"I asked father to tell me something about the Forresters, uncle,
because some one--it was Mr Scarfe--had told me that he believed
Captain Forrester was the father of an old schoolfellow of his at
Bolsover who had a bad accident."
"Is that all he told you?" asked her uncle.
"No," said Raby, flushing; "he told me that Mr Jeffreys had been the
cause of the accident."
"That was so," said Mr Rimbolt. "Sit down, child, and I'll tell you
all about it."
And her uncle told her what he had heard from Mr Frampton, and what
Jeffreys had suffered in consequence; how he had struggled to atone for
the past, and what hopes had been his as to the future. Raby's face
glowed more and more as she listened. It was a different soldier's tale
from what she was used to; but still it moved her pity and sympathy
strangely.
"It's a sad story, as your father says," concluded Mr Rimbolt; "but the
sadness does not all belong to young Forrester."
Raby's eyes sparkled.
"No, indeed," said she; "it is like shipwreck within sight of the
harbour."
"We can only hope there may be some hand to save him even from these
depths," said Mr Rimbolt; "for, from what I know of Jeffreys, he will
find it hard now to keep his head above water. Of course, Raby, I have
only told you this because you have heard the story from another point
of view which does poor Jeffreys injustice."
"I am so grateful to you," said the girl.
Mr Rimbolt let her go without saying more. Even the man of books had
eyes that could see; and Raby's face during this interview had told a
tale of something more than casual sympathy.
The season dragged on, and nothing occurred to mend matters at Clarges
Street. Percy moped and could settle down to nothing. He spurned his
books, he neglected his horse, and gave up the river entirely. It was
vain to reason or expostulate with him, and after a couple of months his
parents marked with anxiety that the boy was really ill. Yet nothing
would induce him to quit London. Even his father's offer to take him
abroad for a few weeks did not tempt him.
Raby herself made the final appeal the day before they started.
"Percy, dear, won't you come for my sake?" said she.
"If I came for anybody I would for you," replied he, "but I can't."
"But I had so looked forward to you seeing father."
"I'll see him as soon as he gets to town."
"It will spoil my pleasure so much," said she. "I shall be miserable
thinking of you."
"You're an awful brick, Raby; but don't bother about me. You'd all be
ever so much more miserable if I came, and so should I."
"But what good can it do?" pleaded his cousin.
"I don't know--he might turn up. I might find him after all. If it
hadn't been for your father coming, Raby--I'd have begged you to stay
too. He'd be more likely to come if he knew _you_ were here."
Raby flushed. Between Percy and his cousin there was no hypocrisy.
"Oh, Percy," she said, "do you want to make me fifty times more
miserable?" And she gave up further attempt to move him.
The travellers were away a month, during which time Percy kept his
lonely vigil at Clarges Street. As the reader knows, it was useless.
Jeffreys was never near the place, and the lad, watching day after day,
began slowly to lose hope.
But that month's experience was not wholly wasted. Memories of bygone
talks with his friend, of good advice given, and quiet example unheeded
at the time, crowded in on Percy's memory now; adding to his sense of
loss, certainly, but reminding him that there was something else to be
done than mope and fret.
What would Jeffreys have had him do? he often asked himself; and the
answer was plain and direct--work. That had always been Jeffreys' cure
for everything. That is what he would have done himself, and that is
what Percy, chastened by his loss, made up his mind to now.
He got out his old books and his tools, and doggedly took up the work
where he had left it. It was uphill, cheerless work, but he was better
for it, and the memory of his lost friend became none the less dear for
the relief it brought him.
Only one incident marked his solitary month at Clarges Street--that was
a visit from Scarfe about a fortnight after the travellers had gone.
Percy had a very shrewd guess, although he had never heard it in so many
words, who was responsible for Jeffreys' disgrace and dismissal; and
that being so, it is not to be wondered at that his welcome of the
visitor was not very cordial.
"Look here," said he, as Scarfe entered, and making no movement to
return his greeting, "is it true you were the fellow who told mother
about Jeff, and had him sent away from here?"
"My dear Percy--"
"I'm not your dear Percy! Did you tell mother that story about
Jeffreys?"
"Why, Percy, you don't mean to say--"
"Shut up! You can Yes or No, can't you?"
