snow-flakes, held between his hands. The Squire had put his back
against the bureau and was staring at him through his spectacles, his
nose and face a finer red than ordinary.
The thing had been tracked home to Benjamin Rymer by the man Cotton, Lee
explained in a rambling sort of tale. Cotton, incensed at Rymer's not
helping him to some money--which was what he had come to Timberdale to
ask for--had told in revenge of the past transaction. Cotton had not
been connected with it, but knew of the part taken in it by Rymer.
"I don't believe a syllable of it," said the Squire, stoutly, flinging
himself into his bureau chair, which he twisted round to face the fire.
"You can sit down, Lee. Where did you say you heard this?"
Lee had heard it at the Plough and Harrow, where the man Cotton had been
staying. Jelf, the landlord, had been told it by Cotton himself, and
Jelf in his turn had whispered it to Lee. That was last night: and Lee
had come up with it now to Mr. Todhetley.
"I tell you, Lee, I don't believe a syllable of it," repeated the
Squire.
"It be true as gospel, sir," asserted Lee. "Last night, when I went in
to Jelf's for a drop of beer, being stiff all over with the cold, I
found Jelf in a passion because a guest had gone off without paying part
of his score, leaving nothing but a letter to say he'd send it. Cotton
by name, Jelf explained, and a sporting gent to look at. A good week,
Jelf vowed he'd been there, living on the best. And then Jelf said I had
no cause to be looked down upon any longer, for it was not me that had
done that trick with the bank-notes, but Benjamin Rymer."
"Now just stop, Lee," interrupted the Squire. "Nobody looked down upon
you for it, or suspected you: neither Jelf nor other people. I have told
you so times enough."
"But Jelf knows I thought they did, sir. And he told me this news to put
me a bit at my ease. He----"
"Jelf talks at random when his temper's up," cried the Squire. "If you
believe this story, Lee, you'll believe anything."
"Ben Rymer was staying at home at the time, sir," urged Lee, determined
to have his say. "If he is steady now, it's known what he was then. He
must have got access to the letters somehow, while they lay at his
father's that night, and opened yours and changed the note. Cotton says
Mr. Ben had had the stolen note hid about him for ever so long, waiting
an opportunity to get rid of it."
"Do you mean to accuse Mr. Ben of being one of the thieves who robbed
the butcher's till?" demanded the Squire, growing wrathful.
"Well, sir, I don't go as far as that. The man told Jelf that one of the
stolen notes was given to young Rymer to pass, and he was to have a
pound for himself if he succeeded in doing it."
The Squire would hardly let him finish.
"Cotton said this to Jelf, did he?--and Jelf rehearsed it to you?"
"Yes, sir. Just that much."
"Now look you here, Lee. First of all, to whom have you repeated this
tale?"
"Not to anybody," answered Lee. "I thought I'd better bring it up here,
sir, to begin with."
"And you'd better let it stop here to end with," retorted the Squire.
"That's my best advice to you, Lee. My goodness! Accuse a respectable
man's son of what might transport him, on the authority of a drunken
fellow who runs away from an inn without paying his bill! The likeliest
thing is that this Cotton did it himself. How else should he know about
it? Don't you let your tongue carry this further, Lee, or you may find
yourself in the wrong box."
Lee looked just a little staggered. A faint flush appeared in his
withered face. The Squire's colour was at its fiercest. He was hard at
the best of times to take in extraordinary tales, and utterly scouted
this one. There was no man he had a greater respect for than Thomas
Rymer.
"I hoped you might be for prosecuting, sir. It would set me right with
the world."
"You are a fool, Lee. The world has not thought you wrong yet.
Prosecute! I! Upon this cock-and-bull story! Mr. Rymer would prosecute
me in turn, I expect, if I did. You'd better not let this get to his
ears: you might lose your post."
"Mr. Rymer, sir, must know how wild his son has been."
"Wild! Most of the young men of the present day are that, as it seems to
me," cried the Squire, in his heat. "Mine had better not let me catch
_them_ at it, though. I'd warm their ears well beforehand if I thought
they ever would---- Do you hear, Mr. Johnny?"
I had been leaning on the back of a chair in the quietest corner for
fear of being sent away. When the Squire put himself up like this, he
would say anything.
"To be a bit wild is one thing, Lee; to commit felony quite another:
Rymer's son would be no more guilty of it than you would. It's out of
all reason. And do you take care of your tongue. Look here, man: suppose
I took this up, as you want me, and it was found to have been Cotton or
some other gaol-bird who did it, instead of young Rymer: where would you
be? In prison for defamation of character, if the Rymers chose to put
you there. Be wise in time, Lee, and say no more."
