Chapter Seven.
What a day for Jonah!
The six months which followed Jeffreys’ introduction into the classical atmosphere of Galloway House passed uneventfully for him, and not altogether unpleasantly. He had, it is true, the vision of young Forrester always in his mind, to drag him down, whenever he dwelt upon it, into the bitterest dejection; and he had the active spite and insolence of Jonah Trimble daily to try his temper and tax his patience.
Otherwise he was comfortable. Mrs Trimble, finding him steady and quiet, treated him kindly when she had her own way, and indifferently when her son was with her. The boys of the second class maintained the mysterious respect they had conceived for him on the day of his arrival, and gave him wonderfully little trouble or difficulty.
He had his evenings for the most part to himself, and even succeeded, after something like a battle-royal with the Trimbles, in carrying his point of having one “evening out” in the week. It nearly cost him his situation, and it nearly cost Jonah a bone-shaking before the question was settled. But Jeffreys could be stubborn when he chose, and stood out grimly on this point. Had it not been for this weekly respite, Galloway House would have become intolerable before a month was over.
He heard occasionally from Mr Frampton; but the one question which would have interested him most was generally passed over. Mr Frampton probably considered that any reference to Forrester would be painful to his correspondent, and therefore avoided it. At last, however, in reply to Jeffreys’ entreaty to know where the boy was and how he was progressing, the head-master wrote:—
“I really cannot tell you what you want to know about Forrester, as I have heard nothing of him. His father, as you know, is an officer in India, and his only relative in England was his grandmother, to whose house at Grangerham he was removed on leaving here. The last I heard was a month after he had left here, when he was reported still to be lingering. His grandmother, so I heard, was very ill. He himself, as a last hope, was to be removed to a hospital (I could not hear which) to receive special treatment. Since then—which is five months ago—I have heard nothing, and my last letter to Grangerham was returned by the Dead-Letter Office. I wish I could tell you more. You may depend on my doing so should I hear of him again,” etc.
It is hardly to be wondered at after this that poor Jeffreys felt the weight upon him heavier than ever. As long as he had known where Forrester was, and had the hope of hearing from time to time how he fared, he had been able to buoy himself up with the hope of some day making up to his victim for the injury he had inflicted; but when, suddenly, Forrester dropped hopelessly out of his life, the burden of his conscience grew intolerable.
He struggled hard, by devoting himself to his boys and by hard private study in his leisure hours, to drive the haunting memory away, but the effort succeeded only for a time. At night, as he lay in bed, unable to escape from himself, the vision of that pale face and that cry of terror hardly once left him till merciful sleep came to his rescue. And by day, when his small pupils vexed him, or the spiteful Jonah tempted him to revenge, the thought of Forrester cowed him into submission, and left him no choice but to endure what seemed to be his penance.
“Ma,” said Mrs Trimble’s hopeful, one afternoon after school had closed, “you’ve been nicely taken in over that Jeffreys, I can tell you.”
“What!” said the lady. “He doesn’t drink, does he?”
“Don’t know. But there’s something queer about him, and I mean to find it out. I’m not going to let it go on, I can tell you.”
“Why, what’s he been doing, Jonah?”
“Doing? You must go about with your eyes shut if you don’t see he’s been sulking ever since he came here. I tell you there’s something wrong.”
“Oh, don’t say that, Jonah.”
“You never took a character with him, did you?”
“No; he hadn’t been in a place before.”
“Depend on it, ma, he’s skulking. He’s done something, and finds this a convenient place to hide away in.”
“But, Jonah, he’s never shown any signs of not being all right. He’s very kind to the boys, and keeps them in wonderful order, better than you do almost.”
Jonah did not like this, because he knew it was true. His boys were neither fond of him nor obedient to his control, and the fact that Jeffreys’ boys were both was additional proof that there was something wrong.
“Do you suppose he can’t manage to take you in, ma? Of course, any one could.”
