Percy was in considerable difficulty as to the ceremonies to be observed
in welcoming his family home. For he had no notion of leaving the house
in possession of his suspicious uncle while he went down to the station.
Nor could he bear the idea of not being at the station to meet them.
So he compromised matters by taking his complaisant relative with him,
much to that gentleman's amusement.
It relieved him considerably, when the train arrived, to see that his
mother recognised the stranger, though not effusively, as her veritable
brother. He was thus able to devote his whole attention to his other
uncle, whom he found considerably more interesting.
Colonel Atherton arrived in high spirits, like a schoolboy home for a
holiday. He struck up an alliance with Percy at once, and insisted on
taking him off to the apartments near Regent's Park which were to be his
and Raby's home for the next few months. As he was saying good-bye to
the Rimbolts, he caught sight for the first time of Mr Halgrove.
"Why, bless me, is that you, Halgrove?" he said. "Why, I've worn
mourning for you, my boy. This is a bit of sharp practice. Where did
you spring from?"
"Perhaps I'm a ghost, after all. So many people have told me lately I'm
dead, that I begin to believe it."
"Never fear. If you were a ghost we should be able to see through you--
that's more than anybody ever did with Halgrove, eh, Rimbolt?"
"Halgrove is coming home with us," said Mr Rimbolt, "so when you and
Raby come to-morrow we can talk over old times."
"Who would have thought of him turning up?" said the colonel to his
daughter as with Percy they drove off in their cab. "Why, I've not
heard of him since that affair of poor Jeffreys, and--"
"Jeffreys!" exclaimed Percy, with a suddenness that startled the gallant
officer; "did you say Jeffreys?"
"Yes, what about him? It was long before your time--a dozen or fourteen
years ago."
"Why, he couldn't have been more than eight then; what happened to him,
uncle, I say?"
The boy asked his question so eagerly and anxiously that it was evident
it was not a case of idle curiosity.
"You must be meaning the son; I'm talking about the father. Wait till
we get home, my boy, and you shall hear."
It required all Percy's patience to wait. The very mention of his
friend's name had excited him. It never occurred to him there were
hundreds of Jeffreys in the world, and that his uncle and he might be
interested in quite different persons. For him there was but one
Jeffreys in the universe, and he jumped at any straw of hope of finding
him.
The reader knows all Colonel Atherton was able to tell Percy and Raby--
for Raby was not an uninterested listener--of the story of Mr
Halgrove's partner. Percy in turn told what he knew of his Jeffreys;
and putting the two stories together, it seemed pretty clear it was a
history of parent and son.
Early next morning the colonel was at Clarges Street, seated in the
study with his two old college friends.
"Well," said he, "here's a case of we three meeting again with a
vengeance. And what have you been up to, Halgrove, these twenty years?
No good, I'll be bound."
"I have at least managed to keep clear of matrimony," said Mr Halgrove,
"which is more than either of you virtuous family men can say."
"Ah, well," said the colonel, with a sigh, "that's not all misfortune--
witness my sweet daughter and Rimbolt's fine boy. What have you got to
show against that?"
"Nothing, I confess."
"By the way, though, haven't you? The last I heard of you was in the
papers; a record of a generous act on your part. You had adopted the
son of an unfortunate partner of yours who had died. Is he still with
you?"
"No," said Mr Halgrove; "that turned out an unfortunate speculation in
every way."
"Did the boy bolt?"
"Not exactly. I sent him to a first-rate school, where he distinguished
himself in a way of his own by an act of homicide."
"What?" exclaimed the colonel; and Mr Rimbolt suddenly became
attentive.
"Yes. He either quite or very nearly did for a young schoolfellow in a
fit of the tantrums, and found it convenient to quit the place rather
abruptly."
"What was the name of the school?" asked Mr Rimbolt quietly.
"Bolsover, in --shire."
"Singular!" exclaimed the colonel. "I had a chum in India who had a boy
at that very school."
Here the speaker became aware of a sharp kick under the table and a
significant look from Mr Rimbolt. The old soldier was used to obey the
word of command at a moment's notice and pulled up now.
"I should think a thing like that would be very bad for the school,"
said Mr Rimbolt quietly, and in an off-hand way.
"Fatal," said Mr Halgrove. "I believe Bolsover went to the dogs after
it."
"And so you had--you had young--what was his name?"
"Jeffreys."
"Young Jeffreys on your hands?"
"Scarcely. We parted company. As I told him, I never was particular,
but a man must draw the line somewhere, and I drew it at manslaughter."
"What became of him?"
"Well, before I went abroad he was usher in a dame school in York. He
may be there still, unless by this time all his pupils are devoured."
"Very unpleasant business for you," said Mr Rimbolt.
"And," asked the colonel, with a wink at his brother-in-law, "did he,
like the prodigal, take his portion of goods with him? I mean what his
father left him."
Mr Halgrove for a moment raised his brows uncomfortably.