"It might have been as you say, sir--Cotton himself; though I'm sure
that never struck me," returned Lee, veering round to the argument. "One
thing that made me believe it, was knowing that Ben Rymer might easily
get access to the letters."
"And that's just the reason why you should have doubted it,"
contradicted the Squire. "He would be afraid to touch them because of
the ease with which he could do it. Forgive you for coming up, you say?"
added the Squire, as Lee rose with some humble words of excuse. "Of
course I will. But don't forget that a word of this, dropped abroad,
might put your place, as postman, in jeopardy."
"And that would never do," said Lee, shaking his head.
"_I_ should think not. It's cold to-day, isn't it?"
"Frightful cold, sir."
"And you could come through it with this improbable story! Use your
sense another time, Lee. Here, Johnny, take Lee into the kitchen, and
tell them to give him some cold beef and beer."
I handed him over, with the order, to Molly; who went into one of her
tantrums at it, for she was in the midst of pastry-making. The Squire
was sitting with his head bent, looking as perplexed as an owl, when I
got back to the room.
"Johnny--shut the door. Something has come into my mind. Do you
recollect Thomas Rymer's coming up one evening, and wanting to give me
a five-pound note?"
"Quite well, sir."
"Well; I--I am not so sure now that there's nothing in this fresh tale."
I sat down; and in a low voice told him all. Of the fit of sobbing in
which I had found Rymer that same night in the Ravine; and that I had
known all along it _was_ the son who had done it.
"Bless my heart!" cried the Squire, softly, very much taken aback. "It's
that, perhaps, that has been making Rymer so ill."
"He said it was slowly killing him, sir."
"Mercy on him!--poor fellow! An ill-doing scapegrace of a rascal!
Johnny, how thankful we ought to be when our sons turn out well, and
not ill! But I think a good many turn out ill nowadays. If you should
live to have sons, sir, take care how you bring them up."
"I think Mr. Rymer must have tried to bring Ben up well," was my answer.
"Yes; but did the mother?" retorted the Squire. "More responsibility
lies with them than with the father, Johnny; and she spoilt him. Take
care, sir, how you choose a wife when the time comes. And there was that
miserable lot the lad fell in with at Tewkesbury! Johnny, that Cotton
must be an awful blackguard."
"I hope he'll live to feel it."
"Look here, we must hush this up," cried the Squire, sinking his voice
and glancing round the room. "I wouldn't bring fresh pain on poor Rymer
for the world. You must forget that you've told me, Johnny."
"Yes, that I will."
"It's only a five-pound note, after all. And if it were fifty pounds, I
wouldn't stir in it. No, nor for five hundred; be hanged if I would!
It's not I that would bring the world about Thomas Rymer's ears. I
knew his father and respected him, Johnny; though his sermons were
three-quarters of an hour long, sometimes; and I respect Thomas Rymer.
You and I must keep this close. And I'll make a journey to Timberdale
when this snow-storm's gone, Johnny, and frighten Jelf out of his life
for propagating libellous tales."
That's where it ought to have ended. The worst is, "oughts" don't go for
much in the world; as perhaps every reader of this paper has learned to
know.
When Lee appeared the next morning with the letters as usual, I went out
to him. He dropped his voice to speak, as he put them in my hand.
"They say Benjamin Rymer is off, sir."
"Off where?"
"Somewhere out of Timberdale."
"Off for what?"
"I don't know, sir. Jelf accused me of having carried tales there, and
called me a jackass for my pains. He said that what he had told me
wasn't meant to be repeated again, and I ought not to have gone telling
it about, especially to the Rymers themselves; that it might not be
true----"
"As the Squire said yesterday, you know, Lee."
"Yes, sir. I answered Jelf that it couldn't have been me that had gone
talking to the Rymers, for I had not as much as seen them. Any way, he
said, somebody had, for they knew of it, and Benjamin had gone off in
consequence. Jelf's as cross over it as two sticks. It's his own fault;
why did he tell me what wasn't true?"
Lee went off--looking cross also. After breakfast I related this to the
Squire. He didn't seem to like it, and walked about thinking.
"Johnny, I can't stir in it, you see," he said presently. "If it got
abroad, people might talk about compromising a felony, and all that sort
of rubbish: and I am a magistrate. You must go. See Rymer: and make him
understand--without telling him in so many words, you know--that there's
nothing to fear from me, and he may call Ben back again. If the young
man has begun to lead a new life, Heaven forbid that I, having sons
myself, should be a stumbling-block in the way of it."
