In the wandering life that followed, Frank had excellent opportunities
for studying the character of his new comrade, and it did not take long
to discover two prominent points in it. Barney was a liar and a thief.
These accomplishments, indeed, had formed the principal features in poor
Barney's education from his tenderest childhood. He had always been
taught that it was desirable and proper to lie and steal; the only wrong
and undesirable thing was--to be found out. To do Barney justice he
very seldom _was_ found out; nimble of finger and quick of wit he had
profited well by his lessons, and by the time Frank met him had long
been a finished scholar, and able to "do" for himself. In spite of
these failings he was a kind-hearted boy; he would not have hurt any
living thing weaker than himself, and Frank's pale face and slender form
soon appealed to his protective instincts in much the same way that his
white mice did, for which he cherished a fond affection.
If the night were cold he always managed that the Nipper had the warmest
shelter, and when provisions were scarce the least tasty morsels were
always reserved for himself, as a matter of course. Then what an
amusing companion he was! How his ingenious stories, mostly a tissue of
falsehood, beguiled the weary way, and made Frank forget his aching
feet! He believed them all at first, and his innocent credulousness
acted as a spur to Barney's fertile invention and excited him to fresh
and wilder efforts. On one occasion, however, his imagination carried
him beyond the limits of even Frank's capacity of belief, and from that
moment suspicion began. He had been romancing about the riches and
wealth of people who lived in London (where he had never been), and
after describing at great length that the houses were none of them
smaller than the whole town of Wickham put together, he added:
"An the folks niver uses ought but gowld to eat an drink off."
Frank looked up quickly.
"You're wrong there," he said. "My mother's got a chany jug what used
to belong to her grandfather, and _he_ lived in Lunnon." Observing a
twinkle in the corner of Barney's eye he continued in an injured tone:
"You've bin lyin'. Lies is wicked, and stealin's wicked too."
There was a sound of conscious superiority in his tone, which was
naturally irritating to his companion, who laughed hoarsely.
"Jest listen to him," he said, addressing Lord Beaconsfield for want of
a more intelligent audience, "listen to him! Don't he preach fine? An'
him a boy without a carikter too! Lies is wicked, eh? And stealin's
wicked. Who told him that, I wonder?"
"It's in the catekizum," continued Frank. "Parson allers said so, and
Schoolmaster too."
Barney made a gesture expressive of much contempt at the mention of
these two dignitaries.
"Parson and Schoolmaster!" he said derisively. "Why, in course they
said so; they're paid to do it. That's how they earns their money. But
jest you please to remember, that yer not Parson, not yit Schoolmaster,
but a boy without a carikter, so shut up with yer preachin'."
Without a character! It was hard, Frank thought, that he, a respectable
Danecross boy, who had been to school, and sung in the choir, and whose
folks had always worked honest and got good wages, should have come to
this! That a vagrant tramp, who could neither read nor write, and who
got his living anyhow, should be able to call him "a boy without a
carikter!"
And the worst of it was, that it was true, he sadly thought, as he
plodded along in the dust by Barney's side. He had thrown away his
right to be considered respectable--no one would employ him if they knew
he had run away, and still less if they knew he had been "on the tramp"
with a boy like Barney.
However, as time went on, such serious thoughts troubled him less
frequently; as long as the sun shone, it was easy to avoid dwelling on
them amidst the change and uncertainty of his vagrant life.
But there were not two days alike in it. Sometimes luck, plenty to eat,
and a bed of dry straw in a barn--that was luxury. Sometimes a weary
tramp in the pouring rain, no coppers and no supper. Under these last
circumstances the "Nipper" was sharply reminded of the time when he was
Frank Darvell, and lived at Green Highlands; shivering and hungry, his
thoughts would dwell regretfully on the comfort and security he had
left. Mother's face would come before him sad and reproachful. Poor
mother! She would never have that shawl with the apple-green border
now. Her Frank, instead of making a great fortune in London town, had
become a wanderer and a tramp; and indeed after a month's companionship
with Barney he was so altered that she would hardly have known him.
