Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
JANET AND THE BROKER. Frontispiece.
JANET'S BOYS.
BY
ANNETTE LYSTER,
AUTHOR OF
"A LEAL LIGHT HEART," "NORTH WIND AND SUNSHINE,"
"THE PIANO IN THE ATTIC," "MIDSHIPMAN ARCHIE," ETC.
ILLUSTRATED BY W. S. STACEY.
PUBLISHED UNDER THE DIRECTION OF THE GENERAL LITERATURE
COMMITTEE.
LONDON:
SOCIETY FOR PROMOTING CHRISTIAN KNOWLEDGE,
NORTHUMBERLAND AVENUE, W.C.;
43, QUEEN VICTORIA STREET. E.C.
BRIGHTON: 129, NORTH STREET.
NEW YORK: E. S. GORHAM.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER
[VIII. THE BABES IN THE WOOD.]
[X. FRANK'S MESSAGE TO "MUDDIE."]
[XII. FRANK'S MESSAGE REACHES "MUDDIE."]
JANET'S BOYS.
[CHAPTER I.]
INTRODUCTORY.
"FRED," said Mr. Rayburn to his only son, a well-grown handsome lad of seventeen or thereabouts, "don't you think we should be much more comfortable if we had a—if this house had a mistress?"
The speaker was a man of about sixty, but looked so fresh and hearty that one might easily have concluded him to be much younger. The room in which he and his son were sitting was a long, low one, well lighted by three bay windows all on the same side; and though not a pretty room, it used at one time to look homelike and comfortable. The room was the same, and the furniture was the same, but the comfort and the homelike look had vanished.
Ten years before the day on which Mr. Rayburn made this remark to his son, comfort had departed on the death of Mrs. Rayburn, his wife and Fred's mother.
Mr. Rayburn was the manager of Messrs. Hopper and Mason's great brewery in a town called Hemsborough, in the northern part of Staffordshire. He had filled this very responsible post for many years, inhabiting the comfortable apartments over the great gateway of the brewery. He was a very matter-of-fact man, without much sentiment about him, and on getting his good appointment he had married, choosing his wife carefully, with a view to being made comfortable and leading a peaceable life. And his quiet, docile wife had never, in all her uneventful life, had an idea beyond her simple round of womanly duties, which she did to perfection, until her only child was about six years old, when she suddenly took a severe illness and died in a few days. They had been married for many years before Fred was born, and Mr. Rayburn had no idea how to manage the child; so he sent him to school, and got on alone as best he could. Presently the servant trained by his wife married, and another came in her place, not trained by his wife, or, indeed, by any one else.
Still, the poor man existed somehow, nor did any idea of a change suggest itself to him until Fred left school, and got a clerkship in the counting-house, living of course with his father. Judith Ames, the servant, greatly resented the additional trouble thus given her: particularly was she annoyed because Fred, instead of falling into the regular round of habits which his father had adopted, and which made him "such a quiet, dependable master, for what he did one day, he did every day, and so a body knew where to have him." Instead of copying his worthy father in this, Fred ran up and down the stone stairs by which the "Gatehouse" was reached, about a dozen times every evening, and always unexpectedly. Also, he played football and cricket, according to the season; he took long walks, coming home muddy and hungry, giving endless trouble, and demanding food at inconvenient times.
Moreover, he did what his father never did. He popped into the kitchen, surprising Judith and some friends at tea, using the best china and partaking of a much daintier meal than ever found its way into the master's parlour. Fred told his father that Judith was cheating him; he complained of her dirty, untidy ways and her bad cooking, and poor Mr. Rayburn, who had long ceased to be comfortable, now found the other desire of his heart out of the question, for to live at peace was impossible to one member of a family of three when the other two were always quarrelling.
To be the son of two such prosaic people as Mr. Rayburn and his wife, Fred was rather a surprise. He was fond of poetry—even wrote something which he called by that name; he was fond of music, and played the flute a little. But quite enough too. He wished to have everything nice about him, but did not wish to take any trouble about it. He did his work as a clerk fairly well, but he did not like it, nor throw himself into it; he would have preferred to be a great painter, or a great singer, or author, or a traveller—anything, in fact, "with a little mind in it," he said to himself; and many of his poems were addressed to his mind, with which he condoled in pathetic terms. Meantime, on the whole, he enjoyed life very well; but he certainly wished Judith far away pretty frequently.
On this very day on which Mr. Rayburn asked the question about a mistress for the house, Fred and Judith had had a "row-royal" about his boots—his best, beautiful new boots, which he had not used for some days, and which he had found in the kitchen, uncleaned, and with the frying-pan standing on their toes! And the dinner had been half done, and, in fact, nothing was as it ought to be.
Now, to return to the conversation begun after dinner by Mr. Rayburn.
