hindered; and it must have been getting on for four o'clock when we
started. Which docked the run considerably, for we had to be in at six
to tea. On that account, perhaps, Millichip thought he must get over
the ground the quicker; for I don't think we had ever made so swift a
course. Letting the hare get well on ahead, the signal was given, and we
started after him in full cry, rending the air with shouts, and rushing
along like the wind.
A right-down good hare Millichip turned out to be; doubling and twisting
and finessing, and exasperating the hounds considerably. About five
o'clock he had made tracks for home, as we found by the scent: but we
could neither see him nor catch him. Later, I chanced to come to grief
in a treacherous ditch, lost my straw hat, and tore the sleeve of my
jacket. This threw me behind the rest; and when I pelted up to the next
stile, there stood Van Rheyn. He had halted to rest his arms on it; his
breath was coming in alarming gasps, his face whiter than a sheet.
"Halloa, Van Rheyn! What's up? The pace is too much for you."
"It was my breath," said he, when he could answer. "I go on now."
I put my hand on him. "Look here: the run's nearly over: we shall soon
be at home. Don't go on so fast."
"But I want to be in at what they call the death."
"There'll be no death to-day: the hare's safe to win."
"I want to keep up," he answered, getting over the stile. "I said I
could keep up, and do what the rest did." And off he was again, full
rush.
Before us, on that side of the stile, was a tolerably wide field. The
pack had wound half over it during this short halt, making straight for
the entrance to the coppice at the other end. We were doing our best to
catch them up, when I distinctly saw a heavy stone flung into their
midst. Looking at the direction it came from, there crept a dirty
ragamuffin over the ground on his hands and knees. He did not see us two
behind; and he flung another heavy stone. Had it struck anyone's head it
would have done serious damage.
Letting the chase go, I stole across and pounced upon him before he
could get away. He twisted himself out of my hands like an eel, and
stood grinning defiance and whistling to his dog. We knew the young
scamp well: and could never decide whether he was a whole scamp, or
half a natural. At any rate, he was vilely bad, was the pest of the
neighbourhood, and had enjoyed some short sojourns in prison for
trespass. Raddy was the name he went by; we knew him by no other; and
how he got a living nobody could tell.
"What did you throw those stones for?"
"Shan't tell ye. Didn't throw 'em at you."
"You had better mind what you are about, Mr. Raddy, unless you want to
get into trouble."
"Yah--you!" grinned Raddy.
There was nothing to be made of him; there never was anything. I should
have been no match for Raddy in an encounter; and he would have killed
me without the slightest compunction. Turning to go on my way, I was in
time to see Van Rheyn tumble over the stile and disappear within the
coppice. The rest must have nearly shot out of the other end by that
time. It was a coppice that belonged to Sir John Whitney. Once through
it, we were on our own grounds, and within a field of home.
I went on leisurely enough: no good to try to catch them up now. Van
Rheyn would not do it, and he had more than half a field's start of me.
It must have been close upon six, for the sun was setting in a ball of
fire; the amber sky around it was nearly as dazzling as the sun, and
lighted up the field.
So that, plunging into the coppice, it was like going into a dungeon.
For a minute or two, with the reflection of that red light lingering in
my eyes, I could hardly see the narrow path; the trees were dark, thick,
and met overhead. I ran along whistling: wondering whether that young
Raddy was after me with his ugly dog; wondering why Sir John did not----
The whistling and the thoughts came to a summary end together. At the
other end of the coppice, but a yard or two on this side the stile that
divided it from the open field, there was Charles Van Rheyn on the
ground, his back against the trunk of a tree, his arms stretched up,
clasping it. But for that clasp, and the laboured breathing, I might
have thought he was dead. For his face was ghastly, blue round the
mouth, and wore the strangest expression I ever saw.
"Charley, what's the matter?"
But he could not answer. He was panting frightfully, as though every
gasp would be his last. What on earth was I to do? Down I knelt, saying
never another word.
"It--gives--me--much--hurt," said he, at length, with a long pause
between every word.
"What does?"
"Here"--pointing to his chest--towards the left side.
"Did you hurt yourself? Did you fall?"
"No, I not hurt myself. I fell because I not able to run more. It is the
breath. I wish papa was near me!"
Instinct told me that he must have assistance, and yet I did not like to
leave him. But what if delay in getting it should be dangerous? I rose
up to go.
"You--you are not going to quit me!" he cried out, putting his feeble
grasp on my arm.
