Chapter Twenty Six.
Hide and Seek.
Percy was in considerable difficulty as to the ceremonies to be observed in welcoming his family home. For he had no notion of leaving the house in possession of his suspicious uncle while he went down to the station. Nor could he bear the idea of not being at the station to meet them. So he compromised matters by taking his complaisant relative with him, much to that gentleman’s amusement.
It relieved him considerably, when the train arrived, to see that his mother recognised the stranger, though not effusively, as her veritable brother. He was thus able to devote his whole attention to his other uncle, whom he found considerably more interesting.
Colonel Atherton arrived in high spirits, like a schoolboy home for a holiday. He struck up an alliance with Percy at once, and insisted on taking him off to the apartments near Regent’s Park which were to be his and Raby’s home for the next few months. As he was saying good-bye to the Rimbolts, he caught sight for the first time of Mr Halgrove.
“Why, bless me, is that you, Halgrove?” he said. “Why, I’ve worn mourning for you, my boy. This is a bit of sharp practice. Where did you spring from?”
“Perhaps I’m a ghost, after all. So many people have told me lately I’m dead, that I begin to believe it.”
“Never fear. If you were a ghost we should be able to see through you—that’s more than anybody ever did with Halgrove, eh, Rimbolt?”
“Halgrove is coming home with us,” said Mr Rimbolt, “so when you and Raby come to-morrow we can talk over old times.”
“Who would have thought of him turning up?” said the colonel to his daughter as with Percy they drove off in their cab. “Why, I’ve not heard of him since that affair of poor Jeffreys, and—”
“Jeffreys!” exclaimed Percy, with a suddenness that startled the gallant officer; “did you say Jeffreys?”
“Yes, what about him? It was long before your time—a dozen or fourteen years ago.”
“Why, he couldn’t have been more than eight then; what happened to him, uncle, I say?”
The boy asked his question so eagerly and anxiously that it was evident it was not a case of idle curiosity.
“You must be meaning the son; I’m talking about the father. Wait till we get home, my boy, and you shall hear.”
It required all Percy’s patience to wait. The very mention of his friend’s name had excited him. It never occurred to him there were hundreds of Jeffreys in the world, and that his uncle and he might be interested in quite different persons. For him there was but one Jeffreys in the universe, and he jumped at any straw of hope of finding him.
The reader knows all Colonel Atherton was able to tell Percy and Raby—for Raby was not an uninterested listener—of the story of Mr Halgrove’s partner. Percy in turn told what he knew of his Jeffreys; and putting the two stories together, it seemed pretty clear it was a history of parent and son.
Early next morning the colonel was at Clarges Street, seated in the study with his two old college friends.
“Well,” said he, “here’s a case of we three meeting again with a vengeance. And what have you been up to, Halgrove, these twenty years? No good, I’ll be bound.”
“I have at least managed to keep clear of matrimony,” said Mr Halgrove, “which is more than either of you virtuous family men can say.”
“Ah, well,” said the colonel, with a sigh, “that’s not all misfortune—witness my sweet daughter and Rimbolt’s fine boy. What have you got to show against that?”
“Nothing, I confess.”
“By the way, though, haven’t you? The last I heard of you was in the papers; a record of a generous act on your part. You had adopted the son of an unfortunate partner of yours who had died. Is he still with you?”
“No,” said Mr Halgrove; “that turned out an unfortunate speculation in every way.”
“Did the boy bolt?”
“Not exactly. I sent him to a first-rate school, where he distinguished himself in a way of his own by an act of homicide.”
“What?” exclaimed the colonel; and Mr Rimbolt suddenly became attentive.
“Yes. He either quite or very nearly did for a young schoolfellow in a fit of the tantrums, and found it convenient to quit the place rather abruptly.”
“What was the name of the school?” asked Mr Rimbolt quietly.
“Bolsover, in —shire.”
“Singular!” exclaimed the colonel. “I had a chum in India who had a boy at that very school.”
Here the speaker became aware of a sharp kick under the table and a significant look from Mr Rimbolt. The old soldier was used to obey the word of command at a moment’s notice and pulled up now.
“I should think a thing like that would be very bad for the school,” said Mr Rimbolt quietly, and in an off-hand way.
“Fatal,” said Mr Halgrove. “I believe Bolsover went to the dogs after it.”
“And so you had—you had young—what was his name?”
“Jeffreys.”
“Young Jeffreys on your hands?”
“Scarcely. We parted company. As I told him, I never was particular, but a man must draw the line somewhere, and I drew it at manslaughter.”
“What became of him?”
“Well, before I went abroad he was usher in a dame school in York. He may be there still, unless by this time all his pupils are devoured.”
“Very unpleasant business for you,” said Mr Rimbolt.
“And,” asked the colonel, with a wink at his brother-in-law, “did he, like the prodigal, take his portion of goods with him? I mean what his father left him.”