Sleeping under hedges or in outhouses had not improved his clothes,
which were now stained and torn. His pale face was changed by wind and
weather, and also by a plentiful supply of dust, seldom washed off, into
a dirty brown one, and his hair, once kept so neatly cropped, now hung
about in bushy tangles like Barney's. Only his bright blue eyes, with
their innocent childishness of expression, were recognisable, and these
gained him many a copper when he carried round his cap after Barney's
feeble performances with the white mice.
But though changed outwardly, there was one good habit which Frank had
brought away from Green Highlands, and to which he clung with a
persistency which surprised and irritated his partner. This was
honesty. Nothing would induce him to steal, or even to share stolen
booty; hunger, threats, bitterly sarcastic speeches were alike in vain,
and at last Barney's scornful amusement at the "boy without a carikter"
began to be mingled with a certain respect; not that he was the least
inclined to follow his example and give up pilfering himself, but he
thought it was "game" of the little 'un to hold his own, and that was a
quality he could understand and admire. After all, a chap that had been
brought up by parsons and schoolmasters must have allowances made for
him, he supposed, and he soon gave up all idea of inducing Frank to
thieve, and even kept his own exploits in the background, because the
"Nipper" took it to heart.
So, sharing sometimes hardships, and sometimes pleasures, the
oddly-matched partners journeyed on, with an increasing attachment to
each other, and Frank's thoughts travelled back less and less often to
Green Highlands.
For now the bright warm weather had set fairly in, and all the different
flowers came marching on in sweet procession, and filled the woods and
fields. After the primroses, and while some still remained sprinkled
about in the sunny places, came the deep blue hyacinths, and then the
golden kingcups, and the downy yellow cowslips: last of all, a tall
triumphant host of foxgloves spread themselves over forest and common.
The wind, blowing softly from the west, brought with it little gentle
showers, just enough to freshen the leaves and wash the upturned faces
of the blossoms; tramping was a luxury in such weather, and those people
much to be pitied who had to work in close dark rooms, hidden away from
the glorious sunshine.
Certainly it was rather _too_ hot sometimes, and the roads were dusty
and gritty, and the boys' throats got parched with thirst after a very
few miles; but there was always the hope of coming to some delicious,
cool green bit by the way, or to a stream of water, or to some
comfortable village seat under the shadow of a great tree. And this
kept up their spirits. One day they had walked far in a blazing July
sun along an unshaded high-road; it was evening now, and they were
wondering where they should sleep, and how they should get some supper,
when they came to a narrow lane turning off to the right, with steep
banks on each side of it. There was a sign-post, which, interpreted by
Frank, said, To Crowhurst--one mile.
The boys consulted a little, and soon determined to leave the high-road,
which seemed endless, as far as they could see, and try their fortune in
Crowhurst for the night. It was not long before they came to it, lying
in a hollow, and snugly sheltered by gently rising wooded ground. It
was a very little village indeed. There was a small grey church with a
stumpy square tower, and a cheerful red-brick inn called the Holly Bush,
with a swinging sign in front of it; there were half a dozen little
cottages with gay gardens, and, standing close to the road, there was a
long, low, many-gabled house which was evidently the vicarage. It was
such a snug, smiling little settlement altogether that Barney and Frank,
slouching along dusty and tired, felt quite out of place and uneasy at
the glances cast at them by the people standing at their open doors or
in their trim gardens. However, there was a bench outside the inn, and
there they presently sat down to rest and look about them. The vicarage
was just opposite; and one of its wide lattice-windows being open, the
boys could see plainly into the room, where the most prominent object
was the figure of an old gentleman, with grey hair and a velvet
skull-cap; he sat at a table writing busily, and everything was so quiet
and still that they could even hear the scratch of his quill pen, and
the rustle of the sheets of manuscript which he threw from time to time
on the floor. Sometimes he looked vaguely out of the window, and
sometimes he took off his skull-cap and rubbed his bald head with his
pocket handkerchief--then he bent busily over his writing again. Frank,
watching him lazily, wondered what he could have to write so much about,
and then it occurred to him that perhaps he might be the schoolmaster
correcting the boys' exercises; from that, his mind wandered back to
Danecross and the school-room there, where it used to be so hot in
summer, and the bees buzzed and murmured so in the garden outside, and
the boys within. And gradually, his ideas becoming confused between
bees and boys, and being very tired, he forgot the old gentleman and
fell asleep.
