Chapter Four.
Gone Again.
On the evening following Jeffreys’ departure from Bolsover, a middle-aged, handsome gentleman was sitting in his comfortable study in the city of York, whistling pleasantly to himself.
The house in which he lived was a small one, yet roomy enough for an old bachelor. And what it wanted in size it made up for in the elegance and luxury of its furniture and adornments.
Mr Halgrove was evidently a connoisseur in the art of making himself comfortable. Everything about him was of the best, and bespoke not only a man of taste but a man of means. The books on the shelves—and where can you find any furniture to match a well-filled bookcase?—were well chosen and well bound. The pictures on the walls were all works of art and most tastefully hung. The knickknacks scattered about the room were ornamental as well as useful. Even the collie dog which lay luxuriously on the hearthrug with one eye half open was as beautiful as he was faithful.
Mr Halgrove whistled pleasantly to himself as he stirred his coffee and glanced down the columns of the London paper.
If you had looked over his shoulder, you would have come to the conclusion that Mr Halgrove’s idea of what was interesting in a newspaper and your own by no means coincided.
He was, in fact, reading the money article, and running his eye skilfully among the mazes of the stocks and shares there reported.
Suddenly there was a ring at the hall door and a man’s voice in the hall. Next moment the study door opened, and amid the frantic rejoicings of Julius, John Jeffreys walked into the presence of his guardian. He was haggard and travel-stained, and Mr Halgrove, in the midst of his astonishment, noticed that his boots were nearly in pieces. Bolsover was fifty-five miles from York, and the roads were rough and stony. The guardian, whatever astonishment he felt at this unexpected apparition, gave no sign of it in his face, as he sat back in his chair and took several quiet whiffs of his weed before he addressed his visitor.
“Ah!” said he, “you’ve broken up early.”
“No, sir,” said Jeffreys. “Please may I have something to eat?”
“Help yourself to the bread and butter there,” said Mr Halgrove, pointing to the remains of his own tea, “and see if you can squeeze anything out of the coffee-pot. If not, ring for some more hot water. Lie down, Julius!”
Jeffreys ate the bread and butter ravenously, and drank what was left in the coffee-pot and milk-jug.
Mr Halgrove went on with his cigar, watching his ward curiously.
“The roads are rough for walking this time of the year,” observed he.
“Yes,” said Jeffreys; “I’ve walked all the way.”
“Good exercise,” said Mr Halgrove. “How long did it take you?”
“I left Bolsover at half-past four this morning.”
Mr Halgrove looked at his watch.
“Fifteen hours—a fairly good pace,” said he.
A silence ensued, during which time guardian and ward remained eyeing one another, the one curiously, the other anxiously.
“Why not sit down,” said Mr Halgrove, when it became evident his ward was not going to open the conversation, “after your long walk?”
Jeffreys dropped heavily into the chair nearest to him and Julius came up and put his head between his knees.
“Do you often take country walks of this sort?” said the guardian.
“No, sir; I’ve run away from Bolsover.”
Mr Halgrove raised his eyebrows.
“Indeed! Was it for the fun of the thing, or for any special reason?”
“It was because I have killed a boy,” said Jeffreys hoarsely.
It spoke volumes for Mr Halgrove’s coolness that he took this alarming announcement without any sign of emotion.
“Have you?” said he. “And was that for fun, or for any special reason?”
“I didn’t mean it; it was an accident,” said Jeffreys.
“Is the story worth repeating?” asked the guardian, knocking the ash off the end of the cigar, and settling himself in his chair.
Jeffreys told the story in a blundering, mixed-up way, but quite clearly enough for Mr Halgrove.
“So you meant to run at him, though you didn’t mean to kill him?” said he, when the narrative was ended.
“I did not mean to kill him,” repeated the boy doggedly.
“Of course it would not occur to you that you were twice his size and weight, and that running over him meant—well manslaughter.”
“I never thought it for a moment—not for a moment.”
“Was the accident fatal, at once, may I ask?”
“No, sir; he was brought to the school insensible, and remained so for more than twelve hours. Then he became conscious, and seemed to be doing well.”
“A temporary rally, I suppose?” observed the guardian.
Jeffreys’ mouth worked uneasily, and his pale brow became overcast again.
“No, I believe if it hadn’t been for me he might have recovered.”
“Indeed,” said the other, once more raising his eyebrows; “what further attention did you bestow on him—not poison, I hope?”
“No, but I went to his room in the middle of the night and startled him, and gave him a shock.”
“Yes; playing bogey is liable to alarm invalids. I have always understood so,” said Mr Halgrove drily.
“I didn’t mean to startle him. I fancied he was asleep, and just wanted to see how he seemed to be getting on. No one would tell me a word about him,” said Jeffreys miserably.
