KELMERSDALE.
JANET found that the next boat would sail in four days; so, if she
could be set free from her engagement at Gair and Co.'s, she could
well be ready in time, even if she had to take the children with her.
For, of course, if Mrs. Rayburn either could not or would not keep the
little ones, they must needs go with her.
The first thing to be done now was to telegraph to Mrs. Rayburn. She
passed an office on her way to Gair's. She sent her message, but only
said, "Can you send to meet us at Rugeley to-morrow?"
"I can explain much better when I am with her," she thought; "and if
she cannot take the boys, the expense is not very great, after all."
Having arranged for the answer to be sent to Gair's, she went thither
herself, arriving five minutes late, for the first time.
"Has Mr. Simmons come yet?" she asked a young man who was arranging the
window.
"He's in the office, Mrs. Rayburn."
And to the office Janet repaired. There she told her story, with
certain reservations. Her brother, she said, had sent her money to
go out to Canada to her husband, who was ill. When he recovered, her
brother knew of a promising opening for him, in which her help would
be necessary. Her month's salary was nearly due, but she was willing
to forfeit it, if she might go at once. There was no press of work,
and Miss Green was a very capable cutter-out. Mr. Simmons, a slow
and solemn man, rather thought that such an abrupt departure was
impossible, but would speak to Mr. Gair. Luckily for Janet, it was kind
old Mr. Gair who was in the office, and he came out to speak to her
himself.
"We're sorry to lose you, Mrs. Rayburn, but we will not stand in your
way, as the matter seems of consequence. Pay Mrs. Rayburn up to the
first of July, Simmons; she has been a steady and useful worker."
Finally, the old gentleman sat down and wrote her a regular discharge.
"Keep that, Mrs. Rayburn," he said, looking kindly at the anxious young
face. "It may prove useful, though I hope your husband will do well. Do
you take your children with you?"
"No, sir; I shall take them to Kelmersdale Castle, near Rugeley, where
their grandmother is the housekeeper. If she can keep them, I am to
leave them with her for a time."
"Well, good-bye, good-bye," said Mr. Gair, retreating hastily
towards his private room, for his sons were wont to laugh at him for
being always ready to interest himself in any one. But he took a
parting glance at Janet, and something in the youth, sweetness, and
determination in her face touched his heart. Muttering, "I will now;
they may say what they like, just for once I will please myself," back
he came.
"Are you sure you can manage all this for yourself, Mrs. Rayburn? Is
there anything that I can do for you?"
Janet looked up in his face with a somewhat tremulous smile.
"I have been so afraid," she said, "but if every one is as kind as you
are—but, indeed, that is not likely. I don't know how to thank you,
sir; your kindness gives me such courage."
"I think you have plenty of courage," the old man answered, "and a
better Friend than I can be. One who can go with you, and yet be with
the children at home. Is it not so?"
"Oh, it is—it is indeed! Yes, I can say that sincerely."
"Then you serve my Master, and so you need never be afraid, for you
will be cared for. God bless you, child."
Janet left the shop with that blessing warm at her heart. She went
home, and busied herself in getting the boys' clothes together and
packing them. She took a cabinet photograph of her husband and cut away
the edges, to make it fit into a little miniature case she had among
her few ornaments: this she meant to give to Frank. She made a list of
the things in the trunk, which she carefully packed for the children.
While thus employed, the answer to her telegram was sent on from Bold
Street. It was brief, but said that a vehicle should be at the station
to meet the 12 a.m. train.
Then the boys came home from school, and Janet nearly broke down when
she heard their shout of rejoicing when they saw her at that unusual
hour. When she had given them their dinner, she took Fred on her knee
and put her arm round Frank, as he stood beside her.
"Now, listen to me, my little boys. I have something to tell you which
you will not like, and neither do I; but it cannot be helped, and I
want you both to be good—very good—and so help me to bear it. For I
must go away and leave you for a time, and—and—it nearly breaks my
heart."
"Leave us—here, muddie?" Frank said, fixing his blue eyes on her face,
and growing white in the endeavour to "be good."
"Won't be left," said Fred, sturdily; "we go wif you."
"Not here, Frank, and not alone. To-morrow, I shall take you to a
beautiful place in the country, where I hope to leave you with grandma.
