"Yes, Hugh: my little brother. Where is he?"
"How can I tell?"
Tod glanced round the place; there was not any nook or corner capable
of affording concealment. Arne gazed at him. He stood on that side the
dirty deal table, we on this.
"We have lost Hugh since mid-day yesterday. Do you know anything of
him?"
"Certainly _not_," was the emphatic answer, and I at least saw that it
was a true one. "Is it to ask that, that you have come here?"
"For that, and nothing else. We have been up all night searching for
him."
"But why do you come after him here? I am not likely to know where he
is."
"I think you are likely."
"Why?"
"You have been talking to the boy about carrying him off with you to see
coral islands. You hinted, I believe, to Mrs. Todhetley that you might
really take him, if your demands were not complied with."
Arne slightly laughed. "I talked to the boy about the Coral Islands
because it pleased him. As to Mrs. Todhetley, if she has the sense of a
goose, she must have known I meant nothing. Take off a child with me!
Why, if he were made a present to me, I should only drop him at his own
door at Crabb Cot, as they drop the foundlings at the gate of the Maison
Dieu in Paris. Joseph Todhetley, I _could not_ be encumbered with a
child: the life of shifts and concealment I have to lead would debar
it."
I think Tod saw he was in earnest. But he stood in indecision: this
dashed out his great hope.
"I should have been away from here last night, but that I got a drop too
much and must wait till dark again," resumed Arne. "The last time I saw
Hugh was on Thursday afternoon. He was in the meadow with _you_."
"I did not see you," remarked Tod.
"I saw you, though. And that is the last time I saw him. Don't you
believe me? You may. I like the little lad, and would find him for you
if I could, rather than help to lose him. I'd say take my honour upon
this, Joseph Todhetley, only you might retort that it has not been worth
anything this many a year."
"And with justice," said Tod, boldly.
"True. The world has been against me and I against the world. But it has
not come yet with me to stealing children. With the loan of the money
now safe in my pocket, I shall make a fresh start in life. A precious
long time your step-mother kept me waiting for it."
"She did her best. You ought not to have applied to her at all."
"I know that: it should have been to the other side of the house. She
prevented me: wanting, she said, to spare you and your father."
"The knowledge of the disgrace. Yes."
"There's no need to have recourse to hard names, Joseph Todhetley. What
I am, I am, but you have not much cause to grumble, for I don't trouble
you often. As many thousand miles away as the seas can put between me
and England, I'm going now: and it's nearly as many chances to one
against your ever seeing me again."
Tod turned to depart: the intensely haughty look his face wore at odd
moments had been upon it throughout the interview. Had he been a woman
he might have stood with his skirts picked up, as if to save them
contamination from some kind of reptile. He stayed for a final word.
"Then I may take your answer in good faith--that you know nothing of
Hugh?"
"Take it, or not, as you please. If I knew that I was going to stand
next minute in the presence of Heaven, I could not give it more
truthfully. For the child's own sake, I hope he will be found. Why
don't you ask the man who owns the rooms?--he can tell you I have had
no boy here. If you choose to watch me away to-night, do so; you'll
see I go alone. A child with me! I might about as well give myself up
to the law at once, for I shouldn't long remain out of its clutches,
Joseph Todhetley."
"Good-morning," said Tod shortly. I echoed the words, and we were
civilly answered. As we went out, Arne shut the door behind us. In the
middle of the passage stood Cookum.
"Have you found he was who you wanted, sir?"
"Yes," answered Tod, not vouchsafing to explain. "Another time when I
say I do not wish to harm you, perhaps you'll take my word."
Mrs. Todhetley, pale and anxious, was standing under the mulberry-tree
when we got back. She came across the grass.
"Any news?" cried Tod. As if the sight of her was not enough, that he
need have asked!
"No, no, Joseph. Did you see him?"
"Yes, he had not left. He knows nothing of Hugh."
"I had no hope that he did," moaned poor Mrs. Todhetley. "All he wanted
was the money."
We turned into the dining-room by the glass-doors, and it seemed to
strike out a gloomy chill. On the wall near the window, there was a
chalk drawing of Hugh in colours, hung up by a bit of common string. It
was only a rough sketch that Jane Coney had done half in sport; but it
was like him, especially in the blue eyes and the pretty light hair.
"Where's my father?" asked Tod.
"Gone riding over to the brick-fields again," she answered: "he cannot
get it out of his mind that Hugh must be there. Joseph, as Mr. Arne
has nothing to do with the loss, we can still spare your father the
knowledge that he has been here. Spare it, I mean, for good."
"Yes. Thank you."
Hugh was uncommonly fond of old Massock's brick-fields; he would go
there on any occasion that offered, had once or twice strayed there a
truant; sending Hannah, for the time being, into a state of mortal
fright. The Squire's opinion was that Hugh must have decamped there some
time in the course of the Friday afternoon, perhaps followed the gig;
and was staying there, afraid to come home.
