I.

"Yes! Halloa! What is it?"

To be wakened up short by a knocking, or some other noise, in the night,

is enough to make you start up in bed, and stare round in confusion. The

room was dark, barring the light that always glimmers in at the window

on a summer's night, and I listened and waited for more. Nothing came:

it was all as silent as the grave.

We were staying at Crabb Cot. I had gone to bed at half-past nine, dead

tired after a day's fishing. The Squire and Tod were away: Mrs.

Todhetley went over to the Coneys' after tea, and did not seem in a

hurry to come back. They fried one of the fish I had caught for my

supper; and after that, there being no one to speak to, I went to bed.

It was a knocking that had wakened me out of my sleep: I was sure of

that. And it sounded exactly as though it were at the window--which was

very improbable. Calling out again to know who was there, and what

was wanted--though not very loudly, for the children slept within

earshot--and getting no answer, I lay down again, and was all but asleep

when the noise came a second time.

It was at the dining-room window, right underneath mine. There could be

no mistake about it. The ceilings of the old-fashioned house were low;

the windows were very near each other, and mine was down at the top. I

thought it time to jump out of bed, and take a look out.

Well, I was surprised! Instead of its being the middle of the night,

it must be quite early still; for the lamp was yet alight in the

dining-room. It was a cosy kind of room, with a bow window jutting on to

the garden, of which the middle compartment opened to the ground, as

French windows do. My window was a bow also, and close above the other.

Throwing it up, I looked out.

There was not a soul to be seen. Yet the knocking could not have been

from within, for the inside shutters were closed: they did not reach to

the top panes, and the lamplight shone through them on the mulberry

tree. As I leaned out, wondering, the crazy old clock at North Crabb

Church began to tell the hour. I counted the strokes, one by one--ten of

them. Only ten o'clock! And I thought I had been asleep half the night.

All in a moment I caught sight of some one moving slowly away. He was

keeping in the shade; close to the shrubs that encircled the lawn, as if

not caring to be seen. A short, thin man, in dark clothes and round

black felt hat. Who he was, and what he wanted, was more than I could

imagine. It could not be a robber. Robbers don't come knocking at houses

before people have gone to bed.

The small side-gate opened, and Mrs. Todhetley came in. Old Coney's farm

was only a stone's-throw off, and she had run home alone. We people

in the country think nothing of being abroad alone at night. The man

emerged from the shade, and placed himself right in her path, on the

gravel walk. They stood there together. I could see him better now:

there was no moon, but the night was light; and it flashed into my mind

that he was the same man I had seen Mrs. Todhetley with in the morning,

as I went across the fields, with my rod and line. She was at the stile,

about to descend into the Ravine, when he came up from it, and accosted

her. He was a stranger; wearing a seedy, shabby black coat; and I had

wondered what he wanted. They were still talking together when I got out

of sight, for I turned to look.

Not long did they stand now. The gentleman went away; she came hastening

on with her head down, a soft wool kerchief thrown over her cap. In all

North Crabb, no one was so fearful of catching face-ache as Mrs.

Todhetley.

"Who was it?" I called out, when she was under the window: which seemed

to startle her considerably, for she gave a spring back, right on to the

grass.

"Johnny! how you frightened me! What are you looking out at?"

"At that fellow who has just taken himself off. Who is he?"

"I do believe you have on nothing but your nightshirt! You'll be sure to

take cold. Shut the window down, and get into bed."

Four times over, in all, had I to ask about the man before I got an

answer. Now it was the nightshirt, now catching cold, now the open

window and the damp air. She always wanted to be as tender with us as

though we were chickens.

"The man that met me in the path?" she got to, at length. "He made some

excuse for being here: was not sure whose house it was, I think he said:

had turned in by mistake to the wrong one."

"That's all very fine; but, not being sure, he ought to mind his

manners. He came rapping at the dining-room window like anything, and it

woke me up. Had you been at home, sitting there, good mother, you might

have been startled out of your seven senses."

"So I should, Johnny. The Coneys would not let me come away: they had

friends with them. Good-night, dear. Shut down that window."

She went on to the side-door. I put down the window, opened it at the

top, and let the white curtain drop before it. It was an hour or two

before I got to sleep again, and I had the man and the knocking in my

thoughts all the time.

"Don't say anything about it in the house, Johnny," Mrs. Todhetley said

to me, in the morning. "It might alarm the children." So I promised her

I would not.

Tod came home at mid-day, not the Squire: and the first thing I did was

to tell him. I wouldn't have broken faith with the mother for the world;

not even for Tod; but it never entered my mind that she wished me to

keep it a close secret, excepting from those, servants or others, who

might be likely to repeat it before Hugh and Lena. I cautioned Tod.

