Chapter Twenty Nine.

A Fresh Start.

It is supposed to be the duty of every well-conducted author, after the curtain has fallen on the final tableau of his little drama, to lift it, or half lift it, for a momentary last glimpse at the principal actors.

I am not quite sure whether this is not an encouragement to laziness on the part of the reader. In most respects he is as well able to picture the future of Jeffreys, and Raby, and Percy, and Tim as I am.

I cannot show them to you in all the dignity of an honoured old age, because they are only a year or two older to-day than they were when Percy and Jeffreys took that little run together down to Cumberland. Nor can I show them to you, after the fashion of a fairy tale, “married and living happily ever afterwards,” because when I met Jeffreys in the Strand the other day, he told me that although he had just been appointed to the control of a great public library in the North, it would still be some months, possibly a year, before he would be able to set up house on his own account.

However, he seemed contented on the whole to wait a bit; and in a long talk we had as we walked up and down the Embankment I heard a good many scraps of information which made it possible to satisfy the reader on one or two points about which he may still be anxious.

Jeffreys and Percy stayed at Wildtree for a month, and the time was one of the happiest both of them ever spent. They did nothing exciting. They read some Aristophanes, and added some new “dodge” to their wonderful automatic bookcase. They went up Wild Pike one bright winter’s day and had a glorious view from the top. And on the ledge coming back they sat and rested awhile on a spot they both remembered well. Julius’s grave was not forgotten when they reached the valley below; and the “J” upon the stone which marks the place to this day was their joint work for an hour that afternoon.

As for the books, Jeffreys had sprung towards them on his first arrival as a father springs towards his long-lost family. They were sadly in want of dusting and arranging, as for a month or two no one had been near them. On the floor lay the parcels, just as they had arrived from the sale in Exeter; and altogether Jeffreys had work enough to keep him busy, not for one month only, but for several. He was not sorry to be busy. For amid all the happiness and comforts of his new return to life he had many cares on his mind.

There was Forrester. He had imagined that if he could only find him, all would be right, the past would be cancelled and his bad name would never again trouble him. But as he thought of the helpless cripple, lying there unable to move without assistance, with all his prospects blighted and his very life a burden to him, he began to realise that the past was not cancelled, that he had a life’s debt yet to pay, and a life’s wrong for which, as far as possible, to make amends. But he bravely faced his duty. Forrester’s letters, which came frequently, certainly did not much encourage melancholy reflections.

“I’m in clover here,” the boy wrote about a week after Jeffreys had gone North. “One would think I’d done something awfully fine. My guardian is a trump—and is ever tired of telling me about my father. Do you know I’m to have a pension from a grateful country? What wouldn’t Black Sal say to get hold of me now? What I value quite as much is his sword, which I keep by my couch like a Knight Templar. So mind what you’re up to when you come back.

“Here am I writing about myself, when I know you are longing to hear about (turn over-leaf and hide your blushes)—the babies! They are tip-top. Timothy, ever since I got my sword, has shown great respect for me, and sits on the pillow while I sketch. By the way, do you recognise enclosed portrait? It’s my first attempt at a face—rather a pleasant face too, eh? Oh, about the babies. The young ’un’s cut a tooth. The whole house has been agitated in consequence, and the colonel is as proud as if he’d captured a province. So are we all. They are to go to an orphanage, I believe, in a week or two; but not till you come back and give your parental benediction. My guardian is going to write you all about it. He promises military openings for both when they arrive at the proper age; and Tim is practising already on a drum which she has given him.

“She, by the way, never mentions you, which is an excellent sign, but rather rough on me when I want to talk about you. She occasionally is drawn out to talk about a certain Mr John at Storr Alley; but, as you know, she only knew about him from hearsay. How’s that boy who has got hold of you down in Cumberland? Are he and I to be friends or enemies? Tell him I’m game for either, and give him choice of weapons if the latter. But as long as he lets me see you now and then and treats you well, we may as well be friends. I’m flourishing and awfully in love. Stay away as long as you can; you’re not wanted here. The lady of Clarges Street came to see me yesterday. She sent you really a kind message; so even in that quarter you may yet look for a friend. Good-bye—remember me to that chap. Tim sends his duty; and she when I mentioned I was writing to you and asked if there was any message, did not hear what I said.—G.F.”

There was plenty in this bright letter to give comfort to Jeffreys. He rejoiced humbly in its affectionate tone towards himself. He treasured the portrait. He was gratified at the unenvious references to Percy, and he was relieved at the prospect before his babies.