It was striking twelve when I reached Timberdale. Margaret said her
father was poorly, having gone out in the storm of the previous day and
caught a chill. He was in the parlour alone, cowering over the fire. In
the last few hours he seemed to have aged years. I shut the door.
"What has happened?" I whispered. "I have come on purpose to ask you."
"That which I have been dreading all along," he said in a quiet,
hopeless tone. "Benjamin has run away. He got some information, it
seems, from the landlord of the Plough and Harrow, and was off the next
hour."
"Well, now, the Squire sent me to you privately, Mr. Rymer, to say that
Ben might come back again. He has nothing to fear."
"The Squire knows it, then?"
"Yes. Lee came up about it yesterday: Jelf had talked to him. Mr.
Todhetley did not believe a word of it: he blew up Lee like anything
for listening to such a tale; he means to blow up Jelf for repeating
anything said by a vagabond like Cotton. Lee came round to his way of
thinking. Indeed there's nothing to be afraid of. Jelf is eating his
words. The Squire would not harm your son for the world."
Rymer shook his head. He did not doubt the Squire's friendly feeling,
but thought it was out of his hands. He told me all he knew about it.
"Benjamin came to me yesterday morning in a great flurry, saying
something was wrong, and he must absent himself. Was it about the
bank-note, I asked--and it was the first time a syllable in regard to it
had passed between us," broke off Rymer. "Jelf had given him a friendly
hint of what had dropped from the man Cotton--you were in the shop that
first day when he came in, Mr. Johnny--and Benjamin was alarmed. Before
I had time to collect my thoughts, or say further, he was gone."
"Where is he?"
"I don't know. I went round at once to Jelf, and the man told me all.
Jelf knows the truth; that is quite clear. He says he has spoken only to
Lee; is sorry now for having done that, and he will hush it up as far as
he can."
"Then it will be quite right, Mr. Rymer. Why should you be taking it in
this way?"
"I am ill," was all he answered. "I caught a chill going round to the
Plough and Harrow. So far as mental illness goes, we may battle with it
to the end, strength from above being given to us; but when it takes
bodily form--why, there's nothing for it but giving in."
Even while we spoke, he was seized with what seemed to be an ague. Mrs.
Rymer appeared with some scalding broth, and I said I would run for
Darbyshire.
* * * * *
A few days went on, and then news came up to Crabb Cot that Mr. Rymer
lay dying. Robert Ashton, riding back from the hunt in his scarlet coat
and white cords on his fine grey horse (the whole a mass of splashes
with the thaw) pulled up at the door to say How d'ye do? and mentioned
it amidst other items. It was just a shock to the Squire, and nothing
less.
"Goodness preserve us!--and all through that miserable five-pound note,
Johnny!" he cried in a wild flurry. "Where's my hat and top-coat?"
Away to Timberdale by the short cut through the Ravine, never heeding
the ghost--although its traditional time of appearing, the dusk of
evening, was drawing on--went the Squire. He thought Rymer must be ill
through fear of him; and he accused me of having done my errand of peace
badly.
It was quite true--Thomas Rymer lay dying. Darbyshire was coming out of
the house as the Squire reached it, and said so. Instead of being sorry,
he flew in a passion and attacked the doctor.
"Now look you here, Darbyshire--this won't do. We can't have people
dying off like this for nothing. If you don't cure him, you had better
give up doctoring."
"How d'you mean for nothing?" asked Darbyshire, who knew the Squire
well.
"It can't be for much: don't be insolent. Because a man gets a bit of
anxiety on his mind, is he to be let die?"
"I've heard nothing about anxiety," said Darbyshire. "He caught a chill
through going out that day of the snow-storm, and it settled on a vital
part. That's what ails him, Squire."
"And you can't cure the chill! Don't tell me."
"Before this time to-morrow, Thomas Rymer will be where there's neither
killing nor curing," was the answer. "I told them yesterday to send for
the son: but they don't know where he is."
The Squire made a rush through the shop and up to the bedroom, hardly
saying, "With your leave," or, "By your leave." Thomas Rymer lay in bed
at the far end; his white face whiter than the pillow; his eyes sunken;
his hands plucking at the counterpane. Margaret left the room when the
Squire went in. He gave one look; and knew that he saw death there.
"Rymer, I'd almost have given my own life to save you from this," cried
he, in the shock. "Oh, my goodness! what's to be done?"
