“Will you trust me with the one and elevenpence,” asked the child, “because you’re a gentleman and I’m another?”
“’Pon my word, I begin to think you are a gentleman,” said the Squire. “Here’s your money. Take three shillings, you had better—you’ll want something to eat on the way.”
“Thank you very much,” said Piers. He took off his ragged cap, made a graceful bow to the gentleman, and then bounded into the station.
“Queer little chap! Wonder what it means?” said the Squire to himself. “Looked like a gentleman although dressed as a beggar. I am not sorry I did it, no, I’m not sorry. I’ll never see that money again, of course, but all the same, I’m not sorry I did it.”
Meanwhile little Piers, having taken his ticket, waited eagerly for the train. It came up in due course. He took his seat in an empty carriage and soon found himself in the old familiar landmarks. He felt quite happy now and his heart light. It was delightful to be so near home again.
When the train drew up at Haversham he got out and walked steadily in the direction of Pelham Towers. On his way he passed a cottage where bread and milk were sold. He went in and proudly paid for his own breakfast. By and by he reached the avenue. He saw the lodge gates, but now as he saw them he began to tremble, for it suddenly occurred to him that after all his secret still belonged to Clara, and that he had faithfully promised her not to reveal it.
“I know that short cut just where the gap in the hedge is,” thought the child. “I’ll not go round by the lodge, for some one might see me. I’ll push my way through the gap.”
He did so, and the next moment he was running down a side path which led straight to the chapel. The chapel door was open and Piers walked in. It was cold in the chapel, but he was hot with walking. He took off his cap, pushed back his curls, and seated himself in the family pew. He had often sat there with his mother, and he felt quite comfortable and soothed and happy. No one was likely to come to disturb him. He could think what his next step should be—how he could gratify his longing, his passionate longing to see his mother and Barbara, and the old place, and yet keep his secret.
Presently he started up, raised his eyes, and confronted the white tablet which recounted his own early death. He read it eagerly.
“What does it mean?” he said to himself. “Piers Pelham, aged seven, died. Died! But I have not died. Piers Pelham! There never was any other Piers Pelham, aged seven, but me, and that white stone looks new, and there’s a verse under it. I died last summer—last August. But I didn’t die. I’m here. What does it mean? I don’t like it,” thought little Piers.