The part that referred to Raby left him less room for jubilation. Forrester evidently thought, as Percy did, that in that quarter everything was plain sailing. They neither of them realised the gulf between the two, and they neither of them knew of that miserable October afternoon in Regent’s Park. Forrester’s jocular reference to Raby’s silence and reserve seemed to Jeffreys but a confirmation of what he believed to be the truth.

He was to her what any other friend in distress might be, an object of sweet pity and solicitude. But that was all. He had a bad name, and much as she would brave for him to help him, she did not—how could she?—love him.

At the end of a month Mr Rimbolt wrote to say he was coming down to Wildtree, and would be glad if Percy and Jeffreys would meet him with the carriage at Overstone.

They did so, and found that he was not alone. Mr Halgrove stepped pleasantly out of the train at the same time and greeted his quondam ward with characteristic ease.

“Ah, Jeffreys—here we are again. I’m always meeting you at odd places. How fresh everything looks after the rain!”

“Mr Halgrove is my brother-in-law, you know, Jeffreys,” said Mr Rimbolt, in response to his librarian’s blank look of consternation. “I brought him down, as he wanted to see you and have a talk. If you two would like to walk,” added he, “Percy and I will drive on, and have dinner ready by the time you arrive.”

“Good-hearted fellow, Rimbolt,” said Mr Halgrove, as they started to walk, “he always was. That’s Wild Pike, I suppose?”

“Yes,” said Jeffreys, greatly puzzled at this unexpected meeting.

“Yes, Rimbolt’s a good fellow; and doesn’t mind telling bad fellows that they aren’t. You’ll smile, Jeffreys; but he has actually made me uncomfortable sometimes.”

“Really?” said Jeffreys, thinking it must have been some very remarkable effort which succeeded in accomplishing, that wonder.

“Yes. I told him once casually about an unpleasant ward I once had, whom I rather disliked. I thought he would sympathise with me when I related how delicately I had got rid of him and sent him adrift when it did not suit me to keep him any longer. Would you believe it, Rimbolt wasn’t at all sympathetic, but asked what had become of my ward’s money! Do take warning, Jeffreys, and avoid the bad habit of asking inconvenient questions. You have no idea of the pain they may cause. Mr Rimbolt’s question pained me excessively. Because my ward’s money, like himself, had gone to the bad. That would not have been of much consequence, were it not that I was responsible for its going to the bad. It was most inconvenient altogether, I assure you. It made me feel as if I had behaved not quite well in the matter; and you know how depressing such a feeling would be. Still more inconvenient at the time when I had this talk with Rimbolt about six months ago, I had just come back from America with my finances in not at all a flourishing condition, so that if even I had been disposed to refund my ward, I could not have done it. Happily he was lost. It was an immense relief to me, I can assure you.

“Two months ago my finances looked up. I had news that some of my Yankee speculations were turning out well, and I unexpectedly found myself a man of means again. Rimbolt, who certainly has the knack of making ill-timed suggestions, proposed that that would be a good opportunity for making good what properly belonged to my ward. I urged in vain that my ward was lost, and that the money properly belonged to me as a reward for the trouble I had had in the matter. He actually insisted that I should deposit with him, as trustee for my ward, the full amount of what belonged to him, with interest added to date, promising if by any unfortunate accident the fellow should be found, to see it came into his hands. One’s obliged to humour Rimbolt, so I did what he wanted, and that’s how it stands. If ever this unprofitable ward turns up, he’d better keep his eye on Rimbolt.

“There, you see, Jeffreys, that’s just a little anecdote to show you how easy it is, by being inconsiderate, for one person to make another uncomfortable. But now tell me how you like Cumberland. You must be quite a mountaineer by this time.”

Jeffreys admitted he was pretty good, and had the tact to suit his humour to that of his guardian, and not refer further to the lost ward or his money.

Mr Halgrove stayed two days, and then departed for the Great West, where it is possible he may to-day carry a lighter heart about with him for his latest act of reparation.

Before the trio at Wildtree returned to London, Jeffreys, greatly to Percy’s terror, asked leave to go for two days to York. The boy seemed still not quite sure that he had got back his friend for good, and highly disapproved now of putting the temptation to “bolt again,” as he called it, in his way. However, Jeffreys “entered into recognisances” to come back, and even offered to take Percy with him on his journey. The offer was not accepted, for Percy knew Jeffreys would sooner go alone. But it allayed the boy’s uneasiness.