Fred started, and turned round to look at his father. He had been engaged in writing the word "dust" in bold, legible letters on the looking-glass over the mantelshelf, but he left the "t" uncrossed, shook the dust off his finger, and stared at his father, getting very red.
"Why, of course. Why, yes, father, I suppose we should. But I'm rather young yet, don't you think?"
"What has your age to do with it, my boy?"
"Why, of course my—that is, when I get married some day or other, the house will have a mistress, you know."
Mr. Rayburn laughed.
"I'm afraid we can't wait for that, Fred. I would part with Judith and try some one else, but that I have no hope that any servant will make us comfortable unless we went to far more trouble than I'm inclined to take. My work is quite enough for me. No, I thought of marrying myself."
Fred looked thoughtful.
"I declare, sir," said he presently, "it might be a very good plan."
"There's only one objection against it, Fred. I can make no provision for my wife in case she survives me; or at least only a very small one. Your mother's money—a few hundreds—is settled on you, and the little I have saved ought to go to you too. For, you see, you may not get my situation when I am gone, and in that case you'll want a little capital; for you'll hardly go on as a mere clerk all your life. But if I state all this honestly to the lady I have in my mind, I think she would be reasonable. She is poor, and I suspect would gladly have a house of her own."
"Who is it, father?"
"I don't think you know her, but you must have seen her in church. She is sister to my old friend James Thompson, with whom I go to play backgammon every Saturday night. Her mother was Lord Beaucourt's housekeeper, and the old lady died last year, so Miss Thompson came to live with her brother. But Thompson has a houseful of young people, and I fancy Miss Lydia might not be sorry to make a change. So it might be a mutual convenience."
Fred gave his consent very graciously, expressing at the same time a great longing to see Judith's face when the possible affliction in store for her was first announced to her. Had he but known it, he might have had that treat at once; he had only to open the door, at which the excellent Judith was listening. Something in her master's manner when he came in upon the scene about the boots had given her a fright, and she was anxious to find out if she had anything worse to fear than a severe scolding. She heard all! And tottering back to the kitchen, which, contrary to the general habits of kitchens, was at the top of the house, she sank upon a chair and began to sob.
"And such a servant as I've been to him," she moaned faintly, "such a servant!"
Then she felt that she was an ill-used woman, and clenching her hand—a good big hand she had, too—she said aloud—
"Miss Lydia Thompson! Miss, forsooth! Her mother wasn't a bit better than myself, though she wears black silk and I know my place! But wait a bit, Miss Lydia Thompson; you're not Mrs. Rayburn yet, nor shall be if I can help it."
She sat meditating various ways of putting an end to the courtship, which, I may remark, was not yet begun. Miss Lydia had as yet no idea of the promotion that lay within her reach. But Judith was no witch, and she could devise no better plan than to amend her ways, give fewer tea-parties, cook the dinners decently, and dust the furniture; nay, she even determined to polish Fred's boots.
But, alas! She was too late, even if she could have pulled herself together, which I doubt; for she had fallen into very lazy, slovenly habits. But she never had the opportunity. Mr. Rayburn was very prompt to act when once his mind was made up. He spoke to his friend Thompson that very night, ascertained that Miss Lydia had a very little money of her own, and would be glad, her brother thought, to have a house of her own too. He said also that she was a capable housekeeper, and understood the art of cookery to an extent that was a constant admiration to his wife and daughters; and that she was, moreover, good tempered and easy to get on with. So Mr. Rayburn made his plain and unromantic proposals, and was accepted after a few hours' consideration. And before Judith had well begun her projected reformation, she found, herself possessed of a mistress; but it was only for a short time. In a few days after the wedding she was quietly sent about her business, and a smart young person in white apron and cap installed in her place. Very soon the Gatehouse resumed its old air of sober comfort and spotless neatness, and once more peace and quiet reigned.
I do not think that Mr. Rayburn ever had any reason to repent of his second marriage, and yet I know that had he really understood his wife, he would have disapproved very much of her. The second Mrs. Rayburn was an utterly selfish woman, and had been utterly selfish all her life. But she was far too clever to show it openly. She had ruled her mother, but had made her rule pleasant. The good woman had sons and married daughters, whom she would at one time have liked to help occasionally; but she was convinced, she hardly knew how, that she ought to save every penny for poor Lydia, the only unmarried one. At her brother's house, Lydia had found it her best plan to be helpful and pleasant to her sister-in-law, and had made herself very useful to the girls. And now she saw that to stand well with Fred was her cue, and she proved a delightful stepmother.
I must not make this part of my story too long, as it is really only introductory, but I do not see how to make the events that follow clear without this preparatory sketch. For about ten years the household went on almost without a change. Fred settled down into a good clerk, and rose in the counting-house; he still played the flute, but he no longer wrote poetry, having, indeed, failed to find a publisher for his laments over his wasted intellect. And, indeed, though he was a good fellow enough, I do not think that any great waste was possible in that matter.