"Confound his impudence!" cried Tod. "Could he not be satisfied with

disturbing the house at the door at night, but he must make for the

window? I wish I had been at home."

Crabb Ravine lay to the side of our house, beyond the wide field. It

was a regular wilderness. The sharp descent began in that three-cornered

grove, of which you've heard before, for it was where Daniel Ferrar

hanged himself; and the wild, deep, mossy dell, about as wide as an

ordinary road, went running along below, soft, green and damp. Towering

banks, sloping backwards, rose on either side; a mass of verdure in

summer; of briars, brown and tangled, in winter. Dwarf shrubs, tall

trees, blackberry and nut bushes, sweet-briar and broom clustered there

in wild profusion. Primroses and violets peeped up when spring came in;

blue bells and cowslips, dog-roses, woodbine, and other sweet flowers,

came later. Few people would descend except by the stile opposite our

house and the proper zigzag path leading down the side bank, for a fall

might have broken limbs, besides bringing one's clothes to grief.

No houses stood near it, except ours and old Coney's; and the field

bordering it just here on this side belonged to Squire Todhetley. If you

went down the zigzag path, turned to the right, walked along the Ravine

some way, and then up another zigzag on the opposite side, you soon came

to Timberdale, a small place in itself, but our nearest post-town. The

high-road to Timberdale, winding past our house from South Crabb, was

twice the distance, so that people might sometimes be seen in the Ravine

by day; but no one cared to go near it in the evening, as it had the

reputation of being haunted. A mysterious light might sometimes be

observed there at night, dodging about the banks, where it would be

rather difficult for ordinary human beings to walk: some said it was a

will-o'-the-wisp, and some said a ghost. It was difficult to get even a

farm-servant to go the near way to Timberdale after dark.

One morning, when I was running through the Ravine with Tod in search of

Tom Coney, we came slap against a man, who seemed to be sneaking there,

for he turned short off, into the underwood, to hide himself. I knew him

by his hat.

"Tod, that's the man," I whispered.

"What man, Johnny?"

"The one who came knocking at the window three nights ago."

"Oh!" said Tod, carelessly. "He looks like a fellow who comes out with

begging petitions."

It might have been an hour after that. We had come up from the Ravine,

on our side of it, not having seen or spoken to a soul, except Luke

Mackintosh. Tod told me to stay and waylay Coney if he made his

appearance, whilst he went again to the farm in search of him.

Accordingly, I was sitting on the fence (put there to hinder the cattle

and sheep from getting over the brink of the Ravine), throwing stones

and whistling, when I saw Mrs. Todhetley cross the stile to go down the

zigzag. She did not see me: the fence could hardly be gained for trees,

and I was hidden.

Just because I had nothing to do, I watched her as she went; tall, thin,

and light in figure, she could spin along nearly as quick as we. The

zigzag path went in and out, sloping along the bank until it brought

itself to the dell at a spot a good bit beyond me as I looked down,

finishing there with a high, rough step. Mrs. Todhetley took it with a

spring.

What next! In one moment the man with the black coat and hat had

appeared from somewhere, and placed himself in front of her parasol.

Before I could quit the place, and leap down after her, a conviction

came over me that the meeting was not accidental: and I rubbed my eyes

in wonder, and thought I must be dreaming.

The summer air was clear as crystal; not a bee's hum just then disturbed

its stillness. Detached words ascended from where they stood; and now

and again a whole sentence. She kept looking each way as if afraid to be

seen; and so did he, for that matter. The colloquy seemed to be about

money. I caught the word two or three times; and Mrs. Todhetley said it

was "impossible." "I must, and I will have it," came up distinctly from

him in answer.

"What's _that_, Johnny?"

The interruption came from Tod. All my attention absorbed in them, he

stood at my elbow before I knew he was near. When I would have answered,

he suddenly put his hand upon my mouth for silence. His face had a proud

anger on it as he looked down.

Mrs. Todhetley seemed to be using entreaty to the man, for she clasped

her hands in a piteous manner, and then turned to ascend the zigzag. He

followed her, talking very fast. As to me, I was in a regular sea of

marvel, understanding nothing. Our heads were hardly to be distinguished

from the bushes, even if she had looked up.

"No," she said, turning round upon him; and they were near us then, half

way up the path, so that every word was audible. "You must not venture

to come to the house, or near the house. I would not have Mr. Todhetley

know of this for the world: for your sake as well as for his."

"Todhetley's not at home," was the man's answer: and Tod gave a growl as

he heard it.

