Joseph. These are men's boots, these are!"
"I can take them back to school again," said Tod, carelessly.
So that passed off. "And it is the best thing we can do with the boots,
Johnny, as I think," he said to me in a low tone when we were once more
left to ourselves. "We can't burn them. They'd make a choicer scent than
the hair made."
"I suppose they wouldn't fit Mack?"
Tod laughed.
"If he kept those other 'beautiful boots' for high days and holidays,
what would he not keep these for? No, Johnny; they are too slender for
Mack's foot."
"I wonder how poor Fred likes his clumsy ones?--how he contrives to
tramp it in them?"
"I would give something to know that he was clear out of the country."
Dashing over to the Parsonage under pretence of saying good-bye to the
children, I gave the envelope containing the lock of hair to Edna,
telling her what it was. The colour rushed into her face, the tears to
her eyes.
"Thank you, Johnny," she said softly. "Yes, I shall like to keep
it--just a little memorial of him. Most likely we shall never meet
again."
"I should just take up the other side of the question, Edna, and look
forward to meeting him."
"Not here, at any rate," she answered. "How could he ever come back to
England with this dreadful charge hanging over him? Good luck to you
this term, Johnny Ludlow. Sometimes I think our school-days are our
happiest."
We were to dine in the middle of the day, and start for school at
half-past two. Tod boldly asked the Squire to give him a sovereign,
apart from any replenishing of his pockets that might take place at
starting. He wanted it for a particular purpose, he said.
And the pater, after holding forth a bit about thrift versus
extravagance, handed out the sovereign. Tod betook himself to the barn.
There sat Mack on the inverted wheelbarrow, at his dinner of cold bacon
and bread, and looking most disconsolate.
"Found the things, Mack?"
"Me found 'em, Mr. Joseph! No, sir; and I bain't ever likely to find
'em, that's more. They are clean walked off, they are. When I thinks o'
them there beautiful boots, and that there best smock-frock, I be fit to
choke, I be!"
Tod was fit to choke, keeping his countenance. "What was their value,
Mack?"
"They were of untold val'e, sir, to me. I'd not hardly ha' lost 'em for
a one-pound note."
"Would a pound replace them?"
Mack, drawing his knife across the bread and bacon, looked up. Tod spoke
more plainly.
"Could you buy new ones with a pound?"
"Bless your heart, sir, and where be I to get a pound from? I was just
a-calkelating how long it 'ud take me to save enough money up----"
"I wish you'd answer my question, Mack. Would a pound replace the
articles that have been stolen?"
"Why, in course it would, sir," returned Mack, staring. "But where be
I----"
"Don't bother. Look here: there's a pound"--tossing the sovereign to
him. "Buy yourself new ones, and think no more of the old ones."
Mack could not believe his eyes or ears. "Oh, Mr. Joseph! Well, I never!
Sir, you be----"
"But now, understand this much, Mack. I only give you the money on one
condition--that you say nothing about it. _Tell nobody._"
"Well, I never, Mr. Joseph! A whole golden pound! Why, sir, it'll set me
up reg'lar in----"
"If you don't attend to what I am saying, Mack, I'll take it away again.
You are not to tell any one that you have had it, do you hear?"
"Sir, I'll never tell a blessed soul."
"Very well. I shall expect you to keep your word. Once let it be known
that your lost clothes have been replaced, and we should have the rest
of the men losing theirs on speculation. So keep a silent tongue in your
head; to the Squire as well as to others."
"Bless your heart, Mr. Joseph! I'll take care, sir. Nobody shan't know
on't from me. When the wife wants to ferret out where I got 'em, I'll
swear to her I've went in trust for 'em. And I'm sure I thank ye, sir,
with all my----"
Tod walked away, cutting the thanks short.
As we were turning out at the gates on our way back to school, Tod
driving Bob and Blister (which he much liked to do, though it was not
always the Squire trusted him) and Giles sitting behind us, Duffham was
coming along on his horse. Tod pulled up, and asked what was the latest
news of Gisby.
"Well, strange to say, we are beginning to have some faint hopes of
him," replied the doctor. "There's no doubt that at mid-day he was a
trifle easier and better."
"That's good news," said Tod. "The man is a detestable sneak, but of
course one does not want him to die. Save him if you can, Mr.
Duffham--for Fred Westerbrook's sake. Good-bye."
"God-speed you both," returned Duffham. "Take care of those horses. They
are fresh."
Tod gently touched the two with the whip, and called back a saucy word.