"I seem to have been waiting for it all along; to have seen the exposure
coming," said Thomas Rymer, his faint fingers resting in the Squire's
strong ones. "And now that it's here, I can't battle with it."
"Now, Rymer, my poor fellow, couldn't you--_couldn't_ you make a bit of
an effort to live? To please me: I knew your father, mind. It can't be
right that you should die."
"It must be right; perhaps it is well. I can truly say with old
Jacob that few and evil have the days of my life been. Nothing but
disappointment has been my lot here; struggle upon struggle, pain upon
pain, sorrow upon sorrow. I think my merciful Father will remember it in
the last great account."
* * * * *
He died at five o'clock in the morning. Lee told us of it when he
brought up the letters at breakfast-time. The Squire let fall his knife
and fork.
"It's a shame and a sin, though, Johnny, that sons should inflict this
cruel sorrow upon their parents," he said later. "Rymer has been brought
down to the grave by his son before his hair was grey. I wonder how
_their_ accounts will stand at the great reckoning?"
III.
HESTER REED'S PILLS.
We were at our other and chief home, Dyke Manor: and Tod and I were
there for the short Easter holidays, which were shorter in those days
than they are in these.
It was Easter Tuesday. The Squire had gone riding over to old Jacobson's
with Tod. I, having nothing else to do, got the mater to come with me
for a practice on the church organ; and we were taking the round home
again through the village, Church Dykely.
Easter was very late that year. It was getting towards the end of April:
and to judge by the weather, it might have been the end of May, the days
were so warm and glorious.
In passing the gate of George Reed's cottage, Mrs. Todhetley stopped.
"How are the babies, Hester?"
Hester Reed, sunning her white cap and clean cotton gown in the garden,
the three elder children around, watering the beds with a doll's
watering-pot, and a baby hiding its face on her shoulder, dropped a
curtsy as she answered--
"They be but poorly, ma'am, thank you. Look up, Susy," turning the
baby's face upwards to show it: and a pale mite of a face it was, with
sleepy eyes. "For a day or two past they've not seemed the thing; and
they be both cross."
"I should think their teeth are troubling them, Hester."
"Maybe, ma'am. I shouldn't wonder. Hetty, she seems worse than Susy.
She's a-lying there in the basket indoors. Would you please spare a
minute to step in and look at her, ma'am?"
Mrs. Todhetley opened the gate. "I may as well go in and see, Johnny,"
she said to me in an undertone: "I fear both the children are rather
sickly."
The other baby, "Hetty," lay in the kitchen in a clothes-basket. It had
just the same sort of puny white face as its sister. These two were
twins, and about a year old. When they were born, Church Dykely went on
finely at Hester Reed, asking her if she would not have had enough with
one new child but she must go and set up two.
"It does seem very poorly," remarked Mrs. Todhetley, stooping over the
young mortal (which was not cross just now, but very still and quiet),
and letting it clasp its little fist round one of her fingers. "No doubt
it is the teeth. If the children do not get better soon, I think, were
I you, Hester, I should speak to Mr. Duffham."
The advice seemed to strike Hester Reed all of a heap. "Speak to Dr.
Duffham!" she exclaimed. "Why, ma'am, they must both be a good deal
worse than they be, afore we does that. I'll give 'em a dose o' mild
physic apiece. I dare say that'll bring 'em round."
"I should think it would not hurt them," assented Mrs. Todhetley. "They
both seem feverish; this one especially. I hear you have had Cathy
over," she went on, passing to another subject.
"Sure enough us have," said Mrs. Reed. "She come over yesterday was a
week and stayed till Friday night."
"And what is she doing now?"
"Well, ma'am, Cathy's keeping herself; and that's something. She has got
a place at Tewkesbury to serve in some shop; is quite in clover there,
by all accounts. Two good gownds she brought over to her back; and she's
pretty nigh as lighthearted as she was afore she went off to enter on
her first troubles."
"Hannah told me she was not looking well."
"She have had a nasty attack of--what was it?--neuralgy, I think she
called it, and been obliged to go to a doctor," answered Hester Reed.
"That's why they gave her the holiday. She was very well while she was
here."
I had stood at the door, talking to the little ones with their
watering-pot. As the mater was taking her final word with Mrs. Reed, I
went on to open the gate for her, when some woman whisked round the
corner from Piefinch Lane, and in at the gate.
"Thank ye, sir," said she to me: as if I had been holding it open for
her especial benefit.
It was Ann Dovey, the blacksmith's wife down Piefinch Cut: a smart young
woman, fond of fine gowns and caps. Mrs. Todhetley came away, and Ann
Dovey went in. And this is what passed at Reed's--as it leaked out to
the world afterwards.
