A CONSPIRACY.
AMONG Guy's friends at the Moat, none observed him more sympathisingly
than its kind mistress. She soon discovered his favourite pursuit and
desire, and to promote them in the most effectual way became one of her
settled purposes. If Guy must paint, he must do it well, otherwise he
must not do it at all—that was decided; and to paint well, he must have
all the advantages that could be obtained in furtherance of that object.
She knew that it would not be easy to obtain her husband's sanction of
his choice, but he was too sensible and kind, and too anxious to serve
Mrs. Falconer, not to yield his best assistance when required.
"Do you know what Guy is going to do in London by himself, Dorothy?"
asked the Squire one day.
"Yes, Roger, he is going to study—painting."
"Painting! Oh, we'll soon settle that. Let him paint away here as hard
as he likes. Bless me, I'll find him plenty of work without going to
London for it."
"Then he should go to the Continent, and study at Paris, and if
possible in Italy," gently suggested Mistress Hazelwood.
"Whew! Why, Dorothy, I should not have thought of a Christian woman
like you seconding such a scheme. I don't like it, my dear wife. Tell
him I'll provide him with paint-pots enough for decorating the whole
parish, and he had better make up his mind to stay at home."
"But you would like him to excel in whatever he is to earn his living
by," gently urged the lady.
"Oh yes, of course, but he can do that without going into all sorts of
mischief among infidels and papists and what not. Paint forsooth! Let
him paint the house, it wants it badly; and then we'll see what can be
done next."
"Very well, Roger," said Mrs. Hazelwood, with her merry little laugh,
which her husband said always drove away bad humours, "then I will see
that Guy abides by your decision; he is to paint the house, and you
will consider what he is to do next."
"Agreed, fair mistress," said the Squire, looking amused and puzzled.
"How much paint? How many brushes?"
"The boy had better choose them himself, I think, lest the workman
complain of his tools," said the fair mistress, demurely.
"Methinks thou art reckoning wrong this time, Dorothy; the poor lad
will never do anything so useful as paint a house. I am sorry for his
mother, she is so good and sensible, and will be sorely disappointed in
him."
"Well, we shall see. I hope you are not going to be like the Pope,
Roger."
"Protestantism forbid! How, pray?"
"Infallible," laughed Dorothy.
"I don't know, Mistress Dorothy, my bump of self-esteem has been rather
growing lately. Did you ever see any child so improved as Evelyn, and
did not I say that it would be better to have a governess at home than
to send her to school?"
"You did, Roger, and I can never thank God and you enough for bringing
us such a governess as Mrs. Falconer." And Dorothy looked up with
grateful affection into her husband's face.
"So that's well, my wife," said he, fondly; "and don't you think we may
be content without those further 'advantages' that were talked about
some time ago? What more does Evelyn need than to be a well-informed,
well-mannered gentlewoman like her mother before her? And she is in a
fair way to be that between you."
"If you are content, so am I," said the mother, almost blushing at the
sweet flattery. "I have no desire to fit our daughter for anything but
the simple quiet duties of our country life."
"And if she must see the world by-and-by, why, you know, we might all
go to London for a month or two; when perhaps that lad, if he should go
there after all, would be the better for a home in it," added he.
The tears sprang to Mrs. Hazelwood's eyes—tears of thankfulness and
pleasure; but the Squire preferred to be thanked with smiles. His
generous thought for Guy was just what she wished, but for Evelyn 'the
world' to which he alluded was not particularly desirable in her eyes.
"Great cities seem especially man's world," she said, "and while Evelyn
is happy with God's world of nature round her, we need not invent other
attractions. She and Maude are diligent fellow students, and when books
have done their part, it will be time enough to seek a new field of
inquiry."
This was a perfectly congenial arrangement to the Squire, who had an
undefined dread of some crisis in young lady life, when according to
established usage she had to 'come out,' and cease ever to go in again
as pure and true and happy as she was before the ordeal. Anything
that would retard or avert this fate for his Evelyn was acceptable
to her father. With reference to society, his house was open with
liberal hospitality to all comers; but the invited guests were those
whose principles and characters he respected, and with whom his family
associated in friendly freedom.
One morning when the Squire was preparing for the first meet of the
hunt that season, his horse was brought, by Mrs. Hazelwood's desire,
round to the front entrance of the house, and under the old-fashioned
porch, which terminated on either side by a short flight of steps, she
stood with Evelyn by her side to see him mount, one holding his riding
gloves, the other his whip.