"He might have hung on to the tail of the gig itself, and I and Johnny
never have seen him, the 'cute Turk," argued the Squire.
Which I knew was just as likely as that he had, unseen, hung on to the
moon. In the state he had brought his clothes to, he wouldn't have gone
to the brick-fields at all. The Squire did not seem so uneasy as he
might have been. Hugh would be sure to turn up, he said, and should get
the soundest whipping any young rascal ever had.
But he came riding back from the brick-fields as before--without him.
Tod, awfully impatient, met him in the road by the yellow barn. The
Squire got off his horse there, for Luke Mackintosh was at hand to take
it.
"Father, I cannot think of any other place he can have got to: we have
searched everywhere. Can you?"
"Not I, Joe. Don't be down-hearted. He'll turn up; he'll turn up.
Halloa!" broke off the Squire as an idea struck him, "has this barn been
searched?"
"He can't be in there, sir; it's just a moral impossibility that he
could be," spoke up Mackintosh. "The place was empty, which I can be
upon my oath, when I locked it up yesterday afternoon, after getting
some corn out; and the key have never been out o' my trousers' pocket
since. Mr. Joseph, he was inside with me at the time, and knows it."
Tod nodded assent, and the Squire walked away. As there was no other
accessible entrance to the front barn, and the windows were ever so
many yards from the ground, they felt that it must be, as the man said,
a "moral impossibility."
The day went on, it was Saturday, remember, and the miserable hours went
on, and there came no trace of the child. The Ravine was again searched
thoroughly: that is, as thoroughly as its overgrown state permitted. It
was like waste of time; for Hugh would not have hidden himself in it;
and if he had fallen over the fence he would have been found before from
the traces that must have been left in the bushes. The searchers would
come in, one after another, now a farm-servant, now one of the police,
bringing no news, except of defeat, but hoping some one else had brought
it. Every time that Tod looked at the poor mild face of Mrs. Todhetley,
always meek and patient, striving ever to hide the anguish that each
fresh disappointment brought, I know he felt ready to hang himself. It
was getting dusk when Maria Lease came up with a piece of straw hat that
she had found in the withy walk. But both Mrs. Todhetley and Hannah,
upon looking at it, decided that the straw was of finer grain than
Hugh's.
That afternoon they dragged the pond, but there was nothing found in it.
We could get no traces anywhere. No one had seen him, no one heard of
him. From the moment when I had watched him into the fold-yard gate, it
seemed that he had altogether vanished from above ground. Since then all
scent of him was missing. It was very strange: just as though the boy
had been spirited away.
Sunday morning rose. As lovely a Sunday as ever this world saw, but all
sad for us. Tod had flung himself back in the pater's easy-chair, pretty
near done over. Two nights, and he had not been to bed. In spite of his
faith in Alfred Arne's denial, he had chosen to watch him away in the
night from Timberdale; and he saw the man steal off in the darkness on
foot and alone. The incessant hunting about was bringing its reaction on
Tod, and the fatigue of body and mind began to show itself. But as to
giving in, he'd never do that, and would be as likely as not to walk and
worry himself into a fever.
The day was warm and beautiful; the glass-doors stood open to the sweet
summer air. Light fleecy clouds floated over the blue sky, the sun shone
on the green grass of the lawn and sparkled amidst the leaves of the
great mulberry-tree. Butterflies flitted past in pairs, chasing each
other; bees sent forth their hum as they sipped the honey-dew from the
flowers; the birds sang their love-songs on the boughs: all seemed
happiness outside, as if to mock our care within.
Tod lay back with his eyes closed: I sat on the arm of the old red sofa.
The bells of North Crabb Church rang out for morning service. It was
rather a cracked old peal, but on great occasions the ringers assembled
and did their best. The Bishop of Worcester was coming over to-day to
preach a charity sermon: and North Crabb never had anything greater than
that. Tod opened his eyes and listened in silence.
"Tod, do you know what it puts me in mind of?"
"Don't bother. It's because of the bishop, I suppose."
"I don't mean the bells. It's like the old fable, told of in 'The
Mistletoe Bough,' enacted in real life. If there were any deep chest
about the premises----"
"Hold your peace, Johnny!--unless you want to drive me mad. If we come
upon the child like _that_, I'll--I'll----"
I think he was going to say shoot himself, or something of that sort,
for he was given to random speech when put to it. But at that moment
Lena ran in dressed for church, in her white frock and straw hat with
blue ribbons. She threw her hands on Tod's knee and burst out crying.
"Joe, I don't want to go to church; I want Hugh."
Quite a spasm of pain shot across his face, but he was very tender with
her. In all my life I had never seen Tod so gentle as he had been at
moments during the last two days.