But, meanwhile, the acute Barney, sitting by his side and apparently
engrossed with his white mice, had been attentively observing the same
scene. Unfortunately, whenever the old gentleman dipped his pen
absently in the ink Barney's quick eye was attracted to a small object
which glittered brightly, and presently he made out that this was a
silver inkstand. The more he looked, the more his fingers longed to
close round that shining object and make sure if it really could be
silver, and I grieve to say that it was not from pressing necessity that
he coveted it, but simply from a strong desire to exercise an inborn
talent. It was as natural to him to steal, particularly if it required
cleverness and ingenuity, as it is for an artist or a poet to paint or
write poetry, so all the while he looked, his mind was busy with a plan
to rob the old gentleman of his silver inkstand.
Presently he glanced round at Frank, whose head was nodding forward in
an uncomfortable attitude, and whose deep breathing showed him to be
asleep. "If only he warn't sich a duffer," said Barney to himself, "we
might do it easy," then seeing that his partner was in danger of
falling, he moved nearer to him, and placed the boy's head gently
against his own shoulder so that he might rest easily. Meanwhile the
old gentleman's pen went scribbling on at quite a furious pace, and the
black skull-cap seemed to nod complacently, as though its owner were
pleased with what he wrote.
Barney sat and waited with the sleeping boy's head on his shoulder--
waited patiently, without stirring a muscle, though after a time the
stiff position became painful. Shadows were lengthening--the cows
sauntered through the village to be milked--it began to get a little
dusk, but still the old gentleman went on writing and Frank went on
sleeping, and Barney's bright glance was fixed on the shining object
opposite, much as a raven or a jackdaw will eye the silver spoon he
means to steal by and by. "Everything comes to him who knows how to
wait," and though Barney had never heard the proverb it was now verified
in his case; the old gentleman paused in his writing, stuck his pen
absently behind his ear, and proceeded to read over his manuscript. It
pleased him evidently, for he smiled several times, and shook his head
waggishly. Then he got up, yawned, stretched himself, and finally left
the room, but only to reappear a moment later in the porch: thence he
strolled down the narrow brick path to the gate, with his hands in the
pockets of his flowered dressing-gown, and looked up and down the road,
and up at the sky, and finally at the two dusty figures opposite on the
bench. It was on Frank that his gaze rested, and just then, aided by a
quiet poke from Barney's elbow, the boy roused himself, sat up, and
rubbed his eyes.
"Jintleman wants yer," said Barney, whispering hoarsely in his ear.
Hardly awake, Frank stumbled across the road, and mechanically touched
his cap. The old gentleman stood beaming benignly at him through his
spectacles.
"What do you want, my lad?" he said in a kind voice.
Directly Frank heard him speak he knew he could not be the schoolmaster,
but the parson of the village. Parson at Danecross used to speak in the
same sort of way. He felt ashamed to beg, and looked back at Barney for
support, who immediately came slouching up with his white mice, and
began to speak in his usual professional whine.
The old gentleman waved his hand impatiently.
"Stop," he said; "I don't want to hear any of those stories. You can't
impose upon me, so you needn't try." Then he turned to Frank. "Are you
willing to work for your supper and a bed in the hay-loft to-night?"
"Oh yes, sir," said Frank eagerly; "and so's Barney too."
The rector, for such he was, glanced somewhat doubtfully at Barney.
"Well," he said, "there's an hour's weeding in my kitchen-garden that
you can easily do before dark, and then you shall have bread and cheese,
and may sleep in the loft. Where have you come from?"