"Stay a minute more, Roger, and let me stroke that creature's shining
coat," said the lady; and as if conscious of her admiration, the fine
animal arched his beautiful neck, and proudly pawed the ground, as she
leaned over the balustrade and patted and stroked him deliberately.
"Well, Dolly, have you done admiring us?" said the Squire, laughing.
"Now, Miss Evelyn, my whip; why, you seem in league to detain us
this morning. You should both have been mounted, and then you would
understand how rider and steed pant to be off."
"But you know I don't think a hunting party just the right sport for
Squire Hazelwood's wife and daughter," she replied. "And, Roger, I
can't help remembering just now poor Mr. Dashaway's saddle girth. I
hope yours is properly buckled."
"Poor gentleman, that was a clumsy affair; but pray, what do you take
me for, Mistress Hazelwood?"
"For a right gentle Squire, yielding a moment from horse and hound to
please the whim of his ladye love," she playfully replied. "And now, a
pleasant ride to you, and a safe cover to Master Reynard."
[Illustration: THE PLOT.]
The Squire laughed, and rode off, all unconscious of the little plot
that had just been working round him.
Between the Park and the open country flowed the river, which was
supposed either to have supplied, or formed, the moat of the old
castle, and which was crossed by means of a small boat attached by
a chain to both banks in the Park, and by a stone bridge near the
village. It was not very wide, but at the part where it wound through
the Falcon Range grounds, it was deep, with steep banks, and not by any
means a tempting spot for a bath.
The time was about two hours after noon, and Guy Falconer was on the
Park side of the river busy at his work; while Maude held an umbrella
so as to screen it from the light breeze which sent the stray leaves of
autumn flying about; and Evelyn, with a little basket of fruit in her
hand, had sat down at their feet to rest.
Suddenly they heard in the distance the shout of huntsmen and of the
cry of dogs, while from under a hedge on a gentle eminence of the
opposite meadow, sprang forth the fox, which rushed into the river
at a plunge, landed not far from the three astonished friends, and
disappeared. On came horses and dogs, over hedge and ditch, in wild
excitement, as the coveted "brush" escaped up the river's bank; down
plunged the dogs, in furious disappointment, amidst calls and shouts;
in went huntsmen helter-skelter, regardless of the bugle call to a
better and safer ford;—all was excitement and confusion—dogs barking,
horses plunging, riders shouting, and everyone too intent upon his own
safety and exploits to notice his companions.
Among the foremost came Squire Hazelwood, whose horse never
acknowledged impediment of any kind in a hearty chase; but either
the depth of the leap, or the water, was too sudden, and took him
unawares this time, for he rolled over and over, dragging his rider
head downwards, unable to extricate his feet from the stirrups. The
creature struggled to the bank, but rolled back again, and the critical
condition of the Squire at once caught the attention of his terrified
child; he had fallen back also, and seemed incapable of further effort.
Guy dropped his pencil and palette, and rushed to the river's brink. He
saw Mr. Hazelwood's partially released form sinking deeper below the
water and that not a moment must be lost.
"Fly to the village, girls," he cried; "send men to meet us lest I
cannot manage it; then home both of you to Mrs. Hazelwood, that she may
not be frightened."
As he spoke, he threw off his light coat and jumped into the water. It
was not far to reach the spot where the horse was swimming with the
current, but it was needful to approach cautiously, lest he should be
disabled by a kick, as he feared the Squire had been. To release the
entangled foot and hold up such a weight for any length of time was no
easy task; but Guy knew every turn of the river well, and if he could
but reach a shallower bend near the bridge, and where also the landing
was easier, he trusted that all would yet end safely. He heard the
shrieks of Evelyn receding in the distance, and knew that his calmer
sister would render more effectual service in describing the needed
help.
It was a remarkable coincidence that whenever the handmaiden Jane
had an errand to the village, the old sign at the "Falconer's Arms"
seemed to creak in its swing, as if there were something in the wind
that concerned somebody on the premises; and the ostler Joe, true
knight that he was, always felt bound to inquire into the matter.
In consequence of which, it happened that he and Jane were walking
leisurely along a quiet path between the village and the Moat, when
they were startled by the cries of Evelyn, followed by the appearance
of Maude, white and breathless, and pointing to the river behind them.