"Don't cry, pretty one," he said, pushing the fair curls from her face.
"Go to church like a good little girl; perhaps we shall have found him
by the time you come home."
"Hannah says he's lying dead somewhere."
"Hannah's nothing but a wicked woman," savagely answered Tod. "Don't you
mind her."
But Lena would not be pacified, and kept on sobbing and crying, "I want
Hugh; I want Hugh."
Mrs. Todhetley, who had come in then, drew her away and sat down with
the child on her knee, talking to her in low, soothing tones.
"Lena, dear, you know I wish you to go with Hannah to church this
morning. And you will put papa's money into the plate. See: it is a
golden sovereign. Hannah must carry it, and you shall put it in."
"Oh, mamma! will Hugh never come home again? Will he die?"
"Hush, Lena," she said, as Tod bit his lip and gave his hair a dash
backwards. "Shall I tell you something that sounds like a pretty story?"
Lena was always ready for a story, pretty or ugly, and her blue eyes
were lifted to her mother's brightly through the tears. At that moment
she looked wonderfully like the portrait on the wall.
"Just now, dear, I was in my room upstairs, feeling very, very unhappy;
I'm not sure but I was sobbing nearly as much as you were just now. 'He
will never come back,' I said to myself; 'he is lost to us for ever.'
At that moment those sweet bells broke out, calling people to Heaven's
service, and I don't know why, Lena, but they seemed to whisper a great
comfort to me. They seemed to say that God was over us all, and saw our
trouble, and would heal it in His good time."
Lena stared a little, digesting what she could of the words. The tears
were nowhere.
"Will He send Hugh back?"
"I can't tell, darling. He can take care of Hugh, and bless him, and
keep him, wherever he may be, and I know He _will_. If He should have
taken him to heaven above the blue sky--oh then, Hugh must be very
happy. He will be with the angels. He will see Jesus face to face; and
you know how _He_ loved little children. The bells seemed to say all
this to me as I listened to them, Lena."
Lena went off contented: we saw her skipping along by Hannah's side,
who had on a new purple gown and staring red and green trimmings to her
bonnet. Children are as changeable as a chameleon, sobbing one minute,
laughing the next. Tod was standing now with his back to the window, and
Mrs. Todhetley sat by the table, her long thin fingers supporting her
cheek; very meek, very, very patient. Tod was thinking so as he glanced
at her.
"How you must hate me for this!" he said.
"Oh, Joseph! Hate you?"
"The thing is all my fault. A great deal has been my fault for a long
while; all the unpleasantness and the misunderstanding."
She got up and took his hand timidly, as if she feared he might think
it too great a liberty. "If you can only understand me for the future,
Joseph; understand how I wish and try to make things pleasant to you, I
shall be fully repaid: to you most especially in all the house, after
your father. I have ever striven and prayed for it."
He answered nothing for the moment; his face was working a little, and
he gave her fingers a grip that must have caused pain.
"If the worst comes of this, and Hugh never is amongst us again, I will
go over the seas in the wake of the villain Arne," he said in a low,
firm tone, "and spare you the sight of me."
Tears began to trickle down her face. "Joseph, my dear--if you will let
me call you so--this shall draw us near to each other, as we never might
have been drawn without it. You shall not hear a word of reproach from
us, or any word but love; there shall never be a thought of reproach in
my heart. I have had a great deal of sorrow in my life, Joseph, and have
learnt patiently to bear, leaving all things to Heaven."
"And if Hugh is dead?"
"What I said to Lena, I meant," she softly whispered. "If God has taken
him he is with the angels, far happier than he could be in this world of
care, though his lot were of the brightest."
The tears were running down her cheeks as she went out of the room. Tod
stood still as a stone.
"She is made of gold," I whispered.
"No, Johnny. Of something better."
The sound of the bells died away. None of us went to church; in the
present excitement it would have been a farce. The Squire had gone
riding about the roads, sending his groom the opposite way. He
telegraphed to the police at Worcester; saying, in the message, that
these country officers were no better than dummies; and openly lamented
at home that it had not happened at Dyke Manor, within the range of old
Jones the constable.
Tod disappeared with the last sound of the bells. Just as the pater's
head was full of the brick-fields, his was of the Ravine; that he had
gone off to beat it again I was sure. In a trouble such as this you want
incessantly to be up and doing. Lena and Hannah came back from church,
the child calling for Hugh: she wanted to tell him about the gentleman
who had preached in big white sleeves and pretty frills on his wrists.
Two o'clock was the Sunday dinner-hour. Tod came in when it was
striking. He looked dead-beat as he sat down to carve in his father's
place. The sirloin of beef was as good as usual, but only Lena seemed to
think so. The little gobbler ate two servings, and a heap of raspberry
pie and cream.