"If he is not, his son is," said Mrs. Todhetley. "It would be all the

same; or worse."

"His son's here," roared out passionate Tod. "What the deuce is the

meaning of this, sir?"

The man shot down the path like an arrow. Mrs. Todhetley--who had been

walking on, seeming not to have caught the words, or to know whose the

voice was, or where it came from--gazed round in all directions, her

countenance curiously helpless. She ran up the rest of the zigzag, and

went swiftly home across the field. Tod disentangled himself from the

brambles, and drew a long breath.

"I think it's time we went now, Johnny." It was not often he spoke in

that tone. He had always been at war tacitly with Mrs. Todhetley, and

was not likely to favour her now. Generous though he was by nature,

there could be no denying that he took up awful prejudices.

"It is something about money, Tod."

"I don't care what it is about--the fellow has no business to be

prowling here, on my father's grounds; and he _shan't_ be, without my

knowing what it's for. I'll watch madam's movements."

"What do you think it can mean?"

"Mean! Why, that the individual is some poor relation of hers, come to

drain as much of my father's money out of her as he can. _She_ is the

one to blame. I wonder how she dare encourage him!"

"Perhaps she can't help herself."

"Not help herself? Don't show yourself a fool, Johnny. An honest-minded,

straightforward woman would appeal to my father in any annoyance of

this sort, or to me, in his absence, and say 'Here's So-and-so come down

upon us, asking for help, can we give it him?'--and there's no doubt the

Squire _would_ give it him; he's soft enough for anything."

It was of no use contending. I did not see it quite in that light, but

Tod liked his own opinion. He threw up his head with a haughty jerk.

"You have tried to defend Mrs. Todhetley before, in trifling matters,

Johnny; don't attempt it now. Would any good woman, say any _lady_, if

you will, subject herself to this kind of thing?--hold private meetings

with a man--allow him to come tapping at her sitting-room window at

night? No; not though he were her own brother."

"Tod, it may be her brother. She would never do anything wrong

willingly."

"Shut up, Johnny. She never had a brother."

Of course I shut up forthwith, and went across the field by Tod's side

in silence, his strides wide and indignant, his head up in the air. Mrs.

Todhetley was hearing Lena read when we got in, and looked as if she had

never been out that morning.

* * * * *

Some days went on. The man remained near, for he was seen occasionally,

and the servants began to talk. One remarked upon him, wondering who he

was; another remarked upon him, speculating on what he did there. In a

quiet country place, a dodging stranger excites curiosity, and this one

dodged about as much as ever the ghostly light did. If you caught sight

of him in the three-cornered plantation, he vanished forthwith to appear

next in the Ravine; if he stood peering out from the trees on the bank,

and found himself observed, the next minute he'd be crouching amongst

the broom on the other side.

This came to be observed, and was thought strange, naturally; Hannah,

who was often out with Hugh and Lena, often saw him, and talked to the

other servants. One evening, when we were finishing dinner, the glass

doors of the bow-window being open, Hannah came back with the children.

They ran across the grass-plat after the fawn--one we had, just

then--and Hannah sat down in the porch of the side-door to wait. Old

Thomas had just drawn the slips from the table, and went through the

passage to the side-door to shake them.

"I say," cried Hannah's voice, "I saw that man again."

"Where?" asked Thomas, between his shakes of the linen.

"In the old place--the Ravine. He was sitting on the stile at the top of

the zigzag, as cool as might be."

"Did you speak to him? I should, if I came across the man; and ask what

his business might be in these parts."

"I didn't speak to him," returned Hannah. "I'd rather not. There's no

knowing the answer one might get, Thomas, or what he's looking after. He

spoke to the children."

"What did he say to them?"

"Asked if they'd go away with him to some beautiful coral islands over

the sea, and catch pretty birds, and parrots, and monkeys. He called

them by their names, too--'Hugh' and 'Lena.' I should like to know how

he got hold of _them_."

"I can't help thinking that he belongs to them engineering folk who come

spying for no good on people's land: the Squire won't like it if they

cut a railroad through here," said Thomas; and the supposition did not

appear to please Hannah.

"Why you must be as silly as a turkey, old Thomas! Engineers have no

need to hide themselves as if they were afraid of being took up for

murder. He has about as much the cut of an engineer as you have, and no

more: they don't go about looking like Methodist parsons run to seed.

_My_ opinion is that he's something of that sort."

"A Methodist parson!"

"No; not anything half so respectable. If I spoke out my thoughts,

though, I dare say you'd laugh at me."

"Not I," said Thomas. "Make haste. I forgot to put the claret jug on the

table."

