Chapter Seventeen.
An Official Report.
Scarfe, on the return of the skating party to Wildtree, found himself the hero of the hour. Whether the risk he ran in rescuing his old schoolfellow from his icy bath had been great or small, it had resulted in saving Jeffreys’ life, and that was quite sufficient to make a hero of him. Percy, easily impressed by the daring of any one else, and quite overlooking his own share in the rescue, was loud in his praises.
“How jolly proud you must feel!” said he. “I know I should if I’d saved a fellow’s life. That’s never my luck!”
“You lent a hand,” said Scarfe, with the complacency of one who can afford to be modest.
And, to do Scarfe justice, until he heard himself credited with the lion’s share of the rescue, he had been a little doubtful in his own mind as to how much of it he might justly claim.
“Oh,” said Percy, “a lot I did! You might as well say Raby lent a hand by lending Jeff her shawl.”
“I was the cause of it all,” said Raby. “But you forget dear old Julius; I’m sure he lent a hand.”
“The dog was rather in the way than otherwise,” said Scarfe; “dogs always are on the ice.”
Jeffreys, as he walked silently beside them, could afford to smile at this last remark. But in other respects he found little cause for smiling. He was not yet a purified being, and even the peril he had been in had not cast out the fires of pride and temper that lurked within him.
It now stung him with an unspeakable misery to find that he was supposed to owe his life to one whom he so thoroughly mistrusted and dreaded as Scarfe. He persuaded himself that it was all a delusion—that he could easily have extricated himself without anybody’s aid but that of the faithful Julius; that Scarfe had run absolutely no risk in crawling out to him on the ladder; that, in short, he owed him nothing—if, indeed, he did not owe him resentment for allowing himself to be credited with a service which he had no right to claim.
Ungrateful and unreasonable, you will say, and certainly not betokening a proper spirit in one so recently in great danger. Jeffreys, as he walked moodily along, was neither in a grateful nor reasonable mood, nor did he feel chastened in spirit; and that being so, he was too honest to pretend to be what he was not.
To any one less interested, there was something amusing in the manner in which Scarfe took his new and unexpected glory. At first he seemed to regard it doubtfully, and combated it by one or two modest protestations. Then, becoming more used to the idea, it pleased him to talk a little about the adventure, and encourage the others to recall the scene. After that it seemed natural to him to be a little languid and done-up by his exertions, and, as a hero, to establish a claim on Raby’s admiration. And finally, being quite convinced he was a hero of the first water, he regarded Jeffreys with condescension, and felt a little surprise that he should remain both silent and apparently disdainful.
As Raby was beforehand with her in blaming herself, the wind was taken out of Mrs Rimbolt’s sails in that quarter, even had she been disposed to let out in that direction. But it was so much more convenient and natural to blame Jeffreys, that the good lady was never in a moment’s doubt upon the subject.
“How excessively careless of him!” said she; “the very one of the party, too, whom we expected to keep out of danger. It is a mercy every one of you was not drowned.”
“It’s a mercy he wasn’t drowned himself,” said Percy; “so he would have been if it hadn’t been for Scarfe.”
“It was a very noble thing of Mr Scarfe,” said Mrs Rimbolt. “I’m sure, Louisa, my dear, you must be proud of your boy.”
“He jolly well deserves a Royal Humane medal, and I mean to write and get him one.”
“Don’t be a young duffer,” said the hero, by no means displeased at the threat; “they would laugh at the notion.”
“Would they? If they didn’t give you one, we’d make them laugh on the wrong side of their faces. I know that,” replied the boy.
“You know, auntie, it was I broke the ice,” said Raby. “Mr Jeffreys did not come to that part till he heard it crack.”
“That is the ridiculously foolish part of it; he might have known that he ought to keep off when he heard it crack. Any sensible person would.”
“Perhaps,” said Raby, colouring, “he imagined I was in danger.”
“You are a foolish child, Raby, to talk such nonsense, and should be thankful it was not you who fell in. I hope, Mr Scarfe,” added she, “that Mr Jeffreys is grateful to you for your heroic service to him.”
“There is nothing to be grateful for,” said Scarfe, in an off-hand way; “indeed, I am afraid Jeffreys is rather offended with me for what I have done than otherwise.”
“He could not be so base, my boy,” said his mother, “when he owes you his life.”