"But, Charley, I want to get somebody to you," I said in an agony, "I
can't do anything for you myself: anything in the world."
"No, you stay. I should not like to be alone if I die."
The shock the word gave me I can recall yet. Die! If there was any fear
of _that_, it was all the more necessary I should make a rush for Dr.
Frost and Featherston. Never had I been so near my wits' end before, in
the uncertainty as to what course I ought to take.
All in a moment, there arose a shrill whistle on the other side the
stile. It was like a godsend. I knew it quite well for that vicious
young reptile's, but it was welcome to me as sunshine in harvest.
"There's Raddy, Van Rheyn. I will send him."
Vaulting over the stile, I saw the young man standing with his back
to me near the hedge, his wretched outer garment--a sack without
shape--hitched up, his hands in the pockets of his dilapidated trousers,
that hung in fringes below the knee. He was whistling to his dog in the
coppice. They must have struck through the tangles and briars higher up,
which was a difficult feat, and strictly forbidden by law. It was well
Sir John's agent did not see Mr. Raddy--whose eyes, scratched and
bleeding, gave ample proof of the trespass.
"Yah!" he shrieked out, turning at the sound of me, and grinning fresh
defiance.
"Raddy," I said, speaking in persuasive tones to propitiate him in my
great need, "I want you to do something for me. Go to Dr. Frost as
quickly as you are able, and say----"
Of all the derisive horrible laughs, his interruption was the worst and
loudest. It drowned the words.
"One of the school has fallen and hurt himself," I said, putting it in
that way. "He's lying here, and I cannot leave him. Hush, Raddy! I want
to tell you,"--advancing a step or two nearer to him and lowering my
voice to a whisper,--"I think he's dying."
"None o' yer gammon here; none o' yer lies"--and in proportion as I
advanced, he retreated. "You've got a ambush in that there coppy--all
the lot on you a-waiting to be down on me! Just you try it on!"
"I am telling you the truth, Raddy. There's not a soul in there but the
one I speak of. I say I fear he is dying. He is lying helpless. I will
pay you to go"--feeling in my pockets to see how much I had there.
Raddy displayed his teeth: it was a trick of his when feeling
particularly defiant. "What'll yer pay me?"
"Sixpence"--showing it to him. "I will give it you when you have taken
the message."
"Give it first."
Just for a moment I hesitated in my extremity, but I knew it would be
only the sixpence thrown away. Paid beforehand, Raddy would no more do
the errand than he'd fly. I told him as much.
"Then be dashed if I go!" And he passed off into a round of swearing.
Good Heavens! If I should not be able to persuade him! If Charles Van
Rheyn should die for want of help!
"Did you ever have anybody to care for, Raddy? Did you ever have a
mother?"
"Her's sent over the seas, her is; and I be glad on't. Her beated me,
her did: I wasn't a-going to stand that."
"If you ever had anybody you cared for the least bit in the world,
Raddy; if you ever did anybody a good turn in all your life, you will
help this poor fellow now. Come and look at him. See whether I dare
leave him."
"None o' yer swindles! Ye wants to get me in there, ye does. I warn't
borned yesterday."
Well, it seemed hopeless. "Will you go for the sixpence, if I give it to
you beforehand, Raddy?"
"Give it over, and see. Where the thunder have ye been?" dealing his dog
a savage kick, as it came up barking. "Be I to whistle all day?" Another
kick.
I had found two sixpences in my pocket; all its store. Bringing forth
one, I held it out to him.
"Now listen, Raddy. I give you this sixpence now. You are to run with
all your might to the house--and you can run, you know, like the wind.
Say that I sent you--you know my name, Johnny Ludlow--sent you to tell
them that the French boy is in the coppice dying;" for I thought it best
to put it strong. "Dr. Frost, or some of them, must come to him at once,
and they must send off for Mr. Featherston. You can remember that. The
French boy, mind."
"I could remember it if I tried."
"Well, I'll give you the sixpence. And look here--here's another
sixpence. It is all the money I have. That shall be yours also, when you
have done the errand."
I slipped one of the sixpences back into my pocket, holding out the
other. But I have often wondered since that he did not stun me with a
blow, and take the two. Perhaps he could not entirely divest himself of
that idea of the "ambush." I did not like the leering look on his false
face as he sidled cautiously up towards the sixpence.
"Take a look at him; you can see him from the stile," I said, closing my
hand over the sixpence while I spoke; "convince yourself that he is
there, and that no trickery is meant. And, Raddy," I added, slowly
opening the hand again, "perhaps you may want help one of these days
yourself in some desperate need. Do this good turn for him, and the like
will be done for you."