"Then I've got it in my head that he is one of them seducing Mormons.

They appear in neighbourhoods without the smallest warning, lie partly

concealed by day, and go abroad at night, persuading all the likely

women and girls to join their sect. My sister told me about it in a

letter she wrote me only three days ago. There has been a Mormon down

there; he called himself a saint, she says; and when he went finally

away he took fifteen young women with him. Fifteen, Thomas! and after

only three weeks' persuasion! It's as true as that you've got that

damask cloth in your hand."

Nothing further was heard for a minute. Then Thomas spoke. "Has the man

here been seen talking with young women?"

"Who is to know? They take care _not_ to be seen; that's their craft.

And so you see, Thomas, I'd rather steer clear of the man, and not give

him the opportunity of trying his arts on me. I can tell him it's not

Hannah Baber that would be cajoled off to a barbarous desert by a man

who had fifteen other wives beside! Lord help the women for geese! Miss

Lena" (raising her voice), "don't you tear about after the fawn like

that; you'll put yourself into a pretty heat."

"I'd look him up when I came home, if I were the Squire," said Thomas,

who evidently took it all gravely in. "We don't want a Mormon on the

place."

"If he were not a Mormon, which I'm pretty sure he is, I should say he

was a kidnapper of children," went on Hannah. "After we had got past him

over so far, he managed to 'tice Hugh back to the stile, gave him a

sugar-stick, and said he'd take him away if he'd go. It struck me he'd

like to kidnap him."

Tod, sitting at the foot of the table in the Squire's place, had

listened to all this deliberately. Mrs. Todhetley, opposite to him, her

back to the light, had tried, in a feeble manner, once or twice, to

drown the sounds by saying something. But when urgently wanting to

speak, we often can't do so; and her efforts died away helplessly. She

looked miserably uncomfortable, and seemed conscious of Tod's feeling in

the matter; and when Hannah wound up with the bold assertion touching

the kidnapping of Hugh, she gave a start of alarm, which left her face

white.

"Who is this man that shows himself in the neighbourhood?" asked Tod,

putting the question to her in a slow, marked manner, his dark eyes,

stern then, fixed on hers.

"Johnny, those cherries don't look ripe. Try the summer apples."

It was of no use at any time trying to put aside Tod. Before I had

answered her that the cherries were ripe enough for me, Tod began at her

again.

"Can you tell me who he is?"

"Dear me, no," she faintly said. "I can't tell you anything about it."

"Nor what he wants?"

"No. Won't you take some wine, Joseph?"

"I shall make it my business to inquire, then," said Tod, disregarding

the wine and everything else. "The first time I come across the man,

unless he gives me a perfectly satisfactory answer as to what he may be

doing here on our land, I'll horse-whip him."

Mrs. Todhetley put the trembling fingers of her left hand into the

finger-glass, and dried them. I don't believe she knew what she was

about more than a baby.

"The man is nothing to you, Joseph. Why should you interfere with him?"

"I shall interfere because my father is not here to do it," he answered,

in his least compromising of tones. "An ill-looking stranger has no

right to be prowling mysteriously amongst us at all. But when it comes

to knocking at windows at night, to waylaying--people--in solitary

places, and to exciting comments from the servants, it is time some one

interfered to know the reason of it."

I am sure he had been going to say _you_; but with all his prejudice

he never was insolent to Mrs. Todhetley, when face to face; and he

substituted "people." Her pale blue eyes had the saddest light in them

you can well conceive, and yet she tried to look as though the matter

did not concern her. Old Thomas came in with the folded damask slips,

little thinking he and Hannah had been overheard, put them in the

drawer, and set things straight on the sideboard.

"What time tea, ma'am?" he asked.

"Any time," answered Mrs. Todhetley. "I am going over to Mr. Coney's,

but not to stay. Or perhaps you'll go for me presently, Johnny, and ask

whether Mrs. Coney has come home," she added, as Thomas left the room.

I said I'd go. And it struck me that she must want Mrs. Coney very

particularly, for this would make the fifth time I had gone on the same

errand within a week. On the morning following that rapping at the

window, Mrs. Coney had news that Mrs. West, her married daughter, was

ill, and she started at once by the rail to Worcester to visit her.

"I think I'll go and look for the fellow now," exclaimed Tod, rising

from his seat and making for the window. But Mrs. Todhetley rose too, as

one in mortal fright, and put herself in his way.

"Joseph," she said, "I have no authority over you; you know that I have

never attempted to exercise any since I came home to your father's

house; but I must ask you to respect my wishes now."

"What wishes?"