“After all,” said Scarfe, with interesting resignation, “it really does not matter. All I know is, if it were all to happen over again I should do just the same thing.”
With which noble sentiment the hero was borne off to his room, where a hot bath, warm clothing, a rousing fire, and steaming cordials somewhat consoled him for his self-sacrificing exertions.
After dinner Mrs Rimbolt could not resist the gratification of seeing honour done to her guest by the object of his devotion; a project which was the more easy of accomplishment as Mr Rimbolt was from home on that particular evening.
Jeffreys, just beginning to recover himself by the aid of a little hard work, was petrified by Walker’s announcement that “the mistress desired that Mr Jeffreys would step into the drawing-room.”
His good breeding was sorely taxed to find an excuse. He was indisposed, certainly; but if he could work in the library, he could bow and scrape in the drawing-room. Mr Rimbolt, too, was away, and to insult his lady in his absence seemed both cowardly and mean.
“I’ll come presently,” said he to Walker, and nerved himself desperately for the ordeal.
For he knew what was coming, and was resolved on the part he would play. Whatever he ought to feel, he knew exactly what he did feel; and he was determined he would not be hypocrite enough to pretend anything more.
Whereupon he walked defiantly forth and opened the drawing-room door, this time without knocking.
“Mr Jeffreys,” said Mrs Rimbolt, feeling that the present was an “occasion,” and worked up accordingly, “I have sent for you, as I have no doubt you will wish to express to Mrs Scarfe the feelings you entertain with regard to her son’s brave conduct on the ice to-day.”
“Hear, hear, ma!” cried the irreverent Percy, with mock-heroic applause. “I beg leave to second that.”
“Percy, be silent, sir! Louisa, my dear, this is Mr Jeffreys, whose life your son saved.”
Mrs Scarfe put up her glasses and inclined her head languidly in response to Jeffreys’ stiff bow.
An awkward silence ensued—so awkward that Percy began to whistle. Mrs Rimbolt having made a wrong start, had not the tact to mend matters.
“Mrs Scarfe would be interested to hear, Mr Jeffreys,” said she, after a minute or two, “your impressions of the accident.”
“The only impression I had,” said Jeffreys solemnly—and he too was worked up, and the master of his nervousness—“was that the water was very cold.”
Percy greeted this with a boisterous laugh, which his mother instantly rebuked.
“Surely, Mr Jeffreys,” said she severely, “this is hardly an occasion for a joke.”
“It was no joke,” replied he with dismal emphasis.
Again Percy enjoyed the sport.
“I should rather think it wasn’t by the looks of you when you were fished out!” said he; “you were as blue as salmon!”
“Percy, cease your vulgar talk in this room, please!” said Mrs Rimbolt, whose equanimity was beginning to evaporate. “Mr Jeffreys, as we are not likely to be amused by your levity—”
“Excuse me, madam, I am quite serious,” said Jeffreys, on whom the apparent jocularity of his last remark had suddenly dawned; “I had no intention of being rude, or treating your question as a joke.”
“Then,” said Mrs Rimbolt, slightly appeased in the prospect of gaining her object, “when I tell you Mrs Scarfe is kind enough to desire to hear about the accident from your own lips, perhaps your good manners will permit you to tell her about it.”
“Get upon the chair and give us a speech, Jeff,” said the irrepressible Percy; “that’s what ma wants.”
Jeffreys proceeded to give his version of the affair, distributing the credit of his rescue in the order in which he considered it to be due, and greatly disappointing both Mrs Rimbolt and her guest by his evident blindness to the heroism of Scarfe. He acknowledged warmly Percy’s readiness to come to his help, and his promptitude in going for the ladder, and he did full justice to Julius’s share in the affair. As to Scarfe’s part, he stated just what had happened, without emotion and without effusiveness.
He despised himself for feeling so chilly on the subject, and would have been glad, for Mrs Scarfe’s sake, had he felt more warmly his obligations to her son. But he spoke as he felt.
“You have had a narrow escape from a watery grave,” said Mrs Scarfe, anxious to sum up in the hero’s favour, “and my son, I am sure, is thankful to have been the means of saving your life.”
Jeffreys bowed.
“I am glad he escaped falling in,” said he.
“He had no thought of himself, I am sure,” said Mrs Rimbolt severely, “and claims no thanks beyond that of his good conscience.”