He particularly resented any reflection on his driving.
* * * * *
A year went by. We were at home for the Michaelmas holidays again. And
who should chance to call at the Manor the very day of our arrival but
old Westerbrook.
Changes had taken place at the N. D. Farm. Have you ever observed that
when our whole heart is set upon a thing, our entire aims and actions
are directed to bringing it about, it is all quietly frustrated by that
Finger of Fate that none of us, whether prince or peasant, can resist?
Mrs. Westerbrook had been doing her best to move heaven and earth to
encompass the deposition of Fred Westerbrook for her own succession, and
behold she could not. Just as she had contrived that Fred should be
crushed, and she herself put into old Westerbrook's will in his place,
as the inheritor of the N. D. Farm and all its belongings, Heaven
rendered her work nugatory by taking her to itself.
Yes, Mrs. Westerbrook was dead. She was carried off after a rather short
illness: and Mr. Westerbrook was a widower, bereaved and solitary.
He was better off without her. The home was ten times more peaceful. He
felt _that_: but he felt it to be very lonely; and he more than once
caught himself wishing Fred was back again. Which of course meant
wishing that he had never gone away, and never turned out to be a scamp.
Gisby did not die. Gisby had recovered in process of time, and was now
more active on the farm than ever. Rather too active, its master was
beginning dimly to suspect. Gisby seemed to haunt him. Gisby assumed
more power than was at all necessary; and Gisby never ceased to pour
into Mr. Westerbrook's ear reiterations of Fred's iniquity. Altogether,
Mr. Westerbrook was growing a bit tired of Gisby. He had taken to put
him down with curtness; and once when Gisby ventured to hint that it
might be a convenient arrangement if he took up his abode in the house,
Mr. Westerbrook swore at him. As to Fred, he was still popularly looked
upon as cousin-german to the fiend incarnate.
Nothing had been heard of him. Nothing of any kind since that moonlight
night when he had made his escape. Waiting for news from him so long,
and waiting in vain, I, and Tod with me, had at last made up our minds
that nothing more ever would be heard of him in this world. In short,
that he had slipped out of it. Perhaps been starved out of it. Starved
to death.
Well, Mr. Westerbrook called at the Manor within an hour of our getting
home for Michaelmas, just twelve months after the uproar.
To me, he looked a good deal changed: his manner was quiet and subdued,
almost as though he no longer took much interest in life; his hair had
turned much greyer, and he complained of a continual pain in the left
leg, which made him stiff, and sometimes prevented him from walking.
Duffham called it a touch of rheumatism. Mr. Westerbrook fancied it
might be an indication of something worse.
"But you have walked here, Westerbrook!" remarked the Squire.
"And shall walk back again--round by the village," he said. "It seems to
me to be just this, Squire--that if I do not make an effort to walk
while I can, I may be laid aside for good."
He gave a deep sigh as he spoke, as if he had the care of the whole
parish upon him. The Squire began talking of the crop of oats on the
N. D. Farm, saying what a famous crop it was.
"You'll net a good penny by them this year, Westerbrook."
"Passable," was the indifferent reply. "Good crops no longer bring me
the satisfaction they did, Squire. I've nobody to save for now. Will you
spend a day with me before you go back, young gentlemen?" he went on,
turning to us. "Come on Friday. It is pretty lonely there. It wants
company to enliven it."
And we promised we would go.
He said good-bye, and I went with him, to help him over the stile into
the lane, on account of his stiffness--for that was the road he meant to
take to Church Dykely. In passing the ricks he laid his hand on my
shoulder.
"You won't mind a lonely day with a lonely old man?"
"We shall like it, sir. We will do our best to enliven you."
"It is not much that will do that now, Johnny Ludlow," said he. "When a
man gets to my age, and feels his health and strength failing, it seems
hard to be left all alone."
"No doubt it does, sir. I wish you had Fred back again!" I boldly added.
"Hush, Johnny! Fred is lost to me for good. He made his own bed, you
know, and is lying on it. As I have to lie on mine--such as it is. Such
as he left to me!"
"Do you know where Fred is, sir?"
"Do I know where Fred is?" he repeated in a tart tone. "How should I be
likely to know? How _could_ I know? I have never heard tidings of him,
good or bad, since that wretched night."
We had reached the stile. Old Westerbrook rested his arms upon the top
of it instead of getting over, tapping the step on the other side with
his thick walking-stick.
"Gisby's opinion is that Fred threw himself into the first deep pond
that lay in his way that night, and so put an end to his career for
good," said he. "My late wife thought so too."