How it happened, I don't know. I was just as anxious as any of them,
and yet, in sitting under the mulberry-tree, I fell fast asleep, never
waking till five. Mrs. Todhetley, always finding excuses for us, said it
was worry and want of proper rest. She was sitting close to the window,
her head leaning against it. The Squire had not come home. Tod was
somewhere about, she did not know where.
I found him in the yard. Luke Mackintosh was harnessing the pony to
the gig, Tod helping him in a state of excitement. Some man had come in
with a tale that a tribe of gipsies was discovered, encamped beyond the
brick-fields, who seemed to have been there for a week past. Tod jumped
to the conclusion that Hugh was concealed with them, and was about to go
off in search.
"Will you come with me, Johnny? Luke must remain in case the Squire
rides in."
"Of course I will. I'll run and tell Mrs. Todhetley."
"Stay where you are, you stupid muff. To excite her hopes, in the
uncertainty, would be cruel. Get up."
Tod need not have talked about excited hopes. He was just three parts
mad. Fancy his great strong hands shaking as he took the reins! The pony
dashed off in a fright with the cut he gave it, and brought us cleverly
against the post of the gate, breaking the near shaft. Over _that_, but
for the delay, Tod would have been cool as an orange.
"The phaeton now, single horse," he called out to Mackintosh.
"Yes, sir. Bob, or Blister?"
Tod stamped his foot in a passion. "As if it mattered! Blister; he is
the more fiery of the two."
"I must get the harness," said Mackintosh. "It is in the yellow barn."
Mackintosh went round on the run to gain the front barn; the harness,
least used, was kept there, hung on the walls. Tod unharnessed the pony,
left me to lead him to the stable, and went after the man. In his state
of impatience and his strength, he could have done the work of ten men.
He met Mackintosh coming out of the barn, without the harness, but with
a white face. Since he saw the ghost's light on Friday night the man had
been scared at shadows.
"There's sum'at in there, master," said he, his teeth chattering.
"What?" roared Tod, in desperate anger.
"There _is_, master. It's like a faint tapping."
Tod dashed in, controlling his hands, lest they might take French leave
and strike Luke for a coward. He was seeking the proper set of harness,
when a knocking, faint and irregular, smote his ear. Tod turned to look,
and thought it came from the staircase-door. He went forward and opened
it.
Lying at the foot of the stairs was Hugh. Hugh! Low, and weak, and
faint, there he lay, his blue eyes only half opened, and his pretty
curls mingling with the dust.
"Hugh! is it you, my darling?"
Tod's gasp was like a great cry. Hugh put up his little feeble hand, and
a smile parted his lips.
"Yes, it's me, Joe."
The riddle is easily solved. When sent back by me, Hugh saw Hannah in
the fold-yard; she was, in point of fact, looking after him. In his
fear, he stole round to hide in the shrubbery, and thence got to the
front of the house, and ran away down the road. Seeing the front
barn-door open, for it was when Luke Mackintosh was getting the corn,
Hugh slipped in and hid behind the door. Luke went out with the first
lot of corn, and the senseless child, hearing Tod's voice outside, got
into the place leading to the stairs, and shut the door. Luke, talking
to Tod, who had stepped inside the barn, saw the door was shut and
slipped the big outside bolt, _never remembering that it was not he who
had shut it_. Poor little Hugh, when their voices had died away, ran
upstairs to get to the upper granary, and found its door fastened.
And there the child was shut up beyond reach of call and hearing. The
skylight in the roof, miles, as it seemed, above him, had its ventilator
open. He had called and called; but his voice must have been lost amidst
the space of the barn. It was too weak to disturb a rat now.
Tod took him up in his arms, tenderly as if he had been a new-born baby
that he was hushing to the rest of death.
"Were you frightened, child?"
"I was till I heard the church-bells," whispered Hugh. "I don't know how
long it was--oh, a great while--and I had ate the biscuit Johnny gave me
and been asleep. I was not frightened then, Joe; I thought they'd come
to me when church was over."
I met the procession. What the dirty object might be in Tod's arms was
quite a mystery at first. Tod's eyes were dropping tears upon it, and
his breath seemed laboured. Luke brought up the rear a few yards behind,
looking as if he'd never find his senses again.
"Oh, Tod! will he get over it?"
"Yes. Please God."
"Is he injured?"
"No, no. Get out of my way, Johnny. Go to the mother now, if you like.
Tell her he has only been shut up in the barn and I'm coming in with
him. The dirt's nothing: it was on him before."
Just as meek and gentle she stood as ever, the tears rolling down her
face, and a quiet joy in it. Tod brought him in, laying him across her
knee as she sat on the sofa.
"There," he said. "He'll be all right when he has been washed and had
something to eat."
"God bless you, Joseph!" she whispered.
Tod could say no more. He bent to kiss Hugh; lifted his face, and kissed
the mother. And then he went rushing out with a burst of emotion.