“And that killed him outright?”
“I’m afraid it must have,” said Jeffreys. “The doctor had said the least shock would be fatal, and this was a very great shock.”
“It would be. You did not, however, wait to see?”
“No; I waited an hour or two, and then I ran away.”
“Did you say good-bye to the head-master before leaving?”
“No; nobody knew of my going.”
“Of course you left your address behind you, in case you should be invited to attend the inquest.”
“They know where I live,” said Jeffreys.
“Indeed! And may I ask where you live?”
The ward’s face fell at the question.
“Here, sir,” faltered he.
“Pardon me, I think you are mistaken, John Jeffreys.”
Jeffreys looked hard at his guardian, as if to ascertain whether or not he spoke seriously. His one longing at that moment was for food and rest. Since Saturday morning his eyes had never closed, and yet, strange as it may seem, he could take in no more of the future than what lay before him on this one night. The sudden prospect now of being turned out into the street was overwhelming.
“I think you are mistaken,” repeated Mr Halgrove, tossing the end of his cigar into the fireplace and yawning.
“But, sir,” began Jeffreys, raising himself slowly to his feet, for he was stiff and cramped after his long journey, “I’ve walked—”
“So you said,” interrupted Mr Halgrove, incisively. “You will be used to it.”
At that moment Jeffreys decided the question of his night’s lodging in a most unlooked-for manner by doing what he had never done before, and what he never did again.
He fainted.
When he next was aware of anything he was lying in his own bed upstairs in broad daylight, and Mr Halgrove’s housekeeper was depositing a tray with some food upon it at his side. He partook gratefully, and dropped off to sleep again without rousing himself enough to recall the events of the past evening. When, however, late in the afternoon, he awoke, and went over in his mind the events of the last few days, a dismal feeling of anxiety came over him and dispelled the comfort of his present situation. He got out of bed slowly and painfully, for he was very stiff and footsore. He knew not at what moment his guardian might return to the unpleasant topic of last night’s conversation, and he resolved to end his own suspense as speedily as possible. He took a bath and dressed, and then descended resolutely but with sad misgivings to the library. Mr Halgrove was sitting where his ward had left him yesterday evening.
“Ah,” said he, as the boy entered, “early rising’s not your strong point, is it?”
“I only woke half an hour ago.”
“And you are anxious, of course, to know whether you have been inquired for by the police?” said the guardian, paring his nails.
Jeffreys’ face fell.
“Has some one been?” he asked. “Have you heard anything?”
“No one has been as yet except the postman. He brought me a letter from Bolsover, which will probably interest you more than it does me. It’s there on the table.”
Jeffreys took up a letter addressed in Mr Frampton’s hand.
“Am I to read it?”
“As you please.”
Jeffreys opened the letter and read:—
“Bolsover, October 12.
“S. Halgrove, Esq.
“Dear Sir,—I regret to inform you that your ward, John Jeffreys, left Bolsover secretly last night, and has not up to the present moment returned. If he has returned to you, you will probably have learned by this time the circumstances which led him to take the step he has. (Here Mr Frampton briefly repeated the story of the football accident.) The patient still lingers, although the doctors do not at present hold out much hope of ultimate recovery. I am not inclined to credit the statement current in the school with regard to the sad event, that the injury done to the small boy was not wholly due to accident. Still, under the grave circumstances, which are made all the more serious by your ward’s flight, I suggest to you that you should use your authority to induce Jeffreys to return here—at any rate for as long as Forrester’s fate remains precarious; or, failing that, that you should undertake, in the event of a legal inquiry being necessary, that he shall be present if required.
“Faithfully yours,—
“T. Frampton.”
“Pleasant letter, is it not?” said Mr Halgrove as Jeffreys replaced it in its envelope and laid it again on the table.
“I can’t go back to Bolsover,” said he.
“No? You think you are not appreciated there?”
Jeffreys winced.
“But I will undertake to go there if—”
“If the coroner invites you, eh?”
“Yes,” replied the boy.
“The slight difficulty about that is that it is I, not you, that am asked to make the undertaking.”
“But you will, won’t you?” asked Jeffreys eagerly.
“I have the peculiarity of being rather particular about the people I give undertakings for,” said Mr Halgrove, flicking a speck of dust off his sleeve; “it may be ridiculous, but I draw the line at homicide.”
“You’re a liar!” exclaimed the ward, in a burst of fury, which, however, he repented of almost before the words had escaped him.
Mr Halgrove was not in the slightest degree disturbed by this undutiful outbreak, but replied coolly,—
“In that case, you see, my undertaking would be worth nothing. No. What do you say to replying to Mr Frampton’s suggestion yourself?”