"That you will refrain from seeking this stranger: that you will not

speak to or accost him in any way, should you and he by chance meet. I

have good reasons for asking it." Tod stood stock-still, neither saying

Yes nor No; only biting his lips in the anger he strove to keep down.

"Oh, very well," said he, going back to his seat. "Of course, as you put

it in this light, I have no alternative. A night's delay cannot make

much difference, and my father will be home to-morrow to act for

himself."

"You must not mention it to your father, Joseph. You must keep it _from_

him."

"I shall tell him as soon as he comes home."

"Tell him what? What is it that you suspect? What would you tell him?"

Tod hesitated. He had spoken in random heat; and found, on

consideration, he was without a case. He could not complain to his

father of _her_: in spite of his hasty temper, he was honourable as the

day. Her apparent intimacy with the man would also tie his tongue as to

_him_, whomsoever he might be.

"You must be quite aware that it is not a pleasant thing, or a proper

thing, to have this mysterious individual encouraged here," he said,

looking at her.

"And you think I encourage him, Joseph?"

"Well, it seems that you--that you must know who he is. I saw you

talking with him one day in the Ravine," continued Tod, disdaining not

to be perfectly open, now it had come to an explanation. "Johnny was

with me. If he is a relative of yours, why, of course----"

"He is no relative of mine, Joseph." And Tod opened his eyes wide to

hear the denial. It was the view he had taken all along.

"Then why do you suffer him to annoy you?--and I am sure he does do it.

Let me deal with him. I'll soon ascertain what his business may be."

"But that is just what you must not do," she said, seeming to speak out

the truth in very helplessness, like a frightened child. "You must leave

him in my hands, Joseph: I shall be able, I dare say, to--to--get rid of

him shortly."

"_You_ know what he wants?"

"Yes, I am afraid I do. It is quite my affair; and you must take no more

notice of it: above all, you must not say anything to your father."

How much Tod was condemning her in his heart perhaps he would not have

cared to tell; but he could but be generous, even to his step-mother.

"I suppose I must understand that you are in some sort of trouble?"

"Indeed I am."

"If it is anything in which I can help you, you have only to ask me to

do it," he said. But his manner was lofty as he spoke, his voice had a

hard ring in it.

"Thank you very much, Joseph," was the meek, grateful answer. "If you

will only take no further notice, and say nothing to your father when he

comes home, it will be helping me sufficiently."

Tod strolled out; just as angry as he could be; and I ran over to the

farm. Jane Coney had received a letter from her mother by the afternoon

post, saying she might not be home for some days to come.

"Tell Mrs. Todhetley that I am sorry to have to send her bad news over

and over again," said Jane Coney, who was sitting in the best kitchen,

with her muslin sleeves turned up, and a big apron on, stripping fruit

for jam. The Coneys had brought up their girls sensibly, not to be

ashamed to make themselves thoroughly useful, in spite of their

education, and the fair fortune they would have. Mary was married; Jane

engaged to be. I sat on the table by her, eating away at the fruit.

"What is it Mrs. Todhetley wants with my mother, Johnny?"

"As if I knew!"

"I think it must be something urgent. When she came in, that morning,

only five minutes after mamma had driven off, she was so terribly

disappointed, saying she would give a great deal to have spoken to her

first. My sister is not quite so well again; that's why mamma is staying

longer."

"I'll tell her, Jane."

"By the way, Johnny, what's this they are saying--about some strange man

being seen here? A special constable, peeping after bad characters?"

"A special constable?"

Jane Coney laughed. "Or a police-officer in disguise. It is what one of

our maids told me."

"Oh," I answered, carelessly, for somehow I did not like the words; "you

must mean a man that is looking at the land; an engineer."

"Is that all?" cried Jane Coney. "How foolish people are!"

It was a sort of untruth, no doubt; but I should have told a worse in

the necessity. I did not like the aspect of things; and they puzzled my

brain unpleasantly all the way home.

Mrs. Todhetley was at work by the window when I got there. Tod had not

made his re-appearance; Hugh and Lena were in bed. She dropped her work

when I gave the message.

"Not for some days to come yet! Oh, Johnny!"

"But what do you want with her?"

"Well, I do want her. I want a friend just now, Johnny, that's the

truth; and I think Mrs. Coney would be one."

"Joe asked if he could help you; and you said 'No.' Can I?"

"Johnny, if you could, there's no one in the world I'd rather ask. But

you cannot."

"Why?"

"Because"--she smiled for a moment--"you are not old enough. If you

were--of age, say--why then I would."

I had hold of the window-frame, looking at her, and an idea struck me.

"Do you mean that I should be able then to command money?"