"No," said he; "Benjamin Jeffreys was an eccentric man, and invested his
money in eccentric securities. His son's money, like the lad himself,
went to the dogs, and left me decidedly out of pocket by my term of
guardianship. I really advise neither of you to indulge your
philanthropy in adopting somebody else's sons; it doesn't pay."
"Yours certainly was not a lucky experience," said Mr Rimbolt;
"however, when you were last heard of, Fame reported that you could
afford to drop a little."
"_Fama volat_, and so does money. No one could repeat the libel now
with truth. The fact is, this visit to an old college friend is a
trifle interested. My journey to the West has turned out badly, and,
greatly as I should like it, I could not offer to lend either of you
fellows a hundred pounds at this present moment. So I hope you won't
ask me."
The talk here took a financial turn, and Mrs Rimbolt presently joining
the party, she and her brother were left to themselves while Mr Rimbolt
and the colonel took a short stroll.
Mr Rimbolt took the opportunity of telling his brother-in-law what he
knew, not only of Jeffreys but of young Forrester, and the colonel told
him of his obligation to find if possible the child of his dead
companion-in-arms.
"It's a mixed-up business altogether," said he, "and from all I can
judge something of a family matter. My little girl, Rimbolt, whom
you've been so good to, seems to me more interested in this librarian of
yours than she would like any one to suspect--eh?"
"I have fancied so," said Mr Rimbolt, "sometimes."
"Pleasant to come home and find everybody in the dumps about some person
one has never seen. The sooner the rascal comes to light, the better
for everybody and for my holiday. By the way, Rimbolt, that struck me
as fishy about Jeffreys' money, didn't it you?"
"It did. I had never heard anything about Halgrove having a partner."
"I had. He went out of his mind and died by his own hand; but from what
I knew of Halgrove then, I should say it was _he_ who had a weakness for
eccentric speculations. However, the money's gone; so it's all the same
for young Jeffreys."
Raby found her life at Regent's Park very different from that either at
Wildtree or Clarges Street. Colonel Atherton was a man who hated
ceremony of any kind, and had a great idea of letting everybody do as
they chose. Raby consequently found herself her own mistress in a way
she had never experienced before. It was not altogether a delightful
sensation; for though she loved her father's companionship and the care
of looking after his wants, she often felt the time hang heavy on her
hands.
The colonel had a number of old friends to look up, and a great deal of
business to do; and Raby, used to company of some sort, found his
absences lonely. Percy was often at the house, but he in his present
dismal mood was poor company. His one topic was Jeffreys; and that to
Raby was the last topic on which she felt drawn to talk to any one.
When, therefore, a neighbour suggested to her one day to give an hour or
two a week to visiting the poor of the district, Raby hailed the
proposal gladly. It was work she had been used to at Wildtree, and to
which she had already had yearnings in London, though Mrs Rimbolt had
opposed it.
"Mind? Not a bit," said her father, when she broached the subject to
him, "as long as you don't get small-pox or get into mischief. I should
like to be a denizen of a slum myself, for the pleasure of getting a
visit from you."
And so the girl began her work of charity, spending generally an hour a
day, under the direction of her friend, in some of the closely packed
alleys near. As she made a point of being home always to welcome her
father in the afternoon, her visits were generally paid early in the
day, when the men would be away at work and when the chief claimants on
her help and pity would be the poor women and children left behind, with
sometimes a sick or crippled man unable to help himself. It was often
sad, often depressing work. But the brave girl with a heart full of
love faced it gladly, and felt herself the happier for it day by day.
It was on an afternoon shortly after this new work had been begun that
she was overtaken by a sudden October squall as she was hurrying back
through Regent's Park towards home. The morning had been fine, and she
had neither cloak nor umbrella. No cab was within sight; and there was
nothing for it but to stand up under a tree till the rain stopped, or
walk boldly through it. She was just debating this question with
herself when she became aware of an umbrella over her, and a voice at
her side saying,--
"This is most fortunate. Miss Atherton. Who would have thought of
meeting you here?"
It was Scarfe; and Raby would sooner have met any one else in the world.
"Thank you," said she, "I shall be quite sheltered under this tree.
Don't let me detain you."
"Nonsense!" said he; "you know I am delighted to be detained so
pleasantly. Won't you come farther under the trees?"
"No, I must be home, thank you. I don't want to be late."
But just then the rain came down in such a deluge that she had nothing
for it but to give in and stand up for shelter.
"It seems ages since we met," began Scarfe.
Raby had a vivid enough recollection of that evening in the
conservatory, but did not contradict him.
"I called at Clarges Street last month, hoping to see you, but you were
away."
"Yes, we were abroad--all but Percy."
"I saw Percy. Poor fellow, he did not seem himself at all. Miss
Atherton, you must not blame me if I remind you of something we were
talking about when I last saw you--"
"Please don't, Mr Scarfe; I have no wish to refer to it."
"But I must. Do you know, Raby, I have thought of no one but you ever
since?"