He spoke to Frank, but the boy did not answer; and Barney, coming glibly
to the rescue, had in a few moments woven an ingenious fable, in which
he frequently referred to his companion as "his little brother."
The rector listened without further question, but his shrewd grey eyes
rested suspiciously on Barney when he had finished his story.
"Come this way," he said, and led them round to the back of the house,
where there was a neatly kept kitchen-garden, with borders of homely
flowers, and a small orchard at the end of it. Here he paused, and
showed the boys that one of the gravel walks was thickly covered with
grass weeds. A man leant on the orchard gate smoking a pipe.
"Andrew," said the rector, "when those two boys have weeded that path
they are to have supper and a bed in the loft."
The man touched his cap with a very ill-pleased expression, and the old
gentleman strolled back into the house and left the boys to their work,
which they undertook with very different feelings. On Barney's side
there was a distinct sense of injury, and he performed his task with
great bitterness of soul; for to work for anything was contrary to his
inmost nature, and to every principle of his life hitherto. So he
sighed and groaned and held on to his long back with both hands at
intervals, and managed to do as small a share of the weeding as
possible. Frank, on the contrary, went to work with a will, with a
pleasant sense that he was earning something, and he was careful to get
the weeds up by the roots, instead of slicing them off neatly at the
top, which was Barney's unprincipled method of gardening. Meanwhile
Andrew's watchful eye never left the boys; and in answer to his master's
inquiries that night his opinion of them was thus delivered:
"Long un's no good, but t'other's bin taught to use his hands. He's no
tramp."
Frank lay awake long that night in the fragrant hay-loft thinking. The
kind old rector, the work, the supper, had roused old memories in his
mind, and his tramping life of late seemed suddenly distasteful. He
longed to "work honest and get wage," and feel a respectable boy again.
If only this nice old gentleman would let him stay and work in his
garden; but that, Frank remembered with a sigh, was hopeless, because he
had "no carikter." And then, there was Barney--Barney, who had always
been good to him, and who had helped him when he most wanted it, he
could not desert him now; and as for trying to turn him from his present
course of life, that was just the most hopeless thing of all. So,
rather sorrowfully, he turned over on the other side, and very shortly
fell fast asleep.
Barney slept too with the profound peacefulness of a mind at rest, as,
indeed, it was; for with the morning's light he had firmly resolved to
steal the old gentleman's silver inkstand, and he was troubled with no
doubts either as to the propriety or success of the undertaking. The
fastening of that lattice-window would be easily managed by a dexterous
hand, and before any of the folks were about he and Frank would be
beyond pursuit; only he must be careful not to wake the Nipper before he
had secured his booty, as he might make foolish and troublesome
objections.
So it came to pass that it was only just daylight next morning when
Frank was waked from a deep sleep by some one shaking his arm, and by
the dim grey light he saw Barney kneeling by him with an eager look in
his dark face.
"Get up!" he whispered.
"'Tain't time," murmured Frank, rolling over sleepily.
But Barney renewed his shaking, and at last succeeded in thoroughly
rousing his comrade, who sat up and stared at him with surprised blue
eyes.
"Why, Barney," he said, "it's night still. What do yer want to go on
fur? The old gentleman ull want to see us afore we start; we mustn't go
yet."
Barney frowned darkly.
"I niver want to see that old cove, niver no more," he said; and this
was truer than Frank thought. "I calls it a mean act to make a poor
chap work for a bit o' supper. He's no jintleman, he isn't."
"Well," said Frank, "I should like to a said `Thank yer;' it seems
ongrateful."
"Then you'd better stop and do it," said Barney impatiently. "I'm off.
I'm not goin' to stay an work in that blessed old garding any more. You
can come arter me."
He was already half-way down the loft steps as he spoke, with his mice's
cage under his arm, when he looked back over his shoulder at his
partner's slight figure standing at the top in the dim light watching
him. Turning suddenly, he was by Frank's side again in two long-legged
strides.