"Yes, that's it, Johnny."

"But, perhaps--if I were to write to Mr. Brandon----"

"Hush!" she exclaimed in a sort of fright. "You must not talk of this,

Johnny; you don't know the sad mischief you might do. Oh, if I can only

keep it from you all! Here comes Joseph," she added in a whisper; and

gathering up her work, went out of the room.

"Did I not make a sign to you to come after me?" began Tod, in one of

his tempers.

"But I had to go over to the Coneys'. I've only just got back again."

He looked into the room and saw that it was empty. "Where's madam gone?

To the Ravine after her friend?"

"She was here sewing not a minute ago."

"Johnny, she told a lie. Did you notice the sound of her voice when she

said the fellow was no relative of hers?"

"Not particularly."

"I did, then. At the moment the denial took me by surprise; but I

remembered the tone later. It had an untrue ring in it. Madam told a

lie, Johnny, as sure as that we are here. I'd lay my life he _is_ a

relative of hers, or a connection in some way. I don't think now it

is money he wants; if it were only that, she'd get it, and send him

packing. It's worse than that: disgrace, perhaps."

"What sort of disgrace can it be?"

"I don't know. But if something of the sort is not looming, never trust

me again. And here am I, with my hands tied, forbidden to unravel it.

Johnny, I feel just like a wild beast barred up in a cage."

Had he been a real wild beast he could not have given the window-frame a

much worse shake, as he passed through in his anger to the bench under

the mulberry-tree.

When you have to look far back to things, recollection sometimes gets

puzzled as to the order in which they happened. How it came about I am

by no means clear, but an uncomfortable feeling grew up in my mind about

Hugh. About both the children, in fact, but Hugh more than Lena. Mrs.

Todhetley seemed to dread Hugh's being abroad--and I'm sure I was not

mistaken in thinking it. I heard her order Hannah to keep the children

within view of the house, and not to allow Hugh to stray away from her.

Had it been winter weather I suppose she'd have kept them indoors

altogether; there could be no plea for it under the blue sky and the hot

summer sun.

The Squire came home; he had been staying some time with friends in

Gloucestershire; but Mrs. Coney did not come--although Mrs. Todhetley

kept sending me for news. Twice I saw her talking to the strange man;

who I believed made his abode in the Ravine. Tod watched, as he had

threatened to do; and would often appear with in-drawn lips. There was

active warfare between him and his step-mother: at least if you can say

that when both kept silence. As to the Squire, he observed nothing, and

knew nothing: and no one enlightened him. It seems a long time, I dare

say, when reading of this, as if it had extended over a month of

Sundays; but I don't think it lasted much more than a fortnight in all.

One evening, quite late, when the sun was setting, and the Squire was

smoking his pipe on the lawn, talking to me and Tod, Lena and her mother

came in at the gate. In spite of the red rays lighting up Mrs.

Todhetley's face, it struck me that I had never seen it look more

careworn. Lena put her arms on Tod's knee, and began telling about a

fright she had had: of a big toad that leaped out of the grass, and made

her scream and cry. She cried "because nobody was with her."

"Where was mamma?" asked Tod; but I am sure he spoke without any

ulterior thought.

"Mamma had gone to the zigzag stile to talk to the man. She told me to

wait for her."

"What man?" cried the Squire.

"Why, the man," said Lena logically. "He asks Hugh to go with him over

the sea to see the birds and the red coral."

If any one face ever turned whiter than another, Mrs. Todhetley's did

then. Tod looked at her, sternly, ungenerously; and her eyes fell. She

laid hold of Lena's hand, saying it was bed-time.

"What man is the child talking about?" the Squire asked her.

"She talks about so many people," rather faintly answered Mrs.

Todhetley. "Come, Lena dear; Hannah's waiting for you. Say good-night."

The Squire, quite unsuspicious, thought no more. He got up and walked

over to the beds to look at the flowers, holding his long churchwarden

pipe in his mouth. Tod put his back against the tree.

"It is getting complicated, Johnny."

"What is?"

"What is! Why, madam's drama. She is afraid of that hinted scheme of her

friend's--the carrying-off Master Hugh beyond the seas."

He spoke in satire. "Do you think so?" I returned.

"Upon my honour I do. She must be an idiot! I should like to give her a

good fright."

"Tod, I think she is frightened enough without our giving her one."

"I think she is. She must have caught up the idea from overhearing

Hannah's gossip with old Thomas. This afternoon Hugh was running through

the little gate with me; madam came flying over the lawn and begged me

not let him out of my hand, or else to leave him indoors. But for being

my father's wife, I should have asked her if her common-sense had gone

wool-gathering."