Joe at once caught her attempted explanation, bade Jane run back
to the village to bid any men she might see to hasten to his help,
begged the young ladies to go home and hope for the best, and dashed
away to the river, and the spot described by Maude. And only just in
time. The horse was nowhere to be seen, but Guy, still holding his
unconscious burden, had reached the shallower bank, and felt that his
failing strength would do no more, when loud and cheerful rang out the
encouraging voice of Joe.
"That's right, Master Guy, I've got hold; another push—there now, he's
safe. Don't you drift out again, sir; hold on by that twig, and you'll
be up in a minute."
To catch the twig and then the kind hand outstretched to save him, to
scramble on to the grass, and lay his head in his sister's lap, was all
that the exhausted boy could do, and then he lost all consciousness of
what had passed, or was passing round him.
In the meantime the whole village was in consternation. Several
well-ducked gentlemen had taken refuge at the "Falconer's Arms" and
other houses readily opened to them, and the news of real danger of the
Squire sent a crowd of ready helpers in quick response to Joe's message
and Jane's appeal.
Tenderly borne in their strong arms, he was carried to the house, where
Evelyn had already been preceded by the horse, whose melancholy aspect
as he pattered into the stable yard had alarmed the servants, and
brought them about their mistress in excitement and sympathy.
"Maude, Maude! Guy! Oh, mother! They are not come," cried Evelyn, as
she missed them from the approaching group, and stood with renewed
terror by her mother's side.
"Hush, my child; we shall hear. Mrs. Falconer is asking."
"All right, Miss; all right, ma'am," said Joe, soothingly. "The young
lady is with her brother till we go back. You see, he saved the Squire,
and then were a bit knocked up like; but he'll soon come round, never
fear. And please you, my lady, I've took the liberty to send off for
the doctor, and lose no time. The master breathes hard, and I reckon
he's wholly stunned for a bit; but he were not half drowned, because
of Master Guy, and he'll do by-and-by, my lady, so don't take on about
him."
All this while they laid their portly burden on the couch, and
respectfully retired, feeling more than thanked by the grateful look of
the lady, though then she could say nothing.
"Now, mates, we'll fetch Master Guy," said Joe; "and please God,
they'll both come round soon."
By that time Guy had recovered consciousness, and knew the loving face
that bent over him in such heart-sick fear; and leaning on Joe's arm,
insisted on walking home, making anxious inquiries about the condition
of the Squire.
"I think the horse must have hurt him, and so prevented him from
getting out of the water," said he.
"There be a wound on his head, sir," said Joe, "and that stunned him;
but he be a fine strong man, and it'll take more nor this to knock the
life out of him."
"And you will have been the means of saving him, our kind, good Mr.
Hazelwood," said Maude. "I shall so love to think of it, Guy."
Guy smiled, and was soon in his mother's arms, cared for, and happy;
his wet garments changed, his heart uniting with hers in deep and warm
thanksgiving for the help and safety vouchsafed.
"Well, mother, is he better? Does the doctor give hope?" he anxiously
asked, as she came for the last time, before leaving him to sleep, with
the report from Mr. Hazelwood's room.
Another gentle step accompanied hers this time, and Mrs. Hazelwood,
pale and worn, indeed, but her fair face expressive of tenderest
interest, bent down and pressed a fond motherly kiss upon his brow.
"He is conscious, dear Guy. The doctor says that with care and quiet,
he will recover; he has asked for you. To-morrow, please God, he will
see you."
"Oh, tell him I'm all right," cried Guy, the colour rushing to his
cheeks, "and I hope he will soon be the same."
The mothers smiled through their tears and left him.
Evelyn had sat in an agony of grief until she knew that her father was
restored to consciousness and had spoken collectedly. Then she went to
seek Maude, and hear of Guy.
"I don't think my father will ever call him 'poor lad' again," she
thought within herself, with a sensation of considerable triumph.
And under the shadow of this strange interruption to the even tenor of
their lives, the inhabitants of the Moat and the village went to rest
at the end of that eventful day.
It was some time ere the Squire was permitted to leave his room, and in
the matter of personal restraint, such a patient manifested something
of the temper of a rebellious baby. He would have held perpetual
levée, received everybody, and talked about everything, but for the
watchful care of his body-guard, and the unanswerable arguments of his
chamberlain. But at last, his term of imprisonment ceased, and he was
again to assume his wonted place and duties.
"Dorothy, my dear," said he, smelling about as he descended the
staircase, "I don't smell paint; has Master Guy's promised work been
delayed for my convenience? Has he not begun to paint the house yet?"