I tossed him the sixpence. He stole cautiously to the stile, making a
wide circuit round me to do it, glanced at Van Rheyn, and then made
straight off in the right direction as fast as his legs would carry him,
the dog barking at his heels.
Van Rheyn was better when I got back to him; his breathing easier, the
mouth less blue; and his arms were no longer clutching the tree-trunk.
Nevertheless, there was that in his face that gave me an awful fear and
made my breath for a moment nearly as short as his. I sat down beside
him, letting him lean against me, as well as the tree, for better
support.
"Are you afraid, Charley? I hope they'll not be long."
"I am not afraid with this," he answered with a happy smile--and,
opening his hand, I saw the little cross clasped in it.
Well, that nearly did for me. It was as though he meant to imply he knew
he was dying, and was not afraid to die. And he did mean it.
"You do not comprehend?" he added, mistaking the look of my face--which
no doubt was desperate. "I have kept the Saviour with me here, and He
will keep me with Him there."
"Oh--but, Charley! You _can't_ think you are going to die."
"Yes, I feel so," he answered quite calmly. "My mother said, that last
Sunday, might not be long after her. She drew me close to her, and held
my hand, and her tears were falling with mine. It was then she said it."
"Oh, Charley! how can I help you?" I cried out in my pain and dread. "If
I could only do something for you!"
"I would like to give you this," he said, half opening his hand again,
as it rested on his breast, just to show me the cross. "My mother has
seen how good you have always been for me: she said she should look
down, if permitted, to watch for me till I came. Would you please keep
it to my memory?"
The hardest task I'd ever had in my life was to sit there. To sit there
quietly--helpless. Dying! And I could do nothing to stay him! Oh,
why did they not come? If I could only have run somewhere, or done
something!
In a case like this the minutes seem as long as hours. Dr. Frost was up
sooner than could have been hoped for by the watch, and Featherston with
him. Raddy did his errand well. Chancing to see the surgeon pass down
the road as he was delivering the message at the house, he ran and
arrested him. He put his ill-looking face over the stile, as they came
up, and I flung him the other sixpence, and thanked him too. The French
master came running; others came: I hardly saw who they were, for my
eyes were troubled.
The first thing that Featherston did was to open Van Rheyn's things at
the throat, spread a coat on the ground and put his head flat down upon
it. But oh, there could be no mistake. He was dying: nearly gone. Dr.
Frost knelt down, the better to get at him, and said something that we
did not catch.
"Thank you, sir," answered Van Rheyn, panting again and speaking with
pain, but smiling faintly his grateful smile. "Do not be sorrowful. I
shall see my mother. Sir--if you please--I wish to give my cross to
Johnny Ludlow."
Dr. Frost only nodded in answer. His heart must have been full.
"Johnny Ludlow has been always good for me," he went on. "He will guard
it to my memory: a keepsake. My mother would give it to him--she has
seen that Johnny has stood by me ever since that first day."
Monsieur Fontaine spoke to him in French, and Van Rheyn answered in the
same language. While giving a fond message for his father, his voice
grew feeble, his face more blue, and the lids slowly closed over his
eyes. Dr. Frost said something about removing him to the house, but
Featherston shook his head. "Presently, presently."
"Adieu, sir," said Van Rheyn faintly to Dr. Frost, and partly opening
his eyes again, "Adieu, Monsieur Fontaine. Adieu, all. Johnny, say
my very best adieux to the boys; tell them it has been very pleasant
lately; say they have been very good comrades; and say that I shall see
them all again when they come to heaven. Will you hold my hand?"
Taking his left hand in mine--the other had the gold cross in it--I sat
on beside him. The dusk was increasing, so that we could no longer very
well see his features in the dark coppice. My tears were dropping fast
and thick, just as his tears had dropped that evening when I found him
sitting at the foot of his bed.
Well, it was over directly. He gave one long deep sigh, and then another
after an interval, and all was over. It seemed like a dream then in the
acting; it seems, looking back, like a dream now.
_He had died from the running at Hare and Hounds._ The violent exercise
had been too much for the heart. We heard later that the French family
doctor had suspected the heart was not quite sound; and that was the
reason of Monsieur Rheyn's written restrictions on the score of violent
exercise. But, as Dr. Frost angrily observed, why did the father not
distinctly warn him against that special danger: how was it to be
suspected in a lad of hearty and healthy appearance? Monsieur Van Rheyn
came over, and took what remained of Charles back to Rouen, to be laid
beside his late wife. It was a great blow to him to lose his only son.