"Good-bye, Nipper," he whispered, "good-bye, old pal!"
He patted the boy on the shoulder gently, and soon with stealthy
swiftness passed from sight, and seemed to vanish in the grey morning
mist.
Then Frank, wondering a little, but more sleepy than curious, crept back
to his still warm nest in the hay, and fell asleep again without loss of
time.
He dreamt that Barney had come back to fetch him, and opened his eyes
some hours later expecting to see him; but he was not there. Instead of
him there was Andrew the gardener just coming up the steps in a great
hurry.
He seized Frank roughly by the arm.
"Oh, you're here, are you, young scamp?" he said. Then looking round
the loft.
"Where's t'other?"
"He's gone on before," answered Frank, surprised and confused at this
treatment.
"Oh, I daresay," said Andrew, giving him a shake. "And I suppose you
don't even know what he's got in his pocket. You're a nice young
innercent. You jest come along with me."
He hurried the boy along, holding him tight by the collar of his smock,
and thrust him into the room with the lattice-window, where the rector
had been writing the night before. He was there now, walking feverishly
backwards and forwards, and looking thoroughly ill at ease.
"Here's one on 'em, sir," said Andrew triumphantly introducing the small
trembling form of Frank, "an' t'other's not far off, I reckon."
The rector looked more than ever perturbed.
"Where was the boy, Andrew?" he asked. "Does he know anything of the
matter?"
"He was in the loft, and he's just the most owdacious young rascal; says
t'other one's gone on before. He'll know more about it, I fancy, after
a day or two in the lock-up."
Andrew administered a rousing shake to his captive as he spoke. He was
not ill-pleased that the rector should at last see the result of
encouraging tramps.
Hitherto Frank had been in a state of puzzled misery, and had scarcely
understood what was going on; but when Andrew mentioned the word
lock-up, the whole matter was clear to him. Barney had stolen
something; that was the meaning of his abrupt departure before daylight.
The rector looked at him pityingly.
"Where is your companion, my boy?" he said.
Frank did not answer; he stood perfectly passive in Andrew's hands, and
cast his eyes on the ground.
"Don't yer hear his reverence?" shouted the latter in the boy's ear.
"I dunno," said Frank faintly.
"You'd better let me run him over to Aylesford and have him locked up,
sir," said Andrew. "He'd find a tongue then."
Frank raised his frightened blue eyes entreatingly to the rector's face
without speaking; he saw something in the kind rugged features which
encouraged him, for with sudden energy he wriggled himself loose from
Andrew and threw himself on his knees.
"Don't let them lock me up, sir," he sobbed. "I've allers bin a honest
lad."
"Was it your companion who broke into this room this morning and stole
my inkstand?" pursued the rector.
"I dunno," repeated Frank. "I didn't see him steal nuthin', I was
asleep."
"Would he be likely to do it?"
"I dunno," said Frank under his breath, deeply conscious that he _did_
know very well.
"Is he your brother?"
"No," cried Frank with a sudden burst of eloquence, "he's no kin to me.
I'm Frank Darvell's lad, what lives at Green Highlands. And Parson
knows me--and Schoolmaster. And I've niver stolen nowt in my life.
Don't ye let 'em lock me up!"
"A likely story!" growled Andrew. "Honest lads don't go trampin' round
with thieves."
The rector, whose face had softened at the boy's appeal, seemed to pull
himself together sternly at this remark; he frowned, and said, turning
away a little from Frank's tear-stained face: "I would gladly believe
you, my boy, but it is too improbable. As Andrew says, honest boys do
not associate with thieves."
"Ask any of 'em at Danecross, sir," pleaded poor Frank in despair;
"anyone ull tell ye I belong to honest folk."
"That's no proof you're not a thief," put in the persistent Andrew;
"there's many a rotten apple hangs on a sound tree."
The rector looked up impatiently.
"Leave the boy alone with me, Andrew," he said, "I wish to ask him some
questions;" and as the man left the room he seated himself in his big
leather chair and beckoned Frank to him. "Come here," he said, "and
answer me truthfully."