"Come and see," said Mistress Hazelwood, smiling; and taking his arm,
she led him across the hall.
There, in the most conspicuous position favourable for the light, was
a large handsome picture of the old Moat House; the time, morning;
the scene, that in which the Squire, mounted on his favourite hunter,
and equipped for the chase, was chatting with Mistress Hazelwood as
she stood under the porch leaning over the balustrade while Evelyn
was presenting the riding whip to her father. The whole was so well
delineated, the animation of the figures so gracefully described, the
group and colouring so skilfully arranged, that instantly recognising
the moment, and comprehending now the reasons of playful detention
that morning, the Squire uttered a loud exclamation of delight, which
brought all the interested actors in the plot quickly around him.
"I must have the pleasure of buying your first picture, my young
friend," said he, seating himself opposite to it with infinite
gratification, "and at once commission you to paint a fellow to it. The
subject shall be the same steed, only crest-fallen, the same rider,
only well-nigh at the end of life's chapter, and a hero to the rescue
with the spirit of the brave old barons of Falcon Range."
"Dear sir," said Guy, modestly, "that scene is too painfully painted
on all our minds to need any such commemoration. Something that would
express our thankfulness to God for your recovery would please us all
much better."
"I knew he wouldn't paint that," cried Evelyn, the tears springing to
her eyes as she wound herself within her father's arm, and stood gazing
with him at the picture; "it is not fair to ask him, is it, mother?"
"No, Evelyn; nor could Guy, even after long years of study, ever
imagine anything that would faithfully express our gratitude to God,
and to him, God's instrument, for the mercy and lovingkindness bestowed
upon us that day."
"May the life so saved be turned to better account in the future, than
it has been in the past," said Mr. Hazelwood, humbly. "Then it seems I
must find another subject to make the pair; and in the meantime, Guy
having performed his part of Mistress Hazelwood's agreement, it remains
for me to fulfil mine. But, Guy," he suddenly exclaimed, merrily, "am
I not something of a lunatic? If I help you to become a great painter,
is it not like pulling down my house over my head, seeing that, as a
little bird whispered to me, all your money is to go to the repurchase
of the old Moat?"
Guy blushed painfully. Somebody had betrayed him to the Squire, and the
idea now seemed to his own mind so absurd and preposterous, that he
would gladly have concealed it for ever.
"Sir, I am ashamed that I had such a thought," he stammered; "I never
dreamed that anyone would tell you of it."
"It was I who told," said Evelyn, penitently, "but not because I was
angry with you, Guy."
"No, Guy, but because she was angry with me, I do believe," said the
Squire, mischievously. "I said something disparaging about somebody,
and she revenged herself by announcing my doom to lose the Moat. Was it
not so, Evelyn?"
Miss Evelyn could not wholly deny it, and feeling unable to explain,
rejoiced to be spared a reply, for the Squire rose, and putting his
hand on Guy's shoulder, said,—
"Tell me, my boy, whose thought was it to identify the present owner
with the house, by painting them together in that pleasant scene?"
"My mother's, sir," said Guy, promptly.
"Guy, that is only part of the truth; tell the whole," said the gentle
voice of Mrs. Falconer.
"It was somehow this way, I believe," said Guy, reluctantly. "I was
to paint the house by Mrs. Hazelwood's desire, and as I thought and
thought over many things, I began to feel ashamed of coveting the old
place after God has so decidedly given it to you, and I said to my
mother that I should like to prove whether I could really and truly
give up the foolish fancy of ever having it back again, and be entirely
willing to see you its owner and master."
"Well, my boy."
"Then my mother said I might perhaps paint out my sin and folly, in the
pleasant effort to present Mrs. Hazelwood with a likeness of the master
of the Moat at a happy moment before his own door. And I do assure you,
sir, that in doing it, I have lost every trace of a wish to be in that
place myself. Your accident helped me more than I can tell you."
"How so, Guy?"
"Why, it was when you were in the river, and I was trying to free you
from the horse, and when I was in terror lest help should not come soon
enough,—then the horrible wickedness of coveting your property nearly
distracted me, and I prayed God to help me and to accept my resolve
that if He would spare your life, I would give up the thought for ever,
and desire for myself no inheritance but that which He will give me.