There you will have green fields to run about in, and grandma to take
care of you. You remember grandma, Fred, don't you?"
Frank had slipped down, and sat on the floor at his mother's feet,
staring up at her, and keeping unnaturally still, with every trace
of colour gone from his face. And there he still sat, when Fred had
forgotten all about this terrible parting and was playing merrily about
the room, and Janet was completing the packing of the box.
"Why must you go, muddie?" he cried at last, catching at her dress as
she passed him.
"My darling, my little Frank, don't look like that. I would not leave
you if—if I could help it. Father is ill and, wants me. When he is
well, you shall both come to us."
She sat down and lifted him upon her knee.
"The time will pass quickly, Frank. See, here is father's picture—I
give it to you; keep it safe, and show it to Fred, that he may remember
him. And you will be good, and not make poor muddie fret. And you
will take care of Fred, and try to keep him from being troublesome to
grandma."
"I will try," Frank said. "May I go to bed, muddie? I'm tired, and
don't want any supper to-day."
Janet was rather frightened, he looked so white and weak. She put him
to bed, and brought him some bread and milk, which he took to please
her. When she woke him next morning he seemed quite himself again, and,
having said his prayers, he came and stood before her, saying earnestly—
"I will try to be good, muddie, and I promise to take care of Fred all
I can."
And he was good, poor little fellow, giving no trouble whatever, and
trying to keep Fred quiet during the journey. But Fred had bound
himself by no such promise, and was in uproarious spirits, making noise
enough for half a dozen.
At Rugeley she left the train and looked about for some one from
Kelmersdale. Presently a short, square-built, awkward young man came up
to her, making a clumsy bow, which he accompanied by a curious movement
of one foot, like the pawing of an impatient horse. But it was shyness,
not impatience, that made him paw.
"Be you Mrs. Fred Rayburn?"
"Yes; is Mrs. Rayburn here?"
"No, but I have the taxcart here for you and the children. Be this your
box? Come along, then."
With a final paw, which sent the gravel flying, he picked up the box
and led the way to where he had left the taxcart. Janet sat in front
beside the driver, with Fred in her arms, for she could not trust the
excited child out of her sight. Frank and the box kept each other
company, and Frank was glad, for he wanted to cry just a little without
"making muddie cry." It was a lovely drive, but none of them saw much
of it.
At last they drove through a great heavy gate into a paved court,
walled on three sides, and with a large pillared porch on the
fourth, with a great broad flight of stone steps leading to a large
iron-studded door. This was wide open, and just inside stood Mrs.
Rayburn, and with her a young servant, in white cap and apron and blue
satin bows.
"Well, Janet dear, here you are, and here are my darling boys," Mrs.
Rayburn cried. "It was a surprise—your telegraph saying that you were
coming. Why, Frank looks but poorly; a little country air will do him
good. Jacob, bring in that box. Fred's grown a little; as to Frank,
he's run up far too fast for strength. Come to my sitting-room—isn't
this cosy? Maria, we'll have dinner as soon as 'tis ready."
Maria departed, and Mrs. Rayburn went on.
"So you have a holiday—how long is it, Janet? I hope you can stay some
time. My lord is never here except during the shooting season, when he
has a party for the sport; so I can do just as I like. And I advise you
to leave the children with me just for a bit—just till Frank picks up a
colour and a little flesh. He looks very peaky."
"Yes; Liverpool does not agree with him. May the boys run out and play
in the court, Mrs. Rayburn? I want to talk to you alone."
"I'll just send and get the gate shut, and then they'll be as safe as
possible."
She left the room, and soon a man crossed the yard and shut the gate.
The two boys went out, but only into the porch. Fred was so sleepy that
he was glad to sit on the stone steps with his head on his brother's
shoulder. Frank, white and weary, knowing the whereabouts of every bone
in his body by a separate ache, yet manfully held the little one in his
arms, and sat gazing at the paved court and the high walls. Somehow he
felt like a bird in a cage.
"Now, Janet, we're alone. Let's have a talk till dinner is ready."
"Mrs. Rayburn, do you think Lord Beaucourt would be annoyed if you had
my boys here for a time?"