“But he makes himself very pleasant, and studies, and keeps very quiet out of school.”
“Of course. Isn’t that what I tell you? He’s hiding. What do you suppose he skulks away into town for once a week—eh?”
“Not to drink, I do hope?” said the lady.
“Whatever it is, I mean to get to the bottom of it, for the sake of the school,” said Jonah. “Fancy the mess we’d get into if it got known we had a shady character here as a teacher!”
“But, Jonah, dear, it’s only suspicion. He may be all right.”
“Oh, anything may be,” retorted the philosophic Jonah. “The thing is—is it?”
As Mrs Trimble was unable to answer this question, she retired from the discussion, and hoped devoutly nothing was going to happen which would necessitate her doing more work about the school than she at present did.
The unconscious Jeffreys meanwhile was upstairs, washing himself before starting for his weekly “evening out.” He had more than usual before him on this particular evening, as, besides calling at the post-office—an errand he never missed—he had discovered another old bookshop across the river which kept open till seven o’clock. And after that he had promised Freddy and Teddy, with whom from the first he had kept up a warm friendship, to call up at their house and help them mend their tricycle. With this full programme before him, he lost no time in starting on his travels; little dreaming that the quick pace at which he strode along gave unwonted exercise to Mr Jonah Trimble, who, animated by an amiable curiosity, dogged his footsteps at a respectful distance.
It was about five o’clock when Jeffreys reached the post-office. The clerk knew him by this time, and this evening handed him a letter without being asked. It was a short friendly line from Mr Frampton with no news—at any rate about Forrester; and Trimble, as he watched him emerge from the office, letter in hand, and haggard in face, chalked down in in his own mind a first clue as to the mystery that was exercising him.
From the post-office Jeffreys strolled leisurely down the streets toward the bridge, stopping to look into some of the shops by the way, and occasionally making Trimble’s heart jump by looking behind him.
In due time he pulled up at the bookseller’s shop. Trimble saw the proprietor welcome his visitor with a nod which bespoke an acquaintance of some standing. He saw Jeffreys turning over the contents of some of the trays, taking up a book now and then and examining it, and sometimes propping himself up against the doorpost and reading page after page. It was not very entertaining work for the spy; but curiosity is patient, and Jonah as he watched the unconscious reader at a safe distance fortified himself by the conviction that he was watching the working-out of some deep-laid plot.
Presently he saw Jeffreys disappear into the shop, and what was his amazement, when presently he “casually” passed the door, to see him seated with the bookseller at a table earnestly poring over and discussing a small faded sheet of paper which lay between them! Trimble would have given worlds to know what the mysterious document was, and what villainy was brewing. Had he known it, he might not have stood out there in the evening air quite as patiently as he did. For the mysterious document happened to be nothing but an old tattered and torn Commonwealth tract which Jeffreys had discovered folded up between the leaves of an ancient volume of poetry, and which he and his friend the bookseller were spending a very agreeable half-hour in piecing together and deciphering.
About seven o’clock Jeffreys rose to go, pocketing the precious relic, which his friend had given him; and Trimble, having carefully noted down the name of the shop and the personal appearance of the suspicious bookseller, followed gingerly back across the bridge. The streets were getting less crowded, and Jonah had increasing difficulty in keeping himself concealed as he crawled along on the opposite side of the way some thirty or forty yards in the rear of his man.
Just as Jeffreys was crossing the space opposite the grand front of the minster a dog sprang forward to meet him with every token of joy. It was Julius, and Jeffreys knew that the master could not be very far away. He turned round for a moment, as though he meditated flight, and gave Jonah a spasm by the unexpected movement. But before he could decide Mr Halgrove strolled pleasantly round the corner, and nodded to him as if he and his ward had not parted five minutes before.
“Ah, John, fine evening for a stroll. On your way home?”
Mr Halgrove till that moment had not had the faintest idea that his ward was still in York.
“No,” said Jeffreys, patting the dog’s head and looking very much the reverse of comfortable.