And He did spare you, and in solemn truth I can say that I hope you and
your people may keep the old Moat as long as the world lasts. As for
me, a great load is gone off my mind—a nasty ugly sort of feeling of
struggling after something I could not get; and if I can only work for
my mother and Maude, I shall be the happiest fellow alive."
"I charge myself with that happiness my boy, if it be within human
means to attain it. Then, for the rest, have we to thank your excellent
mother for this victory over self and natural feeling?"
Mrs. Falconer raised her eyes to the flushed face of her son. It was a
testing question; how easy to say Yes, and seem to render the expected
tribute to a mother's careful teaching.
But Guy no longer dared to doubt the source of real, practical
self-conquest, and though shrinking from any hand that would probe into
inner experiences, he felt constrained to honour God by an avowal of
the grace that made him "more than conqueror through Him that loved
him."
"My dear mother has taught the possibility by precept and example, sir;
but not even she could have overcome such wrong feelings as I have had
on this point. I believe it is only by God's Holy Spirit giving such
faith in the Lord Jesus Christ as can raise one out of old thoughts and
desires, into such new ones as He felt and taught Himself, and become
those who take Him for Saviour, and Captain, and King."
"'If any man be in Christ he is a new creature; old things have passed
away; behold, all things are become new,'" softly repeated Mrs.
Falconer.
The Squire bowed his head, wrung Guy's hand as he had never done
before, and walked away with Mrs. Hazelwood into the lady's sheltered
garden.
On the following Sunday, he appeared once more with his family in the
old parish church, and united with them in "public thanks to Almighty
God for His late mercies vouchsafed in preservation from sudden death,
and restoration to health of mind and body."
* * * * * * *
"Dorothy, my dear," said the Squire, soon afterwards, "we must do
something more than speak. We must try to prove in deed what we have
said in word. Have you any thought on this matter? You mentioned
something about a thank-offering, I think."
"We have reaped a rich reward for bearing in mind the fatherless and
the widow, Roger," said Mistress Hazelwood, with tears gathering in the
loving eyes that were raised to his.
"True, my wife. And you mean that we should continue to care for them,
if they will allow us; that is settled: Guy's future is my charge, and
whatever he and his friends wish shall, God willing, be done, and I
know I may leave his good mother in your hands. Maude will of course
share in every way with our Evelyn. But this seems too much bound up
with our own comfort and satisfaction, like the soup and petticoats and
blankets that we could not be contented without giving to our poor sick
or old neighbours in the winter,—just a natural, right thing, you know.
Is there not something that we could do outside of duty, as it were?
Not that I could be anything but an 'unprofitable servant,' after all;
but you know what I mean, Dolly, I'm sure."
Yes, Dolly knew very well: he wanted to do something for the glory of
God simply and solely; something that would not be in itself a great
gratification to himself personally,—some "threshing-floor" that might
cost a price, and be thus an "offering."
"I have a thought, Roger, but it would be rather an expensive one; not
too much for the occasion, but perhaps exceed your means."
"Out with it, Dolly; you are not wont to be extravagant." said he,
smiling.
"The Church wants a little repair, Roger; perhaps that should come
first."
"The Church! Yes, I have been talking with Mr. Herbert about it, and it
must be made safe and comfortable, but this mere duty still. You don't
want me to ornament and decorate it to show piety, do you, Dolly?"
"No, indeed, nothing of that kind, Roger. I would have it thoroughly
respectable as a place where Christian people meet to worship God
should be, when means permit, but nothing that could divide a thought
with Him, or attract attention from Him who has promised to be in the
midst of them that meet together in His name, to bless them."
"Right, my dear. No blowing of the wind in the direction of the pomps
and vanities that once disgraced our churches. Once cleansed, let us
keep so. What, then, is this expensive thought of yours?"
"You know the village of Pine-wood End, and two miles beyond it, of
Brook End?"
"Yes, I do; it was there that the plaguy fox turned tail and led us our
memorable run, that day."
"Well, dear husband, there is no place of worship nor school-house in
either of those villages, and the people must walk four and five miles
to the Falcon Range on Sundays or stay at home, except when Mr. Herbert
is able to meet them in Farmer Bankes' kitchen, which he is glad to
lend, but which is not large enough for a tithe of the people who like
to attend. Mrs. Falconer and Maude visit the cottages every week, but
they need closer and more regular instruction among the children. There
are also some brick-fields near, and a very rough ignorant set of
work-people need looking after. Now, Roger, if you could build them a
nice large, airy room for worship on Sundays, and school on week-days,
and provide some true servant of Christ to work there, preaching the
Gospel plainly and lovingly, and presiding over the schools with a
like-minded teacher, I do think it might be a thank-offering to God
which He could accept and bless."