Having just asked them to stay, Mrs. Rayburn could not very well tell
a different story now; but when she made that request, she had no idea
that Janet would part with her darlings for so much as a week. But,
after all, the boys could not be in her way. The house was large and
the weather warm; they could be out for the greater part of the day,
and they would not cost her a penny. So, after an almost imperceptible
pause, she said—
"My lord annoyed? Oh, dear, not at all. My mother, you know, was a
confidential servant—almost a friend; and he is just as kind to me. If
you like to let Frank stay here, I'll take the best of care of him—you
know that."
"Yes; so you said in the kind letter I sent on to Fred. And he has sent
me word by my brother to leave them with you if you really can have
them without being troubled about it afterwards."
"To leave them both?"
"Yes; Fred is ill and in trouble, and Gilbert says I had better go at
once. Gilbert has plans for us, but it is not quite certain yet where
we shall be. I am to go to Gattigo to my brother, and Fred will meet
me there, and when we know where we shall settle, we will get the boys
out. It will not be for long. Gilbert thinks of setting up an hotel in
Gattigo, with Fred and me to manage it. And when we are quite settled,
and can make you comfortable, you must come out to us, grandma. However
pleasant things may be made for you here, it is not like being in your
own house with your own people."
"No, indeed, Janet, it's a deadly dull life here for one used to
sociability and a large town. I often think of Hemsborough and the dear
old gatehouse. I might be of use, too, in an hotel. Well, Maria is a
good girl, and will help me willingly, and, as you say, it will not be
for long. And what trouble is Fred in, poor dear fellow?"
"He went into partnership with a man he had known before, and this man,
Turner, was not dealing fairly, and he had to run away, and Fred's
money was all lost."
"If this Turner is the man who broke some years ago in Hemsborough,
Fred ought to have known better than to have dealings with him. So he
lost all he had?"
"Yes—but it was not much. Gilbert has got on very well, and seems sure
that this hotel will succeed. But Fred was ill when the letter was
written, and Gilbert says I ought to be there. They both wish me to
come without the boys, but if you cannot have them, I shall take them
with me." And Janet's face brightened a little, for oh! How much rather
would she take them than leave them!
But Mrs. Rayburn was determined not to say anything which could make
Janet think that her position at Kelmersdale was not as independent and
pleasant in every way as she had represented it, so she declared that
my lord would be quite pleased to know that she had the darling boys
for company.
"For he knows it is a lonely life here, and he is so kind-hearted. But,
you see, things were going all wrong for want of a really trustworthy
confidential person at the head of the household. He will not be here
till the middle of August, and perhaps not till September. Of course,
they might be in the way then. But there's time enough, and you know,
Janet, I'd do anything for you and Fred."
"I knew you would do this, if you could, so I have brought all their
clothes. I must get back to Liverpool; the steamer sails on Thursday,
early."
"Then you can stay here to-night. Do you think I'm going to let you
travel back to-night, and you looking so tired and worn? No, no, stay
for the night, and you'll see where the little darlings are to sleep,
and how comfortable I shall make them; as well I may, remembering all
your kindness to me, and how you nursed me when I was ill."
Her cordiality increased as she thought over the hotel project, and
considered how pleasant it would be, when all was comfortably settled,
to rejoin her stepson in Gattigo. Life at Kelmersdale was very dull
to a woman whose idea of enjoying herself meant much gossip and many
sociable tea-parties.
"I will stay, as you are so kind," Janet said, yet in her heart she
wished she had the courage to go, and have the parting over.
Maria, a good-natured girl, with very little to do, seemed rather
pleased at the prospect of a visit from the children, and said that the
last housekeeper had a niece who used to stay with her for months at a
time. There was a turret-room, six-sided, at the end of the passage on
which Mrs. Rayburn's rooms opened, and this was got ready for the boys.
Janet unpacked and arranged their clothes herself; and at night she
tucked them up in an old-fashioned little bedstead, with a high back
of carved wood. Conspicuous among the carving was an earl's coronet,
which had once been gilded; I suppose some baby Earl of Beaucourt had
once slept in the bed which now held poor Janet's boys. They slept as
sweetly as any earl, and even Janet slept, worn out.
Next day, Janet said she must catch the train for Liverpool, which was
due at Rugeley at a little after eleven. She had still a good deal of
packing to do, some things to buy which she would want on the passage,
and she must go to the school the boys had attended and pay what was
due there.