"Don't you believe anything of the kind, sir," said I, in hot impulse.
"It is what Gisby is always dinning into me, Johnny. I hate to hear him.
With all Fred's faults, he was not one to fly to that extremity,
under----"
"I am quite sure he was not, sir. And did not."
"Under ordinary circumstances, I was about to say," went on the old
gentleman, with apathy, as he put one foot on the stile. "But when a man
has the crime of murder upon his soul, there's no answering for what he
may be tempted to do in his remorse and terror."
"It was not murder at all, sir. Gisby is well again."
"But it was thought to be murder at the time. Who would have given a
brass button for Gisby's life that night? Don't quibble, Master Johnny."
"Gisby was shot, sir; there's no denying that, or that he might have
died of it; but I am quite sure it was not Fred who shot him."
"Tush!" said he, testily. "Help me over."
I wished I dared tell him all. Jumping across myself, I assisted him
down. Not that it would have answered any end if I did tell.
"Shall I walk with you as far as the houses, sir?"
"No, thank ye, lad. I want to be independent as long as I can. Come you
both over in good time on Friday. Perhaps we can get an hour or two's
shooting."
Friday came, and we had rather a jolly day than not, what with shooting
and feasting. Gisby drew near to join us in the cover, but his master
civilly told him that he was not wanted and need not hinder his time in
looking after us. Never a word did old Westerbrook say that day of Fred,
and he put on his best spirits to entertain us.
But in going away at night, when Tod had gone round to get the bag
of partridges, which old Westerbrook insisted on our taking home, he
suddenly spoke to me. We were standing at his front-door under the
starlight.
"What made you say the other day that Fred was not guilty?"
"Because, sir, I feel sure he was not. I am as sure of it as though
Heaven had shown it to me."
"He was with the gang of poachers: Gisby saw him shoot," said the old
man, with emphasis.
"Gisby may have been mistaken. And Fred's having been with the poachers
at the moment was, I think, accidental."
"Then why, if not guilty, did he go away?"
"Fear sent him. What would his word have been against Gisby's dying
declaration? You remember what a hubbub there was, sir--enough to
frighten any man away, however innocent he might be."
"Allow, for argument's sake, that your theory is correct, and that he
was frightened into going into hiding, why does he not come out of it?
Gisby is alive and well again."
Ah, I could not speak so confidently there. "I think he must be dead,
sir," I said, "and that's the truth. If he were not, some of us would
surely have heard of him."
"I see," said the old gentleman, looking straight up at the stars. "We
are both of the same mind, Johnny--that he is dead. I say he might have
died that night: you think he went away first and died afterwards. Not
much difference between us, is there?"
I thought there was a great deal; but I could not tell him why. "I wish
we could hear of him, sir--and be at some certainty."
"So do I, Johnny Ludlow. He was brought up at my knee; as my own child."
On our way home, Tod with the bag of game slung over his shoulder,
we came upon Mr. Holland near the Parsonage, with Edna Blake and the
children. They had been to Farmer Page's harvest-home. Whilst the parson
talked to Tod, Edna snatched a moment with me.
"Have you heard any news, Johnny?"
"Of _him_? Never. We can't make it out."
"Perhaps we never shall hear," she sighed. "Even if he reached the coast
in safety, he may not have got over to the other side. A great many
wrecks took place about that time: our weekly paper was full of them. It
was the time of the equinoctial gales, and----"
"Come along, Johnny!" called out Tod, at this juncture. "We must get on.
Good-night, Edna: good-night, you youngsters."
The next day, Saturday, we went to Worcester, the Squire driving us, and
there saw Gisby as large as life. The man had naturally great assumption
of manner, and latterly he had taken to dress in the fashion. He was
looming up High Street, booted and spurred, his silver-headed whip in
his hand. Taking off his hat with an air, he wished the Squire a loud
good-morning, as if the town belonged to him, and we were only subjects
in it.
"I should think Westerbrook has never been fool enough to make his will
in Gisby's favour!" remarked the Squire, staring after him. "Egad,
though, it looks like it!"
"It is to be hoped, sir, that he would make it in Fred's," was Tod's
rejoinder. And the suggestion put the pater out.
"Make it in Fred's," he retorted, going into one of his heats, and
turning sharply round on the crowded pavement near the market-house, by
which he came into contact with two women and their big butter-baskets.
