Jim pulled himself together. “I was frighted, lad,—feared to think of what you might mean. ‘Beggars!’ Surely not ‘beggars’!”
Austin laughed roughly. Child as he was, the trouble which had overtaken him, and the way in which it had been met, had affected him strongly.
“Well, Mater says so: and I suppose she knows. Jim, I’ll ride round to the shed and fasten up Rough first of all.”
“I’ll come with you,” said the other briefly; and they made the short journey in silence. When the pony had been safely tethered, Austin caught Jim by the arm and dragged him off.
“Not indoors!” said the boy impatiently. “I feel choked already. Let’s go to the orchard. Oh, how jolly quiet and cool it is here! At home—.”
Austin paused, and held his tongue perseveringly until the brothers had gained a favourite retreat in the pleasantest nook among the old apple-trees. Jim, even then, forbore to question, guessing that his young brother’s nerves were strung to a pitch which would not bear further tension. With considerate kindness the elder lad forced back, out of sight, his own fears and forebodings.
Austin threw himself on the ground with a long-drawn breath of relief. The calm of his surroundings and the friendly presence of his brother brought a happy sense of protection to the overwrought lad.
“Now I’ll tell everything,” he said, drawing near to Jim, who immediately put an arm about him. “Only I can’t explain very well, because I don’t half understand myself. It was this morning it happened. A man came from London to see Mamma; so he was taken to the library, and she went there to speak to him. The library has a French window opening on to the lawn, and Frances and I were sitting together in the garden, quite near the library window. We could hear Mamma and the man talking, but not well enough to know what they were saying, so we did not think we need move away. Presently we did hear something: we heard Mamma say plainly, in a queer, high voice, ‘Then I and my children are paupers!’ Frances jumped up, and so did I; and we both ran to the library window. It wasn’t what Mamma had said; it was the way she spoke. Jim, it would have scared you. Just as we got to the house we heard a sort of cry. Well, we pushed open the window in a jiffey; and there was Mamma, lying all of a heap in her chair, and the strange man standing beside her, looking frightened out of his wits. And he said to us: ‘I’ve brought your mother bad news, but I couldn’t help it; I’ve nothing to do with the matter. The governor sent me down from town to tell her, because he thought it would come easier that way than in a letter or a telegram.’ Of course we didn’t know what he meant, and we didn’t much mind, we were so awfully scared about Mater.”
“Madam had fainted?” questioned Jim in a low voice.
“Yes. We called her maid, and brought her round; while the man vanished into the garden, saying he’d stay there a while in case he was wanted again. I’d have told him to cut back to his precious ‘governor’, only Frances wouldn’t let me. And as soon as Mamma could speak she asked for the London man, and in he came. I must say he looked sorry; and he didn’t seem to like it when Mamma said she wished him to tell Frances and me exactly what he had told her. Then—oh, Jim! I can’t remember half his long speech. It was all about deeds, and securities, and fraudulent trustees, and creditors. There was a man who had charge of all our money—Mamma’s and Frances’s and mine,—and was to manage for us till I was twenty-one. Papa had made him ‘trustee’. He had always given Mamma plenty of money for everything she needed, and she had never thought anything was wrong. But a while ago he wanted to make more money for himself; and first he used only what was his own, and lost it; then he began to use ours, and lost that. When nearly all ours was lost, and he knew he must soon be found out, he managed to get hold of what was left of Papa’s money, and then he ran away. So he has gone; and we shall never find him, or get back what he stole.”