Frank stood at his elbow, trembling still in fear of being sent to
prison, and yet with a faint hope stealing into his heart.
Bit by bit he sobbed forth his story in answer to the rector's
questions, and finally raising his swollen eyelids to the kind face he
said:
"If so be as mother was to know I wur sent to prison it 'ud break her
'art."
"Tell me," said the rector, "have your parents lived long at Green
Highlands? Are they well-known there?"
"Father, he's lived there all his life," said Frank; "and granther, he
used to live there too. Father can do a better day's work nor any man
in Danecross," he added with conscious pride.
"Ah!" said the rector, "it's a fine thing to be a good workman, and to
have earned a good name, isn't it?"
Frank hung his head.
"But it isn't done by tramping about the country with bad companions. A
good name's a precious thing, and like all precious things it's got by
trouble and labour. It's the best thing a father can hand down to his
son. When he begins life, men say, `He's Frank Darvell's son, he comes
of a good stock;' and so the `good name' his father earned is of great
use to him. But he can't live on that; he has to make one of his own
too, so that he can hand it on to _his_ sons and daughters and say,
`There's my father's name, I've never disgraced it; now it's your turn
to use it well.' But suppose that the son doesn't value his father's
good name. Suppose that he chooses an idle good-for-nothing life and
his own pleasure, rather than to work hard and live honestly; what
happens then? Why, then, men soon leave off trusting him, and say,
`He's not the man his father was;' and so the name of Darvell, which
used to be so honoured and respected, comes to be connected with evil
things. Then, perhaps too late, the son finds that `a good name is more
to be desired than great riches, and loving favour rather than silver
and gold.' But he has thrown away the good name and the loving favour
too, for he has drifted away from his old friends and companions. He
can _never_ get back to where he started from."
The solemn monotonous voice--for the rector had dropped unconsciously
into his sermon tones--and the emphasis on the last words completed
Frank's misery of spirit.
Clasping his hands, he fell on his knees and said imploringly:
"Let me go home, sir. Let me go back. I'd be proper glad to see 'em
all again."
"Whom would you like to see again?" asked the rector kindly.
"There's mother first," said Frank, "and father on Sundays, and then
Schoolmaster, and Jack Gunn, and little Phoebe Redrup."
"My little lad," said the rector, laying his hand on the boy's shoulder,
"you see there's no place like home. Home, where people know us and
love us in spite of our faults. I think you won't want to run away
again?"
"Niver no more," sobbed Frank.
"And now," said the rector rising, and reassuming the air of severity
which he had quite laid aside during the last part of the interview. "I
am going to write to the vicar of Danecross, who is a friend of mine.
If I find that what you have told me is true we will say no more about
the inkstand, and I will believe that you had no knowledge of the theft.
Until then you must be treated as under suspicion, though we will not
send you to prison."
He summoned Andrew, and delivered Frank over to his charge. Disgusted
to find that he was not to be "run in" as an example to tramps, from
whom his master's orchard and garden had suffered so frequently, Andrew
was determined that his captive should have no chance of escape, and as
rigorous a confinement as possible. Frank was therefore locked up in a
small harness-room, as the place of greatest security and discomfort;
and here he passed the lonely day in much distress of mind, troubled
with many fears concerning his late friend and companion Barney.
The rector himself was hardly more at his ease, however, for he would
willingly have dispensed with the zeal of his parishioners, who had been
scouring the country since daybreak in search of the thief, and kept him
in a constant tremor. The good people of Crowhurst seldom had the
chance of such an excitement as this unexpected robbery, and though few
things would have embarrassed the rector more than a successful end to
the chase, he did not dare to check their ardour.