She would not take the boys to Rugeley with her. When Jacob and the
taxcart came to the door, she kissed Mrs. Rayburn, and whispered—
"Be—be tender with them. They have never had a harsh word. Frank
will give you no trouble, and if Fred is not quite so good, oh! Have
patience with him, he is but a baby. Good-bye, and thank you for all
your kindness."
Then she knelt down on the stone floor of the hall, and held her boys
to her heart for a few moments. Fred set up a lamentable howl, but
Frank only gazed at his mother with wide eyes and a pale face. Janet
rose, and walked hurriedly out into the porch; Jacob helped her into
the cart, and in a moment they were gone.
"Come back, come back, muddie!" shouted Fred; "Take me wif you. I won't
stay here."
"Nonsense, child!" said Mrs. Rayburn, catching him as he broke away
from Frank and ran towards the door. "You've got to stay here. Come
along to my room and watch the cart; you can see it from the window
there."
When the cart had passed the last turn in the long road through the
park at which it could be seen, Fred set up another roar. Mrs. Rayburn
lifted him up, and went to where her spacious easy-chair stood, where
she sat down.
"Stop that, Fred. Come here, Frank. Now, listen to me, both of you. You
are to stay here for a time, and if you're good, you'll have a pleasant
time of it. And I dare say you will be good, after a time, but you're
both just a bit spoiled, because your mother is too soft in her ways
with you. Now, I'm not like her."
"No, grandma," said Frank, with conviction.
"And if you're naughty or noisy or mischievous or troublesome in any
way, I'll give you a right good whipping. If you'll be good, you'll
find yourself very well off. And when you've had a whipping or two,
I've no doubt I shall have no more trouble with you. Come, now, get
your hats, and I'll show you a place where you may run about and play."
She took them out into the paved court, and across to a small iron
gate, and, when she had unlocked and opened this gate, Frank cried out
with surprise and delight—
"Oh, muddie, muddie, if you could just see this!"
On hearing this imprudent mention of "muddie," Fred began to roar;
but he received a very prompt cuff on the side of his curly head, and
ceased, staring hard at grandma.
To confess the truth, Fred had been quite spoiled by being the pet and
plaything of the school he attended with Frank—and, indeed, of the
house where his mother lodged also. He was a very handsome child, being
like his father, and he was also a self-willed little monkey, who liked
his own way, and was but little used to contradiction. Seeing "muddie"
but for a short time each day, he was always very happy and tolerably
good with her, so that poor Janet had little idea that her son had
learned to get his own way—entirely with Frank, and to a great extent
with others—by howling loudly when not pleased. Thus I may say that I
do not altogether grudge him a little discipline, though a box on the
ears is not a safe way to apply it.
Frank took his brother's hand, and drew him through the little gate
into a large, old-fashioned garden, primly and stiffly laid out, and
full of various flowers, though there was nothing very fine or rare.
But to a child a flower is a flower, and there were walks to run up and
down, little thickets of evergreen to explore, and, in the middle, a
marble basin full of gold-fish. In fact, it was a Paradise, and in this
Paradise, these two little Adams were to be left to their own devices.
"I shall come for you at two—that's my dinner-time, children. You must
not walk on the beds nor pick flowers nor do any mischief, but play
about and amuse yourselves. And I do hope, Frank, that you'll pick up a
little colour, for at present, you're a show. I shall lock you in. Now
mind, if you do any mischief, I shall whip you soundly."
To leave two boys, one not quite seven and the other only four, alone
in a garden full of flowers, and to expect them to gather none is to
expect too much of such very young human nature. Frank would never
have done it, but Fred did; and Frank, though he disapproved, did not
actually interfere to stop him.
Mrs. Rayburn spent the rest of the morning in writing to Lord
Beaucourt, telling him what had happened (in her own way), and asking
leave to keep the boys with her until their parents sent for them. As
she had before given Lord Beaucourt to understand that Fred Rayburn was
a ne'er-do-weel, who had ruined her, and his wife a silly, shiftless
body, who never saw what mischief was going on, while she herself was
a most amiable, trustful being, whose little all had been made away
with by this thriftless pair, the earl was quite ready to pity her. He
wrote that he was sorry that she had new difficulties with her stepson,
but that the children would be in no one's way at Kelmersdale, and she
could keep them, if she liked. This answer, of course, did not come for
two or three days.