Mr Halgrove for a moment raised his brows uncomfortably.
“No,” said he; “Benjamin Jeffreys was an eccentric man, and invested his money in eccentric securities. His son’s money, like the lad himself, went to the dogs, and left me decidedly out of pocket by my term of guardianship. I really advise neither of you to indulge your philanthropy in adopting somebody else’s sons; it doesn’t pay.”
“Yours certainly was not a lucky experience,” said Mr Rimbolt; “however, when you were last heard of, Fame reported that you could afford to drop a little.”
“Fama volat, and so does money. No one could repeat the libel now with truth. The fact is, this visit to an old college friend is a trifle interested. My journey to the West has turned out badly, and, greatly as I should like it, I could not offer to lend either of you fellows a hundred pounds at this present moment. So I hope you won’t ask me.”
The talk here took a financial turn, and Mrs Rimbolt presently joining the party, she and her brother were left to themselves while Mr Rimbolt and the colonel took a short stroll.
Mr Rimbolt took the opportunity of telling his brother-in-law what he knew, not only of Jeffreys but of young Forrester, and the colonel told him of his obligation to find if possible the child of his dead companion-in-arms.
“It’s a mixed-up business altogether,” said he, “and from all I can judge something of a family matter. My little girl, Rimbolt, whom you’ve been so good to, seems to me more interested in this librarian of yours than she would like any one to suspect—eh?”
“I have fancied so,” said Mr Rimbolt, “sometimes.”
“Pleasant to come home and find everybody in the dumps about some person one has never seen. The sooner the rascal comes to light, the better for everybody and for my holiday. By the way, Rimbolt, that struck me as fishy about Jeffreys’ money, didn’t it you?”
“It did. I had never heard anything about Halgrove having a partner.”
“I had. He went out of his mind and died by his own hand; but from what I knew of Halgrove then, I should say it was he who had a weakness for eccentric speculations. However, the money’s gone; so it’s all the same for young Jeffreys.”
Raby found her life at Regent’s Park very different from that either at Wildtree or Clarges Street. Colonel Atherton was a man who hated ceremony of any kind, and had a great idea of letting everybody do as they chose. Raby consequently found herself her own mistress in a way she had never experienced before. It was not altogether a delightful sensation; for though she loved her father’s companionship and the care of looking after his wants, she often felt the time hang heavy on her hands.
The colonel had a number of old friends to look up, and a great deal of business to do; and Raby, used to company of some sort, found his absences lonely. Percy was often at the house, but he in his present dismal mood was poor company. His one topic was Jeffreys; and that to Raby was the last topic on which she felt drawn to talk to any one.
When, therefore, a neighbour suggested to her one day to give an hour or two a week to visiting the poor of the district, Raby hailed the proposal gladly. It was work she had been used to at Wildtree, and to which she had already had yearnings in London, though Mrs Rimbolt had opposed it.
“Mind? Not a bit,” said her father, when she broached the subject to him, “as long as you don’t get small-pox or get into mischief. I should like to be a denizen of a slum myself, for the pleasure of getting a visit from you.”
And so the girl began her work of charity, spending generally an hour a day, under the direction of her friend, in some of the closely packed alleys near. As she made a point of being home always to welcome her father in the afternoon, her visits were generally paid early in the day, when the men would be away at work and when the chief claimants on her help and pity would be the poor women and children left behind, with sometimes a sick or crippled man unable to help himself. It was often sad, often depressing work. But the brave girl with a heart full of love faced it gladly, and felt herself the happier for it day by day.
It was on an afternoon shortly after this new work had been begun that she was overtaken by a sudden October squall as she was hurrying back through Regent’s Park towards home. The morning had been fine, and she had neither cloak nor umbrella. No cab was within sight; and there was nothing for it but to stand up under a tree till the rain stopped, or walk boldly through it. She was just debating this question with herself when she became aware of an umbrella over her, and a voice at her side saying,—
“This is most fortunate. Miss Atherton. Who would have thought of meeting you here?”
It was Scarfe; and Raby would sooner have met any one else in the world.
“Thank you,” said she, “I shall be quite sheltered under this tree. Don’t let me detain you.”
“Nonsense!” said he; “you know I am delighted to be detained so pleasantly. Won’t you come farther under the trees?”
“No, I must be home, thank you. I don’t want to be late.”
But just then the rain came down in such a deluge that she had nothing for it but to give in and stand up for shelter.
“It seems ages since we met,” began Scarfe.
Raby had a vivid enough recollection of that evening in the conservatory, but did not contradict him.
“I called at Clarges Street last month, hoping to see you, but you were away.”
“Yes, we were abroad—all but Percy.”
“I saw Percy. Poor fellow, he did not seem himself at all. Miss Atherton, you must not blame me if I remind you of something we were talking about when I last saw you—”
“Please don’t, Mr Scarfe; I have no wish to refer to it.”
“But I must. Do you know, Raby, I have thought of no one but you ever since?”