His peaceful solitude was therefore perpetually disturbed throughout the
day by the arrival of breathless parties of scouts. He would sally out
to the gate to meet them, and ask nervously: "Well, my lads, seen
anything of him, eh?" Deep was his inward relief when the day closed in
with no news of the thief, for he would have cheerfully sacrificed many
silver inkstands rather than have been obliged to deliver the
unfortunate Barney into the hands of justice.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Two evenings later than this, the vicar of Danecross stood at the open
door of the Darvells' cottage at Green Highlands, and looked into the
room. Mrs Darvell was alone, scrubbing away at her brick floor on her
knees, and surrounded by a formidable array of pails, and brushes, and
mops. The place had a comfortless air, and there was no fire on the
hearth.
"Late at work, Mrs Darvell, eh?" was the vicar's greeting as he stood
on the threshold.
Mrs Darvell got up quickly, and dropped her usual brisk courtesy, but
her face looked dull and spiritless.
"I'm in too much of a muss to ask you in, sir," she said, glancing
round.
"Oh, never mind," said the clergyman; "where's Darvell? Isn't he back
from work yet?"
Mrs Darvell shrugged her shoulders, and made an expressive movement
with her head in the direction of Danecross.
"I reckon he's where he generally is now," she answered moodily, "at the
`Nag's Head.'"
"Why, that's something new, isn't it? I always consider Darvell one of
the steadiest men in my parish."
Mrs Darvell looked up defiantly.
"Maybe it's partly my fault," she said; "but we've never had a minute's
comfort since the little lad went. And things get worse and worse. I
don't care no more to keep the place nice, and I ups and speaks sharp to
Darvell, and he goes off to the `Nag's Head.'"
The vicar nodded his head slowly, as though Darvell's conduct was not
quite incomprehensible under such circumstances, and Mrs Darvell
continued in a lower tone:
"You know, sir, it wur because my man lifted his hand to Frank that the
lad went off; and I don't seem as how I can forget it. When I look at
Darvell I keep on rememberin' as how, if he'd bin more patient with the
boy we should ha' had him with us still. Darvell's been a good man to
me, but I can't help speaking sharp to him; though maybe I'm sorry after
I done it, for there's only the two on us now, and we'll have to worry
along together."
The vicar shook his head.
"Hard blows are bad things, Mrs Darvell, but hard words do quite as
much mischief in their way. If your husband has driven Frank from home,
does it mend matters for you to drive your husband to the public-house?"
"There's truth in what you say, sir," said Mrs Darvell, rubbing her
arms with her apron; "but I don't seem as if I cared to do any different
now the boy's gone. I've allers had a quick tongue from a gall, and
Darvell, he must just take the consequences."
"But suppose," said the vicar, looking earnestly at her, "suppose that
Frank were to come back to you safe and well, and Darvell were to
promise never to be so harsh to him again, wouldn't you try then to keep
from saying sharp things?"
Mrs Darvell's black eyes fixed themselves keenly on the vicar's face.
"You've heard summat, sir?" she said, laying one damp red hand on his
coat-sleeve. "Is the lad livin'? Just tell me that. Is he livin'?"
"Look there," said the vicar.
He turned and pointed down the road, where, at the top of the hill
leading up from Danecross, two figures were just visible. They came
nearer and nearer. One was that of Darvell, broad-shouldered and
heavily built, but the other one was small and slender, and had rough
yellow hair.
Mrs Darvell was a woman of decisive action as well as of a quick
tongue. One look was enough for her. She immediately took off her
pattens, which had iron rings to them, and were not adapted for rapid
movement, and placed them quickly and quite unconsciously in the vicar's
arms as he stood beside her.
"Bless you, sir!" she said.
Before he had realised his situation she had flown down the road,
reached the two figures, and enveloped Frank in her embrace, Darvell
standing by meanwhile with a broad smile on his fair and foolish
countenance.
The neighbours gathered round the group, and all the dogs, and pigs, and
chickens belonging to the settlement also drew near. Jack Gunn's donkey
looked over the hedge, his furry ears showing a pointed interest in the
affair, and in the distance the vicar surveyed the scene from the
cottage door, still holding Mrs Darvell's pattens.
So Frank had got home again; and after all his wanderings he found that:
"From east to west
At home is best."