“We’re going to get him a Royal Humane medal, Jeff,” added Percy; “a lot of fellows get it for a good deal less.”
“I hope he may get one,” said Jeffreys. “You and Julius should have one, too. I thank you all.”
This was all that could be extracted from this graceless young man, and the unsatisfactory interview was shortly afterwards terminated by Mrs Rimbolt’s requesting him to go and tell Walker to bring some more coals for the fire.
His conduct was freely discussed when he was gone. Mrs Rimbolt looked upon it as a slight put upon herself, and was proportionately wrathful. Mrs Scarfe, more amiable, imagined that it was useless to look for gratitude among persons of Jeffreys’ class in life. Scarfe himself said that, from what he knew of Jeffreys, he would have been surprised had he shown himself possessed of any good feelings. Percy, considerably puzzled, suggested that he was “chawed up with his ducking.” And Raby, still more perplexed, said nothing, and hardly knew what to think.
The next day, as Scarfe was smoking in the park, Jeffreys overtook him. A night’s rest had a good deal softened the librarian’s spirit. He was ashamed of himself for not having done his rescuer common justice, and had followed him now to tell him as much.
“Scarfe,” said he, “you will have considered I was ungrateful yesterday.”
“You were just what I expected you would be.”
“I am sorry,” said Jeffreys, now beginning to feel he had better far have said nothing, yet resolved, now he had begun, to go through with it, “and I wish to thank you now.”
Scarfe laughed.
“It is I who should be grateful for this condescension,” said he sneeringly. “So disinterested, too.”
“What do you mean? How could it be otherwise?”
“You have a short memory, Cad Jeffreys. Possibly you have forgotten a little event that happened at Bolsover?”
“I have not forgotten it.”
“I dare say you have not thought it worth while to mention it to your employer, Mr Rimbolt.”
“I have not mentioned it.”
“Quite so. That is what I mean when I say it is disinterested in you to come and make friends with me.”
“That is false,” said Jeffreys glowing. “I neither want nor expect that.”
“Kind again. At the same time you are not particularly anxious that people here should hear the tragical history of young Forrester?”
“For heaven’s sake be silent, Scarfe!” said Jeffreys, to whom the mention of the name, after so many months, came like a blow. “I cannot bear it.”
Scarfe laughed.
“Apparently not. All I want to say is, that I believe less in your gratitude than in your fear, and you can spare yourself the trouble of keeping up that farce.”
“I am not afraid of you,” said Jeffreys, drawing himself up. “Of my own conscience I am; and of the memory of poor young Forrester—”
“Hold your tongue. I have no wish to hear my friend’s name on your lips.”
Jeffreys turned to go.
“Look here,” said Scarfe, calling him back, “I want to say one word. I am sufficiently interested in Percy Rimbolt to dislike the influence you use upon him. Your influence upon young boys is not to be trusted, and I warn you to let Percy alone. You are doing him no good as it is.”
“Is that all you want to say?” said Jeffreys. “No. I have my own reason for choosing that you cease to offend Miss Atherton by your attentions. You are no fit companion for her; and she and I—”
Jeffreys turned on his heel, and did not hear the end of the sentence. He marvelled at himself that he had not struck the fellow contemptuously to the ground; and he absolutely smiled in the midst of his misery at the idea of Scarfe taking upon himself the moral upbringing of Percy and the protector-ship of Raby! In the midst of these reflections he became aware of the presence of Raby in the walk in front of him.
The rencontre was unexpected on both sides, and promised to be embarrassing for Jeffreys. Raby, however, came to the rescue.
“Mr Jeffreys,” said she, holding out her hand, “I do hope you are none the worse for yesterday. I was greatly afraid you would catch cold.”
“You took the kindest possible way of preventing it,” said Jeffreys. “I never enjoyed a meal as much as the one Walker brought me yesterday, and I thank the kind sender.”
Raby blushed.
“It was a shame no one else thought of it. But, Mr Jeffreys, you are thanking me, when it is I who ought to thank you for risking your life for me.”
“That is a new version of the story,” said Jeffreys. “It was somebody else who risked his life for me, and I know you despise me for appearing so churlish about it.”
“I was very sorry indeed for you in the drawing-room last night.”
“I deserved no sympathy.”
“I fancied you might have gushed a little when you saw how much auntie’s heart and Mrs Scarfe’s were set on it. It would not have hurt you.”