Raby said nothing, and wished the rain would stop.
“Is it too much to ask whether, perhaps once or twice, you have thought of me?”
Raby began to get angry. Was it not cowardly to get her here at a disadvantage and begin to talk to her about what she had no wish to hear?
“Yes—I have thought once or twice of you,” she said.
“How good of you, Raby!” said he, trying to take her hand. “May I hope it was with something more than indifference—with love?”
“Certainly not,” said she, drawing back her hand, and, in spite of the rain, starting to walk.
Bitterly crestfallen, he walked at her side and held his umbrella over her.
“You are harsh with me,” said he reproachfully.
“I am sorry. You should not have provoked me. I asked you not to talk about it.”
“I am afraid, Miss Atherton,” said he, “some one has been prejudicing you against me. Percy, perhaps, has been talking about me.”
Raby walked on without replying.
“Percy is very angry with me for doing what it was only my duty to do as his friend—and yours. He misunderstands me, and, I fear, so do you.”
“I do not misunderstand you at all,” said Raby boldly.
“But I am afraid you do not thank me.”
“No. I have nothing to thank you for.”
“I did my duty, at any rate. I stated the truth, and nothing more, and should have been wrong to allow things to go on without at least trying, for the sake of those for whom I cared, and still care, Miss Atherton, to set them right. Do I understand you blame me for that?”
“Mr Scarfe, you have done a cruel thing to one who never did you harm—and I see nothing to admire in it.”
Scarfe sneered.
“Jeffreys is fortunate in his champion. Perhaps, at least, Miss Atherton, you will do me the credit of remembering that on one occasion your hero owed his life to me. I hope that, too, was not cowardly or cruel.”
“If he had known the ruin you had in store for him, he would not have thanked you.”
Raby spoke with downcast eyes, and neither she nor Scarfe perceived the poor tramp on the path, who, as they brushed past him, glanced wistfully round at their faces.
“He never thanked me,” said Scarfe.
They walked on some distance in silence. Then Scarfe said, “Miss Atherton, you are unfair to me now. You think I acted out of spite, instead of out of affection—for you.”
“It is a kind of affection I don’t appreciate, Mr Scarfe; and as the rain has nearly stopped I need not trouble you any more. Thank you for the shelter, and good-bye.”
“You really mean that you reject me—that you do not care for me?”
“I do not. I am sorry to say so—good-bye.”
And she left him there, bewildered certainly, but in no manner of doubt that she had done with him.
She told her father all about it that evening, and was a good deal reassured by his hearty approval of her conduct.
“The kindest thing you could have done, instead of letting him dangle after you indefinitely. Rough on him, perhaps; but that sort of fellow doesn’t deserve much letting down.”
The reader has heard already how in the course of her visits of mercy Raby happened to find Jonah Trimble very near his end, and how she was able to cheer and lighten his dying hours. Little dreamed she, as she sat by the death-bed that morning, and wrote those few dying words, into whose hands her little letter would fall, or what a spell they would work on the life of him who received them. From the other neighbours she heard not a little about “John,” and sometimes wished she might chance to see him. But he was away from early morning till late at night, and they never met. Mrs Pratt in the room below, and her little dying daughter, had many a tale of kindness and devotion to tell about him; and when presently the little life fled, she heard with grateful tears of his act of mercy to the poor overwrought mother, and thanked God for it.
The time passed on, and one day early in December, when she returned home, she found her father in an unwonted state of excitement.
“There’s a clue, Raby, at last!” he said.
“A clue, father—you mean about young Forrester?”
“About both. It’s the most mixed-up affair I was ever in. Who do you suppose has written in answer to our advertisement about Forrester?”
“Has he replied himself?” asked Raby disingenuously; for she guessed the truth.
“Not a bit of it. The letter’s from Jeffreys. He doesn’t sign his name, of course; but he writes to say that he was at Bolsover, and was responsible for the accident, and repeats what Rimbolt knows already about his trying to hear of them in his native place. There’s nothing very fresh about Forrester; but it may lead to our finding Jeffreys.”
“Of course,” said Raby, finding it hard to conceal her emotion, “he has written to the lawyers. Does he give an address, then?”
“No—only a coffee-house in Drury Lane. He’s evidently on his guard against a trap. He writes private and confidential; but you can see he is ready to do anything to find Forrester.”
“What shall you do?”
“Well, Rimbolt says leave it to the lawyers. Of course we’ve no right to trap him, and Rimbolt thinks Wilkins & Wilkins had better not mention our names, but let him know they are acting for Forrester’s executors. If he’s not scared during the first visit or two, he may consent to see me, or Percy—and among us we may be able to help him out of his present condition, which, to judge by his letter, I should fancy is rather reduced. He has been asked to call at Wilkins’ on Wednesday, and they have promised to treat the matter as confidential—and we shall just have to trust they will manage to talk him round.”