"This is a good thought, Dorothy. We must consider it well, count the
cost, and do our best. And if it should involve a little self-denial in
some ways—"
"So much the better for us, Roger," said Dorothy, quickly, "it will
then be a perpetual thank-offering, not an isolated act and done with
for ever. What a sweet remembrance for us every week, dear husband, if
we are giving up something to have our Lord's Truth taught, and souls
saved and families blessed."
"Thou might'st have been in the river with Guy, t'other day, Dorothy!"
said the Squire, admiringly.
"Perhaps the tender pity of my God that day has drawn me closer to the
Water of Life, and every draught of that stream stimulates the desire
to put the same cup into every hand."
And is it not so?
The Squire, too, was within the charmed circle, and the expansive
principle of Christian love was warming and winning its way amongst
the generous impulses of natural feeling, consecrating and leading
them to the service and glory of a new Master, whose claims were being
affectionately recognized with a pleasure and peace which only "he that
dwelleth in love" can know.
"But, my dear Dorothy," said the Squire, thoughtfully, after ways and
means had been discussed, "we can build and prepare, but you know we
cannot make the minister: where shall we find the right man?"
"Dear husband, let us not be faithless, but believing. God has made the
minister, and will produce him when he is required."
"You are a witch, Dolly, to dare turn prophetess in this fashion; but I
have a notion you are right, so we will do our part, and wait for the
rest."
And, blended with the daily petitions at family prayer, thenceforth
went up one for the success and blessing of the work, and the provision
of a wise godly minister of Christ's gospel to shepherd the flock at
Pine-wood End, and take charge of the little chapel-of-ease to the
Parish Church of Falcon Range.
Mr. Spadeley had misgivings as to whether it would be real worship in
a building without aged pillars, and pointed arches, and many-coloured
glass, and especially without the mouldering dust of the hamlet's "rude
forefathers" begetting solemn thoughts of death and decay; but as all
great occasions would rally the people round the old mother-church, and
he himself was undisputed monarch of the parish graveyard, it did not
seem that any great diminution of his importance would accrue from a
small unpretending neighbour like the little chapel at Pine-wood End.
So Mr. Spadeley condescendingly took the affair under his patronage,
declared himself as ready as ever to bury the whole parish on the same
terms as before, and exhorting all who should be favoured with his
services to select their epitaphs in proper time, sagaciously opining
that the new educational advantages to be afforded at Pine-wood End
would greatly facilitate their choice on a subject so important to
posterity.
As the new buildings rose before the delighted eyes of the village
seniors, the juvenile population began to be painfully aware of some
conspiracy against their liberties, and to indicate resolutions of
non-submission to any schoolmaster or schoolmistress who might be
enthroned behind any formidable desk on earth.
Of the little old mistress of the village dame-school in her
rocking-chair by the fire-side, no one had ever professed to stand in
awe; her rods soon dwindled to a single twig whenever she set up one,
the hard words in her "Reading-made-easy" got mysteriously blotted, or
punched out, or the books were strangely missing.
And she, poor old lady, declared her firm belief that "the world
was near its end, for never rose the sun upon such a race of little
villains since the days before the flood." For her part, "how it
came to pass that such critters were allowed to live, was beyond her
understanding altogether," and if she had been arbitress of human
destiny, they must have gone the way of water rats, field mice, and
black beetles before the just indignation of their superiors, resolved
to be rid of such like pests. Mentally she daily transported a room
full to Botany Bay, having some dim idea of that interesting locality
as a sort of reservoir of rubbish whereby this planet was relieved of
objectionable populations.
But in the new schools, the advent of some very different kind of
personage was apprehended, and more than once, stones had been
projected through the apertures where windows were to be, in
anticipation of the treatment that any head might suffer, bold enough
to think of ruling the pinafore spirits of Pine-wood End.
Rumours got afloat, however, that the ladies of Falcon Range had a
teacher under training for this post of danger, and the creaking old
sign of "The Falconer's Arms" warned trustworthy Joe that he might be
found to have some interest in the matter, and sent him on an errand of
remonstrance to the clerk and sexton of the parish, whose business it
was to see to the well-being and safety of the house of Spadeley.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]