"I did my duty, and it's a mercy you're all rid of him!" said Scarfe,
losing temper at being thus browbeaten by a boy of Percy's age.
"Very well, you can go! You're a cad, and you're not wanted here!" said
Percy.
"You young prig!" began the visitor; but Percy stopped him.
"Look here," said he, "if you want to fight, say so, and come on! If
you don't, go! You're a cad!"
Scarfe was staggered by this outbreak; he never suspected the boy had it
in him. He tried to turn the matter off with a laugh.
"Come, don't be a muff, Percy! You and I are old friends--"
"We're not; we're enemies!"
"You mean to say," said Scarfe, with a snarl, "you're going to throw me
up for the sake of a--"
"Don't say a word about Jeff!" said Percy, white-hot, and springing to
his feet; "if you do I'll have you pitched neck and crop into the
street! Hook it! No one asked you here, and you're not wanted!"
"I came to see your mother," said Scarfe. "I can't congratulate you,
Percy, on your hospitality, but I can hope you'll be better next time I
come."
Percy went out after him, and called down the staircase to Walker,
"Walker, give Mr Scarfe a glass of wine and some grub before he goes."
The taunt about hospitality had stung him, and this was how he relieved
his conscience on that point.
Scarfe was not the only visitor Percy had. The evening before the
travellers were expected home Walker announced that a gentleman had
called inquiring for Mr Rimbolt, but hearing he was from home, desired
to speak with his son. Percy, ready to clutch at any straw of hope, and
jumping at once to the conclusion that the only business on which any
one could possibly call at the house was about Jeffreys, told Walker to
show the gentleman up.
He was a dark, handsome man, with a few streaks of grey in his hair, and
a keen, cold look in his eye which Percy mistrusted.
"We're old friends, I fancy," said he, nodding to the boy as he entered.
"At least, I fancy I saw you sixteen or seventeen years ago."
"I must have been jolly young then," said Percy.
"You were--about a week. Your father and I were college friends. I
gave him up as a deserter when he married, and might have cut his
acquaintance altogether, only as he happened to marry my sister, I was
bound to keep up appearances and come and inspect my nephew when he made
his appearance."
"You're my Uncle Halgrove, then? I thought you were dead."
"I sympathise keenly with your disappointment. I am alive and well, and
hoped to find my brother-in-law at home."
"They'll be back to-morrow," said Percy.
"Have you dined, my boy?"
"No, not yet."
"That's well; they can lay for two. I'll sleep here to-night."
Percy scrutinised his uncle critically.
"Look here, uncle," he said, rather nervously, "it may be all right, you
know, and I'd be awfully sorry not to be civil. But I never saw you
before, and didn't know you were alive. So I think you'd better perhaps
stay at your hotel to-night and come to-morrow, when they all come home.
Do you mind?"
"Mind?" said Mr Halgrove. "I'm delighted if you are. You prefer
solitude, so do I. Or perhaps you've been a naughty boy, and are left
behind for your sins."
"I've stayed behind because I didn't want to go," said Percy.
"Well," said Mr Halgrove, "I am sure your relatives are the sufferers
by your decision. By the way, one of the things I came to see your
father about was to ask him to help me out of a money difficulty. I've
just landed from America, and my remittances are not here to meet me.
Consequently I am in the ridiculous position of not being able to pay
for the luxury of an hotel. But I understand there are nice clean
railway-arches at Victoria, and that crusts are frequently to be met
with in the gutters if one keeps his eye open."
Percy was perplexed.
"Do you mean you're really hard up?" said he, "because if you really
are, of course you'd better put up here."
"But I may be a fraud, you know. I may rob the house and murder you in
your bed," said his uncle, "and that would be a pity."
"I'll take my chance of that," said Percy. And so it happened that the
house in Clarges Street had a visitor on the last night of Percy's
lonely month. The boy and his uncle began the evening with a great deal
of suspicion and mutual aversion. But it wore off as the hours passed.
Mr Halgrove had a fund of stories to tell, and the boy was a good
listener; and when at last they adjourned to bed they were on friendly
terms.
Percy, however, took the precaution to take away the front-door key, so
that the visitor could not abscond from the house during the night
without his knowledge. The precaution was unnecessary. Mr Halgrove
rang his bell for shaving water at ten next morning with the confidence
of one who had lived in the house all his life. A few hours later the
travellers arrived in London.