"I suppose it has, Tod. Fancy a kidnapper in these days! The curious

thing is, that she should fear anything of the sort."

"If she really does fear it. I tell you, Johnny, the performance is

growing complicated; somewhat puzzling. But I'll see it played out if I

live."

The week went on to Friday. But the afternoon was over, and evening set

in, before the shock fell upon us: _Hugh was missing_.

The Squire had been out in the gig, taking me; and it seems they had

supposed at home that Hugh was with us. The particulars of Hugh's

disappearance, and what had happened in the day, I will relate further

on.

The Squire thought nothing: he said Hugh must have got into Coney's

house or some other neighbour's house: and sat down to dinner, wondering

why so much to-do was made. Mrs. Todhetley looked scared to death; and

Tod tore about as if he were wild. The servants were sent here, the

outdoor men there: it was like a second edition of that day in

Warwickshire when we lost Lena: like it, only worse, more commotion.

Hannah boldly said to her mistress that the strange man must have

carried off the boy.

Hour after hour the search continued. With no result. Night came on,

with a bright moon to light it up. But it did not light up Hugh.

Mrs. Todhetley, a dark shawl over her head, and I dare say a darker fear

upon her heart, went out for the second or third time towards the

Ravine. I ran after her. We had nearly reached the stile at the zigzag,

when Tod came bounding over it.

"Has not the time for shielding this man gone by, think you?" he asked,

placing himself in Mrs. Todhetley's path, and speaking as coolly as he

was able for the agitation that shook him. And why Tod, with his known

carelessness, should be so moved, I could not fathom.

"Joseph, I do not suppose or think the man knows anything of Hugh; I

have my reasons for it," she answered, bearing on for the stile, and

leaning over it to look down into the dark Ravine.

"Will you give me permission to inquire that of himself?"

"You will not find the man. He is gone."

"Leave the finding him to me," persisted Tod. "Will you withdraw the

embargo you laid upon me?"

"No, no," she whispered, "I cannot do it."

The trees had an uncommonly damp feel in the night-air, and the

place altogether looked as weird as could be. I was away then in the

underwood; she looked down always into the Ravine and called Hugh's name

aloud. Nothing but an echo answered.

"It has appeared to me for several days that you have feared something

of this," Tod said, trying to get a full view of her face. "It might

have been better for--for all of us--if you had allowed me at first to

take the affair in hand."

"Perhaps I ought; perhaps I ought," she said, bursting into tears.

"Heaven knows, though, that I acted from a good motive. It was not to

screen myself that I've tried to keep the matter secret."

"Oh!" The sarcasm of Tod's short comment was like nothing I ever heard.

"To screen me, perhaps?" said he.

"Well, yes--in a measure, Joseph," she patiently answered. "I only

wished to spare you vexation. Oh, Joseph! if--if Hugh cannot be found,

and--and all has to come out--who he is and what he wants here--remember

that I wished nothing but to spare others pain."

Tod's eyes were blazing with angry, haughty light. Spare _him_! He

thought she was miserably equivocating; he had some such idea as that

she sought (in words) to make him a scape-goat for her relative's sins.

What he answered I hardly know; except that he civilly dared her to

speak.

"Do not spare _me_: I particularly request you will not," he scornfully

retorted. "Yourself as much as you will, but not me."

"I have done it for the best," she pleaded. "Joseph, I have done it all

for the best."

"Where is this man to be found? I have been looking for him these

several hours past, as I should think no man was ever looked for yet."

"I have said that I think he is not to be found. I think he is gone."

"Gone!" shouted Tod. "Gone!"

"I think he must be. I--I saw him just before dinner-time, here at this

very stile; I gave him something that I had to give, and I think he left

at once, to make the best of his way from the place."

"And Hugh?" asked Tod savagely.

"I did not know then that Hugh was missing. Oh, Joseph, I can't tell

what to think. When I said to him one day that he ought not to talk

nonsense to the children about corals and animals--in fact, should not

speak to them at all--he answered that if I did not get him the money he

wanted he'd take the boy off with him. I knew it was a jest; but I could

not help thinking of it when the days went on and on, and I had no money

to give him."

"_Of course_ he has taken the boy," said Tod, stamping his foot. And the

words sent Mrs. Todhetley into a tremor.

"Joseph! Do you think so?"

"Heaven help you, Mrs. Todhetley, for a--a simple woman! We may never

see Hugh again."

He caught up the word he had been going to say--fool. Mrs. Todhetley

clasped her hands together piteously, and the shawl slipped from her

shoulders.