And all the property went away from the Van Rheyn family to Mrs. Scott
in India.
The school went into a state that night, when we got in from the
coppice, and I gave them Van Rheyn's message. They knew something was up
with him, but never suspected it could be death.
"I say, though," cried Harry Parker, in a great access of remorse,
speaking up amidst the general consternation, "we would never have
worried him had we foreseen this. Poor Van Rheyn!"
And I have his gold cross by me this day. Sometimes, when looking at it,
a fancy comes over me that he, looking down from heaven, sees it too.
VIII.
MRS. TODHETLEY'S EARRINGS.
Again we had been spending the Christmas at Crabb Cot. It was January
weather, cold and bright, the sun above and the white snow on the
ground. Mrs. Todhetley had been over to Timberdale Court, to the
christening of Robert and Jane Ashton's baby: a year had gone by
since their marriage. The mater went to represent Mrs. Coney, who was
godmother. Jane was not strong enough to sit out a christening dinner,
and that was to be given later. After some mid-day feasting, the party
dispersed.
I went out to help Mrs. Todhetley from the carriage when she got back.
The Squire was at Pershore for the day. It was only three o'clock, and
the sun quite warm in spite of the snow.
"It is so fine, Johnny, that I think I'll walk to the school," she said,
as she stepped down. "It may not be like this to-morrow, and I must see
about those shirts."
The parish school was making Tod a set of new shirts; and some bother
had arisen about them. Orders had been given for large plaits in front,
when Tod suddenly announced that he would have the plaits small.
"Only---- Can I go as I am?" cried Mrs. Todhetley, suddenly stopping in
indecision, as she remembered her fine clothes: a silver-grey gown that
shone like silver, white shawl of china crape, and be-feathered bonnet.
"Why, yes, of course you can go as you are, good mother. And look all
the nicer for it."
"I fear the children will stare! But then--if the shirts get made wrong!
Well, will you go with me, Johnny?"
We reached the school-house, I waiting outside while she went in. It
was during that time of strike that I have told of before, when Eliza
Hoar died of it. The strike was in full swing still; the men looked
discontented, the women miserable, the children pinched.
"I don't know what in the world Joseph will say!" cried Mrs. Todhetley,
as we were walking back. "Two of the shirts are finished with the large
plaits. I ought to have seen about it earlier; but I did not think they
would begin them quite so soon. We'll just step into Mrs. Coney's,
Johnny, as we go home. I must tell her about the christening."
For Mrs. Coney was a prisoner from an attack of rheumatism. It had kept
her from the festivity. She was asleep, however, when we got in: and Mr.
Coney thought she had better not be disturbed, even for the news of the
little grandson's christening, as she had lain awake all the past night
in pain; so we left again.
"Why, Johnny! who's that?"
Leaning against the gate of our house, in the red light of the setting
sun, was an elderly woman, dark as a gipsy.
"A tramp," I whispered, noticing her poor clothes.
"Do you want anything, my good woman?" asked Mrs. Todhetley.
She was half kneeling in the snow, and lifted her face at the words: a
sickly face, that somehow I liked now I saw it closer. Her tale was
this. She had set out from her home, three miles off, to walk to
Worcester, word having been sent her that her daughter, who was in
service there, had met with an accident. She had not been strong of
late, and a faintness came over her as she was passing the gate. But
for leaning on it she must have fallen.
"You should go by train: you should not walk," said Mrs. Todhetley.
"I had not the money just by me, ma'am," she answered. "It 'ud cost two
shillings or half-a-crown. My daughter sent word I was to take the train
and she'd pay for it: but she did not send the money, and I'd not got it
just handy."
"You live at Islip, you say. What is your name?"
"Nutt'n, ma'am," said the woman, in the local dialect. Which name I
interpreted into Nutten; but Mrs. Todhetley thought she said Nutt.
"I think you are telling me the truth," said the mater, some hesitation
in her voice, though. "If I were assured of it I would advance you
half-a-crown for the journey."
"The good Lord above us knows that I'm telling it," returned the woman
earnestly, turning her face full to the glow of the sun. "It's more than
I could expect you to do, ma'am, and me a stranger; but I'd repay it
faithfully."