“They say the front of the minster is beginning to crumble at places,” said Mr Halgrove, looking up at the noble pile before them; “I hope it’s not true. Are you much here?”
“No. I live in another part of the town.”
“Very odd my meeting you,” said Mr Halgrove. “I was thinking of you only to-day. I had a letter from Mr Frampton.”
“Indeed, sir—about Forrester?”
“About—oh, your little victim? Oddly enough, it was not. It was to remind me that your last half-term’s fees were not paid. Don’t you think it would be judicious to clear up this little score? Looks bad, you know—to run away with score against you.”
Jeffrey’s face turned pale. He had at least supposed that up to the time of his expulsion from his guardian’s house Mr Halgrove would have considered himself responsible for his maintenance.
“I never dreamt,” he faltered. “How much is it?”
“Quite a little sum, isn’t it? Come, you were last at school. Too bad to pose me with compound division at my time of life. Half a term at £40 a year?”
“Seven pounds!” gasped Jeffreys.
“Not quite, £6 13 shillings, 4 pence. Fancy my being better at mental arithmetic than you!”
“I haven’t got any money. I only get a pound a month and my board.”
“My dear boy, I congratulate you. Twelve pounds a year! Now, wasn’t it a pity you didn’t take that £5 note I offered you? Suppose you take it now!”
Mr Halgrove put his hand to his pocket and took out his purse.
“No!” exclaimed Jeffreys, in a tone that made Trimble, who was busy engaged in inspecting the architecture of the minster from behind a deep buttress close to the speaker, jump—“I’d sooner die!”
“Don’t do that, my dear fellow, don’t do that,” said Mr Halgrove, with a smile which belied the anger he felt at the refusal; “rather than that I’ll keep the money. I have no wish to commit a murder. It’s not in my line. That’s one point in which you and I differ, isn’t it?”
Jeffreys made as though he would spring upon him. What was it checked him? Was it the solemn minster—was it a dread of his guardian’s superior strength—was it fear of punishment? Or was it a momentary glimpse of a pale face in a moonlit room far away, which took the spirit out of him and made his arm drop at his side?
“Well, I won’t keep you,” said Mr Halgrove, who had also for a moment looked uneasy. “I dare say you are in a hurry like myself. The fact is, I am going a trip to America next week and have a good deal to attend to. That makes me doubly glad to have met you. Good-bye, my dear boy, good-bye. Come, Julius.”
Julius as he slunk off at his master’s heels, and heard the smothered oath which escaped Mr Halgrove’s lips as soon as he found himself alone, looked round wistfully and pitifully, and wished he were allowed to go where he pleased.
Jeffreys walked on like a man in a dream. For six months he had been working out what had been to him a penance, hoping to live down his bad name, even if he could never win a good.
But now in a moment it seemed as if the labour of those patient months had been dashed to the ground, and his guardian’s bitter words branded themselves on his heart as he paced on out of the shadow of the noble minster into the dusk of the city.
Trimble, nearly bursting with excitement—for he had overheard all the latter part of the conversation—crept after him. What a time he was having!
Jeffreys bent his steps almost aimlessly out of the city into the country beyond. It was only half-past seven, and Teddy and Freddy were expecting him. He had not the heart to fail them, though he would gladly have remained solitary that evening. The Roshers lived in a small cottage some distance down the lane in which six months ago Jeffreys had first encountered the sunshine of their presence. How long ago it seemed now! Ah! that was the very bank on which he sat; and there beyond was the railway embankment at which the navvies were working, now finished and with the grass growing up its sides.
Trimble’s little heart jumped to his mouth as he saw the man he was following stop abruptly and begin to climb the bank. He was too close behind to be able to turn back. All he could do was to crouch down in the ditch and “lie low.” He heard Jeffreys as he gained the top of the bank sigh wearily; then he seemed to be moving as if in search of a particular spot; and then the lurker’s hair stood on end as he heard the words, hoarsely spoken,—
“It was this very place.”