Jeffreys had much trouble to discover Mrs Trimble. Galloway House was still an educational establishment, but its present conductor knew nothing of the lady whose “goodwill and connection” he had purchased so cheaply two years ago.

Finally Jeffreys decided to call at Ash Cottage. The walk up that familiar lane recalled many a strange memory. The bank whereon he had sat that eventful early morning was unchanged, and had lost all traces of Jonah’s excavations. The railway embankment he had half thought of helping to construct was already overgrown with grass, and thundered under the weight of trains every few minutes.

Ash Cottage had not changed a plank or a tile since he last saw it. There were the same cracks in the wall of the shed, the same bushes on either side of the gate—nay, he was sure those wisps of hay clinging to the branches of the holly had been there two years ago.

As he walked somewhat doubtfully towards the house—for he could hardly forget under what circumstances he had last seen Farmer Rosher—he heard a boy’s shout behind him, and looking round, perceived Freddy and Teddy giving chase.

“It is Jeff!” shouted Freddy. “I knew him a mile away.”

“I saw him first. We knew you’d come back, Jeff; huzzah!”

“That tricycle wants looking to awful bad. Our feet touch the ground on it now, Jeff.”

“Come on to the shed, I say, and put it right. How brickish of you to come back, Jeff!”

A long afternoon the happy Jeff spent over that intractable tricycle. It was past all repair; but no feat of engineering was ever applauded as were the one or two touches by which he contrived to make it stand upright and bear the weight of a boy. Before the work was over Farmer Rosher had joined them, well pleased at his boys’ delight.

“Thee’s paid oop for thy sin, lad,” said he. “I did thee and the lads more harm than I meant; but thee’s a home here whenever thee likes, to make up for it; and come away and see the missus and have a drop of tea.”

From the farmer, who may have had good reason for knowing, Jeffreys learned that Mrs Trimble was comfortably quartered in an almshouse; and there, next morning—for there was do escaping from Ash Cottage that night—he found her, and soothed her with the news he had to tell of her poor prodigal.

“Well, well,” she said, “God is merciful; and He will reward you, John, as He had pity on the lad. And now will you be sure and take a mother’s blessing to the sweet lady, and tell her if she ever wants to make an old woman happy, he has only to come here, and let me see her and kiss her for what she has done for me and mine?”

That message he delivered a week later as he walked with Raby one afternoon in Regent’s Park. It was not exactly a chance walk. They had both been up to the orphanage at Hampstead with the reluctant Tim and his brother, to leave them there in good motherly hands till the troubles of infancy should be safely passed.

It was Tim who had insisted on having the escort of both his natural guardians on the occasion; and at such a time and on such an errand Tim’s word was law. So they had gone all four in a cab, and now Raby and Jeffreys returned, and with a sense of bereavement, through the Park.

“I will certainly go and see Mrs Trimble when next I am North,” said Raby, “though I wish I deserved half her gratitude.”

“You deserve it all. You were an angel of light to that poor fellow.”

They walked on some way in silence. Then she said—

“Storr Alley is so different now, Mr Jeffreys. A family of seven is in your garret. You would hardly know the place.”

“It would be strange indeed if I did not, for I too saw light there.”

“How wonderful it all was!” said Raby.

“When Jonah was telling me about his good protector, John, how little I dreamed it was you!”

“And when you wrote this little letter,” said he, showing her the precious scrap of paper, “how little you dreamed who would bless you for it!”

“The blessing belonged, did it not, to Him Who has been leading us all, in mercy, in His own way?”

Again they walked in silence.

Was it accident, or what, which brought them, without knowing it, to a spot which to each was full of painful memories?

Raby was the first to stop abruptly.

“Let us go another way, Mr Jeffreys, if you don’t mind. I don’t like this avenue.”

“No more do I,” said Jeffreys, who had stopped too.

“Why?” she asked.

“Need I say?”

“Not if you don’t like.”

“I have not walked down here since an afternoon last October. There was a sudden storm of rain—”

“What! Were you here then?”

“I was. You did not see me.”

“You saw me then. I was with Mr Scarfe.”

“Yes. You were—”

“Miserable and angry,” said she, her face kindling at the recollection.

He darted one glance at her, as brief as that he had darted on the afternoon of which they spoke.

Then, he had read nothing but despair for himself; now, though her eyes were downcast and her voice angry, he thought he read hope.

“Suppose,” said he, in a little while, “instead of running away from the path, we just walk down it together. Would you mind? Are you afraid?”

“No,” she said, smiling. And they walked on.

The End.