"I think, madam, you must tell what you can," he resumed, scarcely

knowing which to bring uppermost, his anxiety for Hugh or his lofty,

scornful anger. "_Is_ the man a relative of yours?"

"No, not of mine. Oh, Joseph, please don't be angry with me! Not of

mine, but of yours."

"Of mine!" cried proud Tod. "Thank you, Mrs. Todhetley."

"His name is Arne," she whispered.

"What!" shouted Tod.

"Joseph, indeed it is. Alfred Arne."

Had Tod been shot by a cannon-ball, he could hardly have been more

completely struck into himself; doubled up, so to say. His mother had

been an Arne; and he well remembered to have heard of an ill-doing

mauvais sujet of a half-brother of hers, called Alfred, who brought

nothing but trouble and disgrace on all connected with him. There ensued

a silence, interrupted only by Mrs. Todhetley's tears. Tod was looking

white in the moonlight.

"So it seems it _is_ my affair!" he suddenly said; but though he drew up

his head, all his fierce spirit seemed to have gone out of him. "You can

have no objection to speak fully now."

And Mrs. Todhetley, partly because of her unresisting nature, partly in

her fear for Hugh, obeyed him.

"I had seen Mr. Arne once before," she began. "It was the year that I

first went home to Dyke Manor. He made his appearance there, not openly,

but just as he has made it here now. His object was to get money from

the Squire to go abroad with. And at length he did get it. But it put

your father very much out; made him ill, in fact; and I believe he took

a sort of vow, in his haste and vexation, to give Alfred Arne into

custody if he ever came within reach of him again. I think--I fear--he

always has something or other hanging over his head worse than debt; and

for that reason can never show himself by daylight without danger."

"Go on," said Tod, quite calmly.

"One morning recently I suddenly met him. He stepped right into my

path, here at this same spot, as I was about to descend the Ravine, and

asked if I knew him again. I was afraid I did. I was afraid he had come

on the same errand as before: and oh, Joseph, how thankful I felt that

you and your father were away! He told me a long and pitiful tale, and I

thought I ought to try and help him to the money he needed. He was

impatient for it, and the same evening, supposing no one was at home but

myself, he came to the dining-room window, wishing to ask if I had

already procured the money. Johnny heard him knock."

"It might have been better that we had been here," repeated Tod. "Better

that we should have dealt with him than you."

"Your father was so thankful that you were at school before, Joseph; so

thankful! He said he would not have you know anything about Alfred Arne

for the world. And so--I tried to keep it this time from both you and

him, and, but for this fear about Hugh, I should have done it."

Tod did not answer. He looked at her keenly in the twilight of the

summer's night, apparently waiting for more. She continued her

explanation; not enlarging upon things, suffering, rather, inferences

to be drawn. The following was its substance:--

Alfred Arne asked for fifty pounds. He had returned to England only a

few months before, had got into some fresh danger, and had to leave it

again, and to hide himself until he did so. The fifty pounds--to get him

off, he said, and start him afresh in the colonies--he demanded not as a

gift, but a matter of right: the Todhetleys, being his near relatives,

must help him. Mrs. Todhetley knew but of one person she could borrow

it from privately--Mrs. Coney--and _she_ had gone from home just as she

was about to be asked for it. Only this afternoon had Mrs. Todhetley

received the money from her and paid it to Alfred Arne.

"I would not have told you this, but for being obliged, Joseph," she

pleaded meekly, when the brief explanation was ended. "We can still keep

it from your father; better, perhaps, that you should know it than he:

you are young and he is not."

"A great deal better," assented Tod. "You have made yourself responsible

to Mrs. Coney for the fifty pounds?"

"Don't think of that, Joseph. She is in no hurry for repayment, and will

get it from me by degrees. I have a little trifle of my own, you know,

that I get half-yearly, and I can economize in my dress. I did so hope

to keep it from you as well as from your father."

I wondered if Tod saw all the patient, generous, self-sacrificing

spirit. I wondered if he was growing to think that he had been always on

the wrong tack in judging harshly of his stepmother. She turned away,

thinking perhaps that time was being lost. I said something about Hugh.

"Hugh is all right, Johnny; he'll be found now," Tod answered in a

dreamy tone, as he looked after her with a dreamy look. The next moment

he strode forward, and was up with Mrs. Todhetley.

"I beg your pardon for the past, mother; I beg it with shame and

contrition. Can you forgive me?"

"Oh, pray don't, dear Joseph! I have nothing to forgive," she answered,

bursting into fresh tears as she took his offered hand. And that was the

first time in all his life that Tod, prejudiced Tod, had allowed himself

to call her "mother."