Well, the upshot was that she got the half-crown lent her; and I ran
in for a drop of warm ale. Molly shrieked out at me for it, refusing
to believe that the mistress gave any such order, and saying she was
not going to warm ale for parish tramps. So I got the ale and the tin,
and warmed it myself. The woman was very grateful, drank it, and
disappeared.
"Joseph, I am so very sorry! They have made two of your shirts, and the
plaits are the large ones you say you don't like."
"Then they'll just unmake them," retorted Tod, in a temper.
We were sitting round the table at tea, Mrs. Todhetley having ordered
some tea to be made while she went upstairs. She came down without her
bonnet, and had changed her best gown for the one she mostly wore at
home: it had two shades in it, and shone like the copper tea-kettle. The
Squire was not expected home yet, and we were to dine an hour later than
usual.
"That Miss Timmens is not worth her salt," fired Tod, helping himself to
some thin bread-and-butter. "What business has she to go and make my
shirts wrong?"
"I fear the fault lies with me, Joseph, not with Miss Timmens. I had
given her the pattern shirt, which has large plaits, you know, before
you said you would prefer---- Oh, we hardly want the lamp yet, Thomas!"
broke off the mater, as old Thomas came in with the lighted lamp.
"I'm sure we do, then," cried Tod. "I can't see which side's butter and
which bread."
"And I, not thinking Miss Timmens would put them in hand at once, did
not send to her as soon as you spoke, Joseph," went on the mater, as
Thomas settled the lamp on the table. "I am very sorry, my dear; but it
is only two. The rest shall be done as you wish."
Something, apart from the shirts, had put Tod out. I had seen it as soon
as we got in. For one thing, he had meant to go to Pershore: and the
pater, not knowing it, started without him.
"Let them unmake the two," growled Tod.
"But it would be a great pity, Joseph. They are very nicely done; the
stitching's beautiful. I really don't think it will signify."
"_You_ don't, perhaps. You may like odd things. A pig with one ear, for
example."
"A what, Joseph?" she asked, not catching the last simile.
"I said a pig with one ear. No doubt you do like it. You are looking
like one now, ma'am."
The words made me gaze at Mrs. Todhetley, for the tone bore some
personal meaning, and then I saw what Tod meant: an earring was absent.
The lamp-light shone on the flashing diamonds, the bright pink topaz of
the one earring; but the other ear was bare and empty.
"You have lost one of your earrings, mother!"
She put her hands to her ears, and started up in alarm. These earrings
were very valuable: they had been left to her, when she was a child, in
some old lady's will, and constituted her chief possession in jewellery
worth boasting of. Not once in a twelvemonth did she venture to put them
on; but she had got them out to-day for the christening.
Whether it was that I had gazed at the earrings when I was a little
fellow and sat in her lap, I don't know; but I never saw any that I
liked so well. The pink topaz was in a long drop, the slender rim of
gold that encircled it being set with diamonds. Mrs. Todhetley said they
were worth fifty guineas: and perhaps they were. The glittering white of
the diamonds round the pink was beautiful to look upon.
The house went into a commotion. Mrs. Todhetley made for her bedroom, to
see whether the earring had dropped on the floor or was lodging inside
her bonnet. She shook out her grey dress, hoping it had fallen amidst
the folds. Hannah searched the stairs, candle in hand; the two children
were made to stand in corners for fear they should tread on it. But the
search came to nothing. It seemed clear enough that the earring was not
in the house.
"Did you notice, Johnny, whether I had them both in my ears when we went
to the school?" the mater asked.
No, I did not. I had seen them sparkling when she got out of the
carriage, but had not noticed them after.
I went out to search the garden-path that she had traversed, and the
road over to the Coneys' farm. Tod helped me, forgetting his shirts and
his temper. Old Coney said he remarked the earrings while Mrs. Todhetley
was talking to him, and thought how beautiful they were. That is, he had
remarked _one_ of them; he was sure of that; and he thought if the other
had been missing, its absence would have struck him. But that was just
saying nothing; for he could not be certain that both were there.
"You may hunt till to-morrow morning, and get ten lanterns to it," cried
Molly, in her tart way, meeting us by the bay-tree, as we went stooping
up the path again: "but you'll be none the nearer finding it. That tramp
got's the earring, Master Joe."
"What tramp?" demanded Tod, straightening himself.
"A tramp that Master Johnny there must needs give hot ale to," returned
Molly. "_I_ know what them tramps are worth. They'd pull rings out of
ears with their own fingers, give 'em the chance: and perhaps this woman
did, without the missis seeing her."