The baby in the basket began to cry, and Ann Dovey lifted it out and
took it on her lap. She understood all about children, having been the
eldest of a numerous flock at home, and was no doubt all the fonder of
them because she had none of her own. Mrs. Dovey was moreover a great
gossip, liking to have as many fingers in her neighbours' pies as she
could conveniently get in.
"And now what's amiss with these two twins?" asked she in confidential
tones, bending her face forward till it nearly touched Mrs. Reed's, who
had sat down opposite to her with the other baby. "Sarah Tanken, passing
our shop just now, telled me they warn't the thing at all, so I thought
I'd run round."
"Sarah Tanken looked in while I was a-washing up after dinner, and saw
'em both," assented Mrs. Reed. "Hetty's the worst of the two; more peeky
like."
"Which _is_ Hetty?" demanded Ann Dovey; who, with all her neighbourly
visits, had not learnt to distinguish the two apart.
"The one that you be a-nursing."
"Did the mistress of the Manor look at 'em?"
"Yes; and she thinks I'd better give 'em both some mild physic.
Leastways, I said a dose might bring 'em round," added Hester Reed,
correcting herself, "and she said it might."
"It's the very thing for 'em, Hester Reed," pronounced Mrs. Dovey,
decisively. "There's nothing like a dose of physic for little ones; it
often stops a bout of illness. You give it to the two; and don't lose
no time. Grey powder's best."
"I've not got any grey powder by me," said Mrs. Reed. "It crossed my
mind to try 'em with one o' them pills I had from Abel Crew."
"What pills be they?"
"I had 'em from him for myself the beginning o' the year, when I was
getting the headache so much. They're as mild as mild can be; but they
did me good. The box is upstairs."
"How do you know they'd be the right pills to give to babies?" sensibly
questioned Mrs. Dovey.
"Oh, they be right enough for that! When little Georgy was poorly two or
three weeks back, I ran out to Abel Crew, chancing to see him go by the
gate, and asked whether one of his pills would do the child harm. He
said no, it would do him good."
"And did it get him round?"
"I never gave it. Georgy seemed to be so much pearter afore night came,
that I thought I'd wait till the morrow. He's a rare bad one to take
physic, he is. You may cover a powder in treacle that thick, Ann Dovey,
but the boy scents it out somehow, and can't be got to touch it. His
father always has to make him; I can't. He got well that time without
the pill."
"Well, I should try the pills on the little twins," advised Ann Dovey.
"I'm sure they want something o' the sort. Look at this one! lying
like a lamb in my arms, staring up at me with its poor eyes, and never
moving. You may always know when a child's ill by its quietness. Nothing
ailing 'em, they worry the life out of you."
"Both of them were cross enough this morning," remarked Hester Reed,
"and for that reason I know they be worse now. I'll try the pill
to-night."
Now, whether it was that Ann Dovey had any especial love for presiding
at the ceremony of administering pills to children, or whether she only
looked in again incidentally in passing, certain it was that in the
evening she was for the second time at George Reed's cottage. Mrs. Reed
had put the three elder ones to bed; or, as she expressed it, "got 'em
out o' the way;" and was undressing the twins by firelight, when Ann
Dovey tripped into the kitchen. George Reed was at work in the front
garden, digging; though it was getting almost too dark to see where he
inserted the spade.
"Have ye give 'em their physic yet?" was Mrs. Dovey's salutation.
"No; but I'm a-going to," answered Hester Reed. "You be just come in
time to hold 'em for me, Ann Dovey, while I go upstairs for the box."
Ann Dovey received the pair of babies, and sat down in the low chair.
Taking the candle, Mrs. Reed ran up to the room where the elder children
slept. The house was better furnished than cottages generally are, and
the rooms were of a fairly good size. Opposite the bed stood a high
deal press with a flat top to it, which Mrs. Reed made a shelf of, for
keeping things that must be out of the children's reach. Stepping on a
chair, she put her hand out for the box of pills, which stood in its
usual place near the corner, and went downstairs with it.
It was an ordinary pasteboard pill-box, containing a few pills--six or
seven, perhaps. Mrs. Dovey, curious in all matters, lifted the lid and
sniffed at the pills. Hester Reed was getting the moist sugar they were
to be administered in.
"What did you have these here pills for?" questioned Ann Dovey, as Mrs.
Reed came back with the sugar. "They bain't over big."
"For headache and pain in the side. I asked old Abel Crew if he could
give me something for it, and he gave me these pills."