted to return and seize his accuser by the throat and demand the
truth of him. But he dismissed the notion with a shudder.
His steps turned, half mechanically, half by chance, towards his
guardian's house. He had never been in that quarter of York since the
night of his expulsion, and he did not know why of all places he should
just now turn thither. His guardian, as he well knew, was even more
pitiless and cynical than ever, and any hope of finding shelter or rest
under his roof he knew to be absurd. He might, however, be out; indeed,
he had spoken of going to America, in which case Mrs Jessop might be
there alone.
One clings to the idea of a home; and this place, such as it was, was
the only place which for Jeffreys had ever had any pretensions to the
blessed name. His expectations--if he had any--vanished as he abruptly
turned the corner of the street and stood in front of the house. The
shutters on the lower floor were closed, and the windows above were
curtainless and begrimed with dust. A notice "To let," stared out from
a board beside the front door, and the once cosy little front garden was
weed-grown and run to seed.
Jeffreys felt a stronger man as he walked out of York in the deepening
twilight. He was in the way of old associations just now, for almost
without knowing it he found himself quitting York by way of Ash Lane,
every step of which by this time was familiar--painfully familiar
ground. The bank on which he had last found Jonah's knife had now new
attractions for him. Not so a garden shed, by the back of which he
passed, and whence proceeded the glimmer of a light, and the sound of
boys' voices.
He could not help standing a moment, and motioning Julius close to his
heels, listening.
"It's broken worse than ever now," said Freddy. "It's no use trying to
mend it."
"Jeff could have done it. I say, Freddy, whatever did father mean?"
"I don't know. All I know is I'll never forget dear old Jeff; shall
you?"
"Rather not. I'm going to pray for him once a day, Freddy."
"All serene--so shall I."
Jeffreys stole one hurried glance through the cracked timbers, and then
walked away quickly and with a heart brim full.
Whenever in after days his soul needed music, he had only to call up the
voices of those two little fellows in the shed as he last heard them.
Little heeded they what came of their childish words. Little heeded
they that they were helping to make a true man of the Jeff they loved,
and that whatever true strength he came to possess for fighting life's
battles and bearing life's burdens, he owed it beyond any one to them!
He walked on rapidly and steadily for two hours, until the last
lingering glow of the summer light had faded from the sky, and the
lights of York behind him were lost in the night. A field of new-mown
hay provided him with the most luxurious bedroom man could desire.
The thought uppermost in his mind when he awoke next morning was young
Forrester. He felt that it would be useless for him to attempt anything
or hope for anything till he had ascertained whatever was to be known
respecting the boy's fate. Trimble's words, which rang in his ears, had
a less positive sound about them. At least he would find out for
himself whether they were true or false.
Grangerham, the small country town in which he had ascertained Forrester
lived, and to which he had been removed from Bolsover, was far enough
away from York. Jeffreys had many a time sought it out on the map, and
speculated on how it was to be reached, should a summons arrive to call
him thither. It was seventy miles away as the crow flies. Jeffreys had
the way there by heart. He knew what time the trains left York, what
were the junctions along the line, and how far the nearest railway
station would take him to his journey's end.
Now, however, it was a question of walking, not riding. The two pounds
in his pocket, all he possessed, scarcely seemed his at all as long as
Mr Frampton's school bill was unsettled. At any rate, it was too
precious to squander in railway fares for a man who could walk for
nothing.
It was a long, harassing journey, over moors and along stony roads. It
was not till the evening of the second day that the footsore traveller
read on a sign-post the welcome words, "Four miles to Grangerham." He
had eaten little and rested little on the way, and during the last
twelve hours a broiling sun had beaten down pitilessly upon him.
If the journey of the two last days had been exhausting, the fruitless
search of the day that followed was fully as wearisome. Grangerham was
a pretty big manufacturing town, and Jeffreys' heart sank within him as
soon as he entered it. For who among these busy crowds would be likely
to know anything of an invalid old lady and her cripple grandson?
In vain he enquired in street after street for Mrs Forrester's address.
Some had not heard the name. Some knew a public-house kept by one Tony
Forrester. Some recollected an old lady who used to keep a
costermonger's stall and had a baby with fits. Others, still more
tantalising, began by knowing all about it, and ended by showing that
they knew nothing. At the police-office they looked at him hard, and
demanded what he wanted with anybody of the name of Forrester. At the
post-office they told him curtly they could not tell him anything unless
he could give the old lady's address.