What a day Jonah was having! After a quarter of an hour’s pause, during which the patient Jonah got nearly soaked to the skin in his watery hiding-place, Jeffreys roused himself and descended into the lane. Any one less abstracted could not have failed to detect the scared face of the spy shining out like a white rag from the hedge. But Jeffreys heeded nothing and strode on to Ash Cottage.
Long before he got there, Freddy and Teddy, who had been on the look-out for him for an hour, scampered down to meet him.
“Hurrah, Jeff!” shouted Teddy (I grieve to say that these irreverent brethren had long ago fallen into the scandalous habit of calling their teacher by a familiar contraction of his proper name, nor had the master rebuked them). “Hurrah, Jeff! we were afraid you weren’t coming.”
“The tricycle won’t go,” said Freddy; “we’ve pulled it all to bits, and tried to make it right with a hammer, but it’s very bad.”
“It’s glorious you’ve come to do it. Isn’t Jeff a brick, Teddy?”
“Rather—and, oh, did you bring any oil? We used all ours up.”
“We’ve got a screw-driver, though!” said Freddy.
“And lots of string!” shouted Teddy.
“You are a brick to come and do it,” shouted both.
Where in the world is there a tonic equal to the laugh of a light-hearted grateful little boy? How could Jeffreys help forgetting his trouble for a time and devoting himself heart and soul to the business of that tricycle? Trimble, as he dodged along after them perplexed and puffing, could hardly believe his eyes as he saw his morose colleague suddenly throw off the burden that was on him and become gay.
“Come along, little chaps—let’s see what we can do,” said Jeffreys, as the three strode out to the cottage. “Where is he?”
“In the shed. We’ve got a candle.”
Trimble saw them disappear into the garden, and, guided by their cheery voices, soon discovered the back of the shed in which the momentous surgical operation was to take place. It backed on the road, and might have been built for Trimble’s purpose. For the woodwork abounded in most convenient cracks, through which a spy might peep and listen luxuriously. What a day Jonah was having!
The Roshers conducted their friend into the place like anxious relatives who conduct a physician into a sick-chamber. The poor patient lay on the floor in a very bad way. Two wheels were off, the axle was bent, the wire spokes were twisted, the saddle was off, and the brake was all over the place.
Jeffreys shook his head and looked grave.
“It’s a bad job,” said he.
“You see, we were giving mother a ride on it, and she’s too heavy—especially going downhill. She thought we were holding it, but it got away. We yelled to her to put on the brake, but she didn’t, and it went bang into the wall.”
“And your mother?” inquired Jeffreys, somewhat anxiously.
“Oh, her face is much better now. The doctor says there’ll be hardly any marks left after all.”
It was a long business putting the unlucky tricycle in order. Jeffreys was not a mechanic. All he could do was to put the parts together in a makeshift way, and by straightening some of the bent parts and greasing some of the stiff parts restore the iron horse into a gloomy semblance of his old self.
The boys were as grateful and delighted as if he had constructed a new machine out of space; and when at last a trial trip demonstrated that at any rate the wheels would go round and the saddle would carry them, their hearts overflowed.
“You are a real brick, Jeff,” said Teddy; “I wish I could give you a hundred pounds!”
“I don’t want a hundred pounds,” said Jeffreys, with a smile; “if you and Freddy and I are good friends, that’s worth a lot more to me.”
“Why?” demanded Freddy; “are we the only friends you’ve got?”
Jeffreys looked out of the window and said,—
“Not quite—I’ve got one more.”
“Who—God?” asked the boy naturally.
Poor Jeffreys! He sometimes forgot that Friend, and it startled and humbled him to hear the little fellow’s simple question.
“Of course, he’s got Him,” interposed Teddy, without giving him time to reply. “But who else, Jeff?”
“I saw him not long ago,” said Jeffreys. “His name’s Julius.”