"What do you mean by that, sir? Fred Westerbrook is beyond the pale of
wills, and all else. It's not respectable to mention his name. He--bless
the women! What on earth are these baskets at?"
They seemed to be playing at bumps with the Squire; baskets thick and
threefold. Tod went in to the rescue, and got him out.
It was a strange thing. It really was. Considering that for the past
day or two something or other had arisen to bring up thoughts of Fred
Westerbrook, it was strange that the strangest of all things in
connection with him was yet to come.
Sitting round the fire after supper, upon getting home from
Worcester--it is a long drive, you know--and Tod had gone up to bed,
dead tired, who should walk in but Duffham. He would not sit down, had
no time; but told his business hastily. Dick Standish was dying, and had
something on his conscience.
"I would have heard his confession," said Duffham, "as I have heard
that of many another dying man; but he seems to wish to make it to a
magistrate. Either to a magistrate, or to old Mr. Westerbrook, he urged.
But there's no time to go up to the N. D. Farm, so I came for you,
Squire."
"Bless me!" cried the Squire, starting up in a commotion--for he thought
a great deal of his magisterial duties, and this was a very unusual
call. "Dick Standish dying! What can he have to say? He has been nothing
but a poacher all his life, poor fellow! And what has Westerbrook to do
with him?"
"Well," said Duffham, in his equable way, "it strikes me that what he
wants to say may affect Fred. Perhaps Standish can clear him."
"Clear Fred Westerbrook!--clear an iniquitous young man who could turn
poacher and murderer! What next will you say, Duffham? Here, Johnny, get
my hat and coat. Dear me! Take down a confession! I wonder whether
there'll be any ink there?"
"Let me go with you, sir!" I said eagerly. "I will take my little
pocket-inkstand--and some paper--and--and--everything likely to be
wanted. Please let me go!"
"Well, yes, you can, Johnny. Don't forget a Bible. Ten to one if _he_
has one."
There were three brothers of these Standishes, Tom, Jim, and Dick, none
of them particularly well-doing. Tom was no better than a sort of tramp,
reappearing in the village only by fits and starts; Jim, who had married
Mary Picker, was likewise given to roving abroad, until found and
brought back by the parish; Dick, as the Squire phrased it, was
nothing but a poacher, and made his home mostly with Jim and Mary. The
cottage--a tumble-down lodgment that they did not trouble themselves
to keep in repair--was at our end of the parish half-a-mile away, and
we put our best feet foremost.
Dick lay upon the low bed in the loft. His illness had been very short
and sharp; it was scarcely a week yet since he was taken with it.
Duffham had done his best; but the man was dying. Jim Standish was off
on one of his roving expeditions, neither the parish nor the public
knowing whither.
The Squire sat by the bed, taking down the man's confession at a small
table, by the light of a small candle. I and Duffham stood to hear it;
Mary Standish was sent down to the kitchen. What he said cleared Fred
Westerbrook--Duffham had no doubt gathered so much before he came for
the Squire.
Just what Fred had told us of the events of the night, Dick Standish
confirmed now. He and other poachers were out, he said, his brother Tom
for one. They had bagged some game, and were about to disperse when they
encountered Mr. Fred Westerbrook. He stayed talking with them, walking
the same way that they did, when lo! they all fell into the ambush
planned by Gisby. A fight ensued; and he--he, Dick Standish, now
speaking, conscious that he was dying--he fired his gun at them, and the
shot entered Gisby. They ran away then and were not pursued; a gun was
fired after them, and it struck his brother Tom, but not to hurt him
very much: not enough to disable him. He and Tom made themselves scarce
at once, before daylight; and they did not come back till danger was
over, and Gisby about again. Old Jones and other folks had come turning
the cottage inside out at the time in search of him (Dick), but his
brother Jim swore through thick and thin that Dick had not been at home
for ever so long. The Squire took all this down; and Dick signed it.
I was screwing the little inkstand up to return it to my pocket, when
Mr. Holland entered, Mary Standish having sent for him. Leaving him with
the sick man, we came away.
"Johnny, do you know, we might almost have made sure Fred Westerbrook
was not guilty," said the Squire, quite humbly, as we were crossing the
turnip-field. "But why on earth did he run away? Where is he?"
"I think he must be dead, sir. What news this will be for Mr.
Westerbrook."
"Dear me yes! I shall go to him with it in the morning."
When the morning came--which was Sunday--the Squire was so impatient
to be off that he could hardly finish his breakfast. The master of the
N. D. Farm, who no longer had energy or health to keep the old early
hours, was only sitting down to his breakfast when the Squire got there.