“I cannot gush, Miss Atherton; but I can value your kindness to me, and I do.”
Raby smiled one of her pleasantest smiles.
“I wish I had half your honesty, Mr Jeffreys. I am always pretending to be something here which I am not, and I get sick of it. I wish I were a man.”
“Why? Is honesty confined to the male sex?”
“No; I suppose we can be honest too. But if I was a man I could go and be of some use somewhere; I’m no good to anybody here.”
Jeffreys coloured up furiously, and looked as if he would run from the spot. Then, apparently thinking better of it, he looked down at her and said—
“Excuse me, you are.”
They walked on a little in silence, then Raby said—
“I am so glad, Mr Jeffreys, you managed Percy so well about that smoking yesterday; and how well he took it!”
“Of course; he’s a gentleman and a fine fellow.”
“He forgets how much older Mr Scarfe is than he, and he imagines it is a fine thing to do whatever others do. But I think it is such a pity he should waste so much time as he does now in the billiard-room and over the fire. Don’t you think it is bad for him?”
“I do. The day on the ice yesterday made a new man of him.”
“Do try to coax him out, Mr Jeffreys, you always do him good; and you may be able to pull him up now before he becomes an idler.”
“I promise you I will do what I can.”
“He ought to be my brother, and not my cousin,” said Raby, “I feel so jealous on his account.”
“He is fortunate—may I say so?—in his cousin. Here is Mr Rimbolt.”
Mr Rimbolt had papers in his hand, and looked rather anxious.
Raby, with a daughter’s instinct, rushed to him.
“Uncle, have you news from the war? Is anything wrong?”
“Nothing wrong,” said her uncle reassuringly; “I brought you this paper to see. It reports that there has been an encounter with the Afghans near Kandahar, with complete success on the British side and comparatively trifling loss. Particulars are expected almost immediately. I telegraphed to town to get the earliest possible details. Meanwhile, Raby, don’t alarm yourself unduly.”
“I won’t, uncle; but where exactly was the battle?”
“You will see the names mentioned in the telegram. Jeffreys can show you the exact spot in the atlas; we were looking at it the other evening.”
Jeffreys thankfully accepted the task. He and Raby spent an hour over the map, talking of the absent soldier, and trying, the one to conceal, the other to allay, the anxiety which the incomplete telegram had aroused.
At the end of the hour Scarfe walked into the library. His face darkened as he saw the two who sat there.
“Miss Atherton,” said he, looking not at her, but at Jeffreys, “have you forgotten we were to have a ride this morning?”
“I am so sorry, Mr Scarfe, but I have a headache, and don’t feel as if I could ride to-day. You will excuse me, won’t you?”
“Oh, certainly,” replied Scarfe; “don’t you think a turn in the park will do you good? May I have the pleasure of escorting you?”
Raby said, “Thank you.” She was very sorry to disappoint any one, and had no valid excuse against a walk.
“Miss Atherton,” said Scarfe, when they had gone some distance, chatting on indifferent topics, “I am anxious just to say a word to you, not in my own interest at all, but your own. Will you forgive me if I do?”
“What is it?” said Raby, mystified.
“I wish to put you on your guard against Jeffreys, who, I see, presumes on his position here to annoy you. You may not perhaps know, Miss Atherton, that not two years ago—”
“Excuse me, Mr Scarfe,” said Raby quietly, stopping in her walk, “I hate talking of people behind their backs. Mr Jeffreys has never annoyed me; he has been kind to me. Shall we talk of something else?”
“Certainly,” said Scarfe, startled at her decided tone. He had laid his plan for a little revelation, and it disconcerted him to see it knocked on the head like this.
However, just then he was not in the humour for making himself obnoxious to Miss Atherton, of whom, being a susceptible youth, he was decidedly enamoured. It was a deprivation, certainly, to find his tongue thus unexpectedly tied with regard to Jeffreys, of whose stay at Wildtree he had calculated on making very short work.
The one comfort was, that there was little enough danger of her seeing in the ill-favoured Bolsover cad anything which need make him—Scarfe—jealous. Doubtless she took a romantic interest in this librarian; many girls have whims of that sort. But the idea of her preferring him to the smart Oxford hero was preposterous.
Jeffreys would still believe in the sword of Damocles which hung above him, and the time might come when Raby would cease to stand between him and his Nemesis.