“You don’t like him more than us, do you?” asked Teddy rather anxiously.
“Not a quarter as much, old chap,” said Jeffreys.
There was a pause, during which Trimble chuckled to think how little the speaker guessed into whose ears he was betraying the name of his villainous accomplice! Presently, however, he started to hear the sound of his own name.
“Jeff,” said Teddy, “isn’t Mr Trimble a beast?”
“Let’s talk about something pleasant,” suggested Jeffreys, by way of begging the question.
“Let’s talk about hanging him; that would be pleasant,” said Teddy.
“Would you be sorry if he was dead?” demanded Teddy, in his matter-of-fact way. “I say, Jeff, wouldn’t it be jolly if we could kill everybody we hated?”
“Wouldn’t it be jolly if every little boy who talked like a little donkey were to have his ears boxed?” said Jeffreys.
“I wish he’d been on the tricycle instead of mother,” continued Teddy, with a sigh of content at the bare idea.
“Teddy, you are not as nice a little boy as I thought when you talk like that,” said Jeffreys. “Come and let’s have one more turn on the machine, and then I must hurry back, or Mrs Trimble will think I’m lost.”
Jeffreys got back to Galloway House about ten o’clock, and found Jonah sitting up for him.
“So you have come back,” said that individual pompously. “I hope you’ve enjoyed your evening out.”
“Yes,” said Jeffreys, “pretty well.”
“Oh!” said Jonah to himself, as he went up to bed, bursting with excitement. “If he only knew what I know! Let me see—”
And then he went over in his mind the events of that wonderful evening, the visit to the post-office and the horrified look as he came out letter in hand; the mysterious conference with the bookseller, doubtless over this very letter. And how artfully he had been pretending to look at the books outside till he saw no one was looking! Then, the secret meeting with his accomplice in the minster yard—Mr Julius, yes, that was the name he had himself told the boys—and the altercation over the money, doubtless the booty of their crime, and Mr Julius’s denunciation of Jeffreys as a murderer! Whew! Then that lonely country walk, and that search on the bank, and that exclamation, “It was this very place!” Whew! Jonah had tied a bit of his bootlace on the hedge just under the spot, and could find it again within a foot. Then the rencontre with the two boys and the strange, enigmatical talk in the shed, pointing to the plot of a new crime of which he—Trimble—was to be the victim. Ha, ha!—and the business over that tricycle too, in the candle-light. Jonah could see through that. He could put a spoke in a wheel as well as Jeffreys.
Two things were plain. He must get hold of the letter; and he must visit the scene of the crime with a spade! Then—
Jonah sat up half the night thinking of it, till at last the deep breathing of his colleague in the next room reminded him that now at any rate was the time to get the letter. He had seen Jeffreys crush it into his side pocket after leaving the bookseller’s and he had heard him before getting into bed just now hang his coat on the peg behind the door. And it was hot, and the door was open.
What a day Jonah was having!
Fortune favours the brave. It was a work of two minutes only. The pocket was there at his hand before he had so much as put a foot in the room. And there was the letter—two letters—and not a board creaked or a footstep sounded before he was safe back in his own room with the documentary evidence before him.
There was only one letter after all. The other paper was a rubbishing rigmarole about General Monk and the Parliament 1660. This Jonah tossed contemptuously into the grate. But the other letter, how his flesh crept as he read it! It had no date, and was signed only in initials.
“Dear J. There is no news. I can understand your trouble and remorse, and this uncertainty makes it all the more terrible to you. I know it is vain to say to you, ‘Forget,’ but do not write about poor Forrester’s blood being on your head! Your duty is to live and redeem the past. Let the dead bury their dead, dear fellow, and turn your eyes forward, like a brave man. Yours ever, J.F.”
Do you wonder if Jonah’s blood curdled in his veins—“remorse,” “uncertainty,” “poor Forrester,” “his blood on your head,” eh? “bury your dead”!
Whew! What a day Jonah had had, to be sure!