In his well-meaning but hot way, he plunged into the narrative so
cleverly that old Westerbrook nearly had a fit.
"Not guilty!" he stammered, when he came to himself. "Fred not guilty!
Only met the poachers by accident!--was not the man that shot Gisby!
Why, that's what Johnny Ludlow was trying to make me believe only a day
or two ago!"
"Johnny was? Oh, he often sees through a stone wall. It's true, anyway,
Westerbrook. Fred never had a gun in his hand that night."
"Then--knowing himself innocent, why on earth does he stay away?"
"Johnny thinks he must be dead," replied the Squire.
Old Westerbrook gave a groan of assent. His trembling hands upset a
cupful of coffee on the table-cloth.
They came on to church together arm-in-arm. Mr. Holland joined them, and
told the news--Dick Standish was dead: had died penitent. Penitent, so
far as might be, in the very short time he had given to repentance,
added the clergyman.
But knowing that Fred was innocent seemed to have renewed his uncle's
lease of life. He was altogether a different man. The congregation felt
quite electrified by some words read out by Mr. Holland before the
General Thanksgiving: "Thomas Westerbrook desires to return thanks to
Almighty God for a great mercy vouchsafed to him." Whispering to one
another in their pews, under cover of the drooped heads, they asked what
it meant, and whether Fred could have come home? The report of Dick
Standish's confession had been heard before church: and Gisby and
Shepherd received some hard words for having so positively laid the
deed on Fred.
"I declare to goodness I thought it was Mr. Fred that fired!" said
Shepherd, earnestly. "Moonlight's deceptive, in course: but I know he
was close again' the gun."
Yes, he was close to the gun: Dick Standish had said that much. Mr. Fred
was standing next him when he fired; Mr. Fred had tried to put out his
arm to stop him, but wasn't quick enough, and called him a villain for
doing it.
I was taking the organ again that day, if it concerns any one to know
it, and gave them the brightest chants and hymns the books contained.
The breach with Mr. Richards had never been healed, and the church had
no settled organist. Sometimes Mrs. Holland took it; sometimes Mrs.
Todhetley; once it was a stranger, who volunteered, and broke down over
the blowing; and during the holidays, if we spent them at the Manor, it
was chiefly turned over to me.
The Squire made old Westerbrook walk back to dine with us. Sitting over
a plate of new walnuts afterwards--there was not much time for dessert
on Sundays, before the afternoon service--Tod, calling upon me to
confirm it, told all about Fred's hiding in the church, and how he had
got away. But we did not say anything of the money given him by Edna
Blake: she might not have liked it. The Squire stared with surprise, and
seemed uncertain whether to praise us or to blow us up sharply.
"Shut up in the church for three days and nights! Nothing to eat, except
what you could crib for him! Got away at last in Mack's smock-frock and
boots! Well, you two are a pair of pretty conjurers, you are!"
"God bless 'em both for it!" cried old Westerbrook.
"But they ought to have told _me_, you know, Westerbrook. I could have
managed much better--helped the poor fellow off more effectually."
Tod gave me a kick under the table. He was nearly splitting, at hearing
the Squire say this.
The first thing Mr. Westerbrook did was to insert sundry advertisements
in the _Times_ and other newspapers, about a hundred of them, begging
and imploring his dear nephew (sometimes he worded it his "dear boy")
to return to him. Always underneath this advertisement wherever it
appeared was inserted another: stating that all the particulars of the
poaching affray which took place on a certain date (mentioning it) were
known; that the poacher, Richard Standish, who shot Walter Gisby had
confessed the crime, and that Gisby had not died of his wounds, but
recovered from them. This was done with the view of letting Fred
know that he might come back with safety. But he never came. The
advertisements brought forth no answer of any kind.
The master of the N. D. Farm became very short with his bailiff as time
went on. There was no reason to suppose that Gisby had intentionally
accused Fred of the shot--he had really supposed it to come from Fred;
nevertheless, Mr. Westerbrook took a great dislike to him, and was
very short and crusty with him. Gisby did not like that, and they had
perpetual rows. When we got home for the Christmas holidays, it was
thought that Gisby would not be long on the N. D. Farm.
* * * * *
"Johnny, I want to tell you! I have had a letter. From _him_."
The whisper came from Edna Blake. It was Christmas Eve; and we were in
the church, a lot of us, sticking the branches of holly in the pews. The
leaves had never seemed so green or the berries so red.
"Not from Fred?"