“I will write and tell him I will go whenever he wants me.”
“The only objection to that,” observed the guardian, “will be the difficulty in giving him any precise address, will it not?”
Jeffreys winced again.
“You mean to turn me adrift?” said he bluntly.
“Your perception is excellent, my young friend.”
“When?”
Mr Halgrove looked at his watch.
“I believe Mrs Jessop usually locks up about eleven. It would be a pity to keep her up after that hour.”
Jeffreys gulped down something like a sigh and turned to the door.
“Not going, are you?” said the guardian. “It’s early yet.”
“I am going,” replied the ward quietly.
“By the way,” said Mr Halgrove, as he reached the door, “by the way, John—”
Jeffreys stopped with his hand on the latch.
“I was going to say,” said the guardian, rising and looking for his cigar-case, “that the little sum of money which was left by your father, and invested for your benefit, has very unfortunately taken to itself wings, owing to the failure of the undertaking in which it happened to be invested. I have the papers here, and should like to show them to you, if you can spare me five minutes.”
Jeffreys knew nothing about money. Hitherto his school fees had been paid, and a small regular allowance for pocket-money had been sent him quarterly by his guardian. Now his guardian’s announcement conveyed little meaning to him beyond the fact that he had no money to count upon. He never expected he would have; so he was not disappointed.
“I don’t care to see the papers,” he said.
“You are a philosopher, my friend,” said his guardian. “But I have sufficient interest in you, despite your financial difficulties, to believe you might find this five-pound note of service on your travels.”
“No, thank you,” said Jeffreys, putting his hand behind his back.
“Don’t mention it,” said his guardian, returning it to his pocket. “There is, when I come to think of it,” added he, “a sovereign which really belongs to you. It is the balance of your last quarter’s allowance, which I had been about to send to you this week. I would advise you to take it.”
“Is it really mine?”
“Pray come and look over the accounts. I should like to satisfy you.”
“If it is really mine I will take it,” said the boy.
“You are sensible,” said his guardian, putting it into his hand. “You are perfectly safe in taking it. It is yours. It will enable you to buy a few postage stamps. I shall be interested to hear of your success. Good-bye.”
Jeffreys, ignoring the hand which was held out to him, walked silently from the room. Mr Halgrove stood a moment and listened to the retreating footsteps. Then he returned to his chair and rang the bell.
“Mrs Jessop,” said he, “Mr Jeffreys is going on a journey. Will you kindly see he has a good meal before starting?”
Mrs Jessop went upstairs and found Jeffreys writing a letter.
“Master says you’re going a journey, sir.”
“Yes. I shall be starting in half an hour.”
“Can’t you put it off till to-morrow, sir?”
“No, thanks. But I want to finish this letter.”
“Well, sir, there’ll be some supper for you in the parlour. It’s master’s orders.”
Jeffreys’ letter was to Mr Frampton.
“Sir,” he wrote, “I left Bolsover because I could not bear to be there any longer. I did not mean to injure Forrester so awfully, though I was wicked enough to have a spite against him. I am not a murderer, though I am as bad as one. If I could do anything to help Forrester get better I would come, but I should only make everything worse. My guardian has turned me away, and I shall have to find employment. But the housekeeper here, Mrs Jessop, will always know where I am, and send on to me if I am wanted. I should not think of hiding away till I hear that Forrester is better. If he dies I should not care to live, so I should be only too glad to give myself up. I cannot come back to Bolsover now, even if I wanted, as I have only a pound, and my guardian tells me that is all the money I have in the world. Please write and say if Forrester is better. I am too miserable to write more.
“Yours truly,—
“John Jeffreys.”
Having finished this dismal letter, he packed up one or two of his things in a small handbag and descended to the parlour. There he found an ample supper provided for him by the tender-hearted Mrs Jessop, who had a pretty shrewd guess as to the nature of the “journey” that her master’s ward was about to take. But Jeffreys was not hungry, and the announcement that the meal was there by the “master’s orders” turned him against it.
“I can’t eat anything, thank you,” he said to Mrs Jessop, “you gave me such a good tea only a little while ago.”
“But you’ve a long journey, Master John. Is it a long journey, sir?”
“I don’t know yet,” he said. “But I want you to promise to send me on any letter or message that comes, will you?”
“Where to?”
“To the head post-office, here.”
“Here? Then you’re not going out of York?”
“Not at first. I’ll let you know when I go where to send on the letters.”
“Mr John,” said the housekeeper, “the master’s turned you away. Isn’t that it?”
“Perhaps he’s got a reason for it. Good-bye, Mrs Jessop.”
“Oh, but Mr John—”
But John interrupted her with a kiss on her motherly cheek, and next moment was gone.