Raby said nothing, and wished the rain would stop.
"Is it too much to ask whether, perhaps once or twice, you have thought
of me?"
Raby began to get angry. Was it not cowardly to get her here at a
disadvantage and begin to talk to her about what she had no wish to
hear?
"Yes--I have thought once or twice of you," she said.
"How good of you, Raby!" said he, trying to take her hand. "May I hope
it was with something more than indifference--with love?"
"Certainly not," said she, drawing back her hand, and, in spite of the
rain, starting to walk.
Bitterly crestfallen, he walked at her side and held his umbrella over
her.
"You are harsh with me," said he reproachfully.
"I am sorry. You should not have provoked me. I asked you not to talk
about it."
"I am afraid, Miss Atherton," said he, "some one has been prejudicing
you against me. Percy, perhaps, has been talking about me."
Raby walked on without replying.
"Percy is very angry with me for doing what it was only my duty to do as
his friend--and yours. He misunderstands me, and, I fear, so do you."
"I do not misunderstand you at all," said Raby boldly.
"But I am afraid you do not thank me."
"No. I have nothing to thank you for."
"I did my duty, at any rate. I stated the truth, and nothing more, and
should have been wrong to allow things to go on without at least trying,
for the sake of those for whom I cared, and still care, Miss Atherton,
to set them right. Do I understand you blame me for that?"
"Mr Scarfe, you have done a cruel thing to one who never did you harm--
and I see nothing to admire in it."
Scarfe sneered.
"Jeffreys is fortunate in his champion. Perhaps, at least, Miss
Atherton, you will do me the credit of remembering that on one occasion
your hero owed his life to me. I hope that, too, was not cowardly or
cruel."
"If he had known the ruin you had in store for him, he would not have
thanked you."
Raby spoke with downcast eyes, and neither she nor Scarfe perceived the
poor tramp on the path, who, as they brushed past him, glanced wistfully
round at their faces.
"He never thanked me," said Scarfe.
They walked on some distance in silence. Then Scarfe said, "Miss
Atherton, you are unfair to me now. You think I acted out of spite,
instead of out of affection--for you."
"It is a kind of affection I don't appreciate, Mr Scarfe; and as the
rain has nearly stopped I need not trouble you any more. Thank you for
the shelter, and good-bye."
"You really mean that you reject me--that you do not care for me?"
"I do not. I am sorry to say so--good-bye."
And she left him there, bewildered certainly, but in no manner of doubt
that she had done with him.
She told her father all about it that evening, and was a good deal
reassured by his hearty approval of her conduct.
"The kindest thing you could have done, instead of letting him dangle
after you indefinitely. Rough on him, perhaps; but that sort of fellow
doesn't deserve much letting down."
The reader has heard already how in the course of her visits of mercy
Raby happened to find Jonah Trimble very near his end, and how she was
able to cheer and lighten his dying hours. Little dreamed she, as she
sat by the death-bed that morning, and wrote those few dying words, into
whose hands her little letter would fall, or what a spell they would
work on the life of him who received them. From the other neighbours
she heard not a little about "John," and sometimes wished she might
chance to see him. But he was away from early morning till late at
night, and they never met. Mrs Pratt in the room below, and her little
dying daughter, had many a tale of kindness and devotion to tell about
him; and when presently the little life fled, she heard with grateful
tears of his act of mercy to the poor overwrought mother, and thanked
God for it.
The time passed on, and one day early in December, when she returned
home, she found her father in an unwonted state of excitement.
"There's a clue, Raby, at last!" he said.
"A clue, father--you mean about young Forrester?"
"About both. It's the most mixed-up affair I was ever in. Who do you
suppose has written in answer to our advertisement about Forrester?"
"Has he replied himself?" asked Raby disingenuously; for she guessed the
truth.
"Not a bit of it. The letter's from Jeffreys. He doesn't sign his
name, of course; but he writes to say that he was at Bolsover, and was
responsible for the accident, and repeats what Rimbolt knows already
about his trying to hear of them in his native place. There's nothing
very fresh about Forrester; but it may lead to our finding Jeffreys."
"Of course," said Raby, finding it hard to conceal her emotion, "he has
written to the lawyers. Does he give an address, then?"
"No--only a coffee-house in Drury Lane. He's evidently on his guard
against a trap. He writes private and confidential; but you can see he
is ready to do anything to find Forrester."
"What shall you do?"
"Well, Rimbolt says leave it to the lawyers. Of course we've no right
to trap him, and Rimbolt thinks Wilkins & Wilkins had better not mention
our names, but let him know they are acting for Forrester's executors.
If he's not scared during the first visit or two, he may consent to see
me, or Percy--and among us we may be able to help him out of his present
condition, which, to judge by his letter, I should fancy is rather
reduced. He has been asked to call at Wilkins' on Wednesday, and they
have promised to treat the matter as confidential--and we shall just
have to trust they will manage to talk him round."