At length, late in the day, he ventured to knock at the door of the
clergyman of that part of the town in which the only few residents'
houses seemed to be, and to repeat his question there.
The clergyman, a hard-working man who visited a hundred families in a
week, at first returned the same answer as everybody else. No, he did
not know any one of that name.
"Stay," he said; "perhaps you mean old Mrs Wilcox."
Jeffreys groaned. Everybody had been suggesting the name of some old
lady to him different from the one he wanted.
"She had a nephew, I think, who was a cripple. The poor fellow had had
an accident at school, so I heard. I almost think he died. I never saw
him myself, but if you come with me, I'll take you to the Wesleyan
minister. I think he knows Mrs Wilcox."
Thankful for any clue, however slight, Jeffreys accompanied the good man
to the Wesleyan minister.
"Mrs Wilcox--ah, yes," said the latter, when his brother pastor had
explained their errand. "She died in Torquay five months ago. She was
a great sufferer."
"And her nephew?" inquired the clergyman.
"Her grandson, you mean."
Jeffreys' heart leapt. "What was his name?" he asked, excitedly.
"Forrester; a dear young fellow he was. His mother, who died out in
India, was Mrs Wilcox's only daughter. Yes, poor Gerard Forrester was
brought home from school about six months ago terribly crippled by an
accident. It was said one of his school-fellows had--"
"But where is he now? tell me, for mercy's sake!" exclaimed Jeffreys.
"I cannot tell you that," replied the minister. "His grandmother was
ordered to Torquay almost as soon as he arrived home. He remained here
about a month in charge of his old nurse; and then--"
"He's not dead!" almost shouted Jeffreys.
"Then," continued the minister, "when the news came of his grandmother's
death, they left Grangerham. From all I can hear, Mrs Wilcox died very
poor. I believe the nurse intended to try to get him taken into a
hospital somewhere; but where or how I never knew. I was away in London
when they disappeared, and have never heard of them since."
"Isn't his father alive?"
"Yes. I wrote to him by Mrs Wilcox's request. He is an officer in
India in the Hussars. I have had no reply, and cannot be sure that the
letter has reached him, as I see that his regiment has been dispatched
to Afghanistan."
"Did you never hear from the nurse?" asked Jeffreys.
"Never."
"And was it thought Forrester would recover?"
"I believe it was thought that if he got special treatment in a hospital
his life might be spared."
This then was all Jeffreys could hear. Jonah Trimble might be right
after all. How he abused himself for flying from York as he had done
without extracting the truth first! It was too late now. He begged to
be taken to see the house where Forrester lived. It was occupied by a
new tenant, and all he could do was to pace up and down in front of it,
in a lonely vigil, and try to imagine the pale face which only a few
months back had gazed wearily from those windows on the active life
without, in which he was never more to take a share.
He had not the courage to wait that night in Grangerham, although the
minister urged him and Julius, tramps as they were, to do so. He felt
stifled in these narrow streets, and longed for the fresh heath, where
at least he could be alone.
He accepted, however, the hospitality of his guide for half an hour in
order to write a short note to Mr Frampton. He said:--
"I have come here hoping to hear something of Forrester. But I can hear
nothing more than what you told me four months ago. He has left here in
charge of his old nurse, and has not been heard of since. You will
wonder why I have left York. The story of what happened at Bolsover
reached the ears of my employer's son. He accused me of it before all
the school, and added that he knew Forrester was dead. I could not
stand it, and came away--though I feel now I was foolish not to
ascertain first how he had learned what you and I have not yet been able
to hear. It is too terrible to believe! and I cannot believe it till I
find out for myself. Where I shall go next I do not know, and feel I do
not care. My guardian has left York. I saw him two days before I came
away, and he told me then he should refuse to pay my last half-term's
bill, which came to £7. I enclose thirty shillings now--all I have; and
you may depend on my sending the rest as soon as I can earn it; for I
shall be miserable as long as I owe a farthing to Bolsover."
Having written this dismal letter, and having posted it with its
enclosure, he bade farewell to Grangerham, and wandered forth with the
sympathetic Julius out on to the quiet heath, and there lay down--not to
sleep, but to think.