At two, Mrs. Rayburn went to the garden for the two boys, caught them
red-handed—that is to say, Fred had his hand full of some gaudy tulips
and china roses—and proceeded to administer what she called justice at
once. She had found them near the marble basin, and on the edge of this
she sat down.
"Did you hear me say that you were not to touch the flowers? Yes, you
certainly did. And I said that if you did, I should whip you soundly."
"If we did any mischief, you said, grandma," answered Frank.
"And what do you call that?" pointing to the flowers in Fred's hand.
"And what do you suppose Mr. Ross, the gardener, will say when he
misses them? And the beds all trampled on, I suppose?"
"No, indeed, grandma, we never went on the beds at all. We did no
mischief—flowers don't mind being picked."
"Don't you stand arguing there, sir; you were always one for arguing.
It was all your fault, for Fred's only a baby, so I shall let him off
this time."
And seizing Frank, she proceeded to lay him across her knees, and gave
him a smart whipping. Then she set him on his feet, all flushed and
giddy. The first thing he saw was the row of windows that overlooked
the garden, and I think that the shame of having possibly been seen
undergoing such disgrace was worse than the whipping.
Fred, hitherto staring, open-mouthed and terrified, now began to
whimper.
"Oh, Fwank, was it for the f'owers? You said she'd be angwy. Beat me
too, you bad woman. 'Twas me took 'em; Fwank begged me not."
Mrs. Rayburn was quite willing. Many a time at Hemsborough had her
fingers itched to whip one or the other, or both, for she had scant
patience with children, and Janet had perhaps too much. But as she
put forth a hand to take hold of Fred, Frank pushed in between them,
keeping the child behind him, and crying, as he faced her like a little
lion—
"No, you've whipped me, and that's enough. If you touch Fred, I'll—I'll
push you into the water! We'll run away and be lost; you shan't—you
shan't touch Fred."
"Here's a row," said Mrs. Rayburn, half frightened at the violence of
the usually gentle child, and the angry spark in his eyes. "I told
you," she continued, "that I'd let him off this time, and I will,
though he'd provoke a saint. But if you're to stay here, you must obey
me, and I just mean to let you see that at once. There, now, come to
dinner, and let me hear no more nonsense."
They followed her, a sad, quenched little couple as ever you saw.
Frank could eat no dinner; the remembrance of that terrible scene was
too much for him; and Fred, seeing this, shook his wee white fist at
grandma—when her back was turned.
Dinner over, Mrs. Rayburn seated herself in her easy-chair, and took
from her pocket Janet's list of the boys' belongings.
"What picture of your father is this on your list?" she asked. "It is
not among your clothes. You'd best give it to me to keep for you."
"Muddie said I was to keep it, and show it to Fred every day, for fear
we'd forget him. He's been so long away, you see."
"Well, show it to me."
Reluctantly, Frank drew from his pocket a little square brown case,
and, opening it, showed the handsome, pleasant face of his father.
"Oh, only that! Why, it's the cabinet one just cut to fit the case.
Yes, you can keep it. Fred there is very like him. You're like your
mother. Eh, what's that child doing over there?"
"Nuffin," said Fred, hurriedly abandoning his design to pull the
needles out of her knitting.
"You may both go now and play in the court," said Mrs. Rayburn.
"There's no flowers there for you to spoil. I'm going to take a nap,
for I'm tired out running after you. Now, mind me, boys, particularly
Frank, as he's the eldest. I'll be good to you, if you're good; but you
may as well give in at once, for I'm not like your mother, that never
brought you into order by so much as a smack. Now, you know that I'm in
earnest, so run away."
They stole away, hand-in-hand. Frank sat down on the white stone steps.
"Fred, dear," he said, "I do feel so sick and foolish."
"Poo' Fwank, mine own Fwankie," and the little arms stoles round
Frank's neck, and the rosy cheek was fondly rubbed against the white
one. "It was bad of Fwed not to mind you; Fwed will mind you always
now; and be so good. Oh, Fwank, where's muddie?"
"She'll send for us as soon as ever she can. Muddie did not know that
grandma would be cross."
But, it was curious enough, Frank was not one whit surprised to find
her so.
[Illustration]