He fell in love with a very nice, pretty girl, just home from school and they were engaged with the full consent of all concerned; but Janet Gray's father thought her too young to be married just yet, so they had a long and very happy engagement. And then, Fred being twenty-seven and Janet twenty, the day was fixed for their marriage, and all the pleasant bustle of looking for a suitable house was going on, when one day, as Fred, Janet, and Mrs. Gray were inspecting the twenty-third house, all three very busy and happy, the messenger from the brewery came running up the terrace, and told Fred to hurry home, as his father was very ill. Before the young man reached home, his father was dead; in fact, he was dead when the messenger was sent, though no one could believe it.
Mrs. Rayburn was sincerely sorry. The life had been very pleasant to her, and she felt that even if she found another husband she would never like him as well. Just, too, as she was about to be rid of Fred and his flute, and free to set about the task of convincing her husband that at least half his savings ought in justice to be left to her. But she was very practical, and quickly turned her mind to consider how she could best secure her own well-being.
At first she tried to convince Fred that he ought to give up all idea of being married for a considerable time; but poor Fred, who sorely missed his kind old father, longed for Janet's companionship, and would not hear of a long delay. Mrs. Rayburn felt that in a small suburban house, with a clerk's salary and a very tiny private income, there would be no home for her! So she set herself with the kindest zeal to persuade Messrs. Hopper and Mason to put Fred into his father's place. Now, it so happened that there was a young Mr. Hopper just home from Germany, who rather wished to fill that post himself, being fond of work, and thinking that the business might be very much increased by more enterprising ways. But, of course, the son of one of the principals could not live in the Gatehouse, and do all the plodding work of the manager. So the matter ended in Fred's being appointed manager, on the understanding that Mr. Francis Hopper was to be in a very special manner his chief and leader.
For the months that intervened between Mr. Rayburn's death and Fred's marriage, the widow kept house for her stepson, and made herself so pleasant to all parties that Janet told her lover that they ought to ask her to stay as long as she liked. So she stayed, and every one was delighted with the nice tact with which she helped the inexperienced young wife. Oh, she was a wonderful woman!
All the time this wonderful woman was quietly filling her purse, looking forward to the time when Fred's family would increase, and the Gatehouse might no longer suit her as a home. She had saved a good deal of money from her housekeeping allowance, though no one suspected it, because she always kept everything so comfortable. She now began to speculate cautiously with her hoards, and thanks to a brother who was in a stockbroker's office in London, she was very fortunate.
Little did any one think, as she sat so quietly at her work of an evening, listening to Fred reading aloud or playing the flute, or perhaps to the baby crying—even good babies cry sometimes—that she was mentally gazing at the sitting-room she meant to have at some not very distant time. She meant to live in London, and to enjoy herself; her rooms were to be models of comfort and elegance, and were to be all for herself; no one to please but herself, no one to flatter, no one to humour, no flute to listen to, no baby to cry. Everything that she liked, plenty of it, and all her very own, exclusively for her own use. Mrs. Rayburn was deeply attached to her "own dear self."
[CHAPTER II.]
THE ROAD TO RUIN.
I WONDER if any of my readers are wondering what is the want in my first chapter? For there is a want, and I feel it myself. For all that I have said, so far, there might be no such thing as religion in the world. Self-interest is the only "motive-power" that I have mentioned. To be respectable, to be comfortable, to make or save money, to be happy in a quiet way—these are the motives I have spoken of, because, alas! They are the motives that governed the lives of those of whom I was writing.
Is it not sad to think that, in a Christian country, after nineteen centuries of Christianity, people can contentedly live as if they had never learned the truths that our Saviour taught? I do not mean that their lives would have been the same if Christianity did not exist in the country. For Christianity gives us all of civilization that is worth having, and civilization is actually necessary before a quiet life is possible. But do you not think it is very ungrateful to accept the blessings and to ignore or to forget Him Who "ascended up on high to give gifts to men"?
There were excuses for these people, no doubt, for Hemsborough was, as concerned religion, a very sleepy place. Yet they all went to church or chapel at least once every Sunday—even Mrs. Lydia did so: it was a nice quiet place for thinking over her plans. Even poor Fred, though he had aspirations and a mind, and wrote poetry and played the flute, never dreamed of questioning the usefulness of going to church: his mind did not take an independent turn.
Fred, being no longer a boy, was becoming just as anxious as any one to make money, live comfortably, and provide well for his children. The misfortune was that this wish, instead of making him work hard and find pleasure in it, made him discontented and anxious to find some short cut to fortune. He found it very galling that he was not as completely manager of the brewery as his father had been, forgetting that if such a manager as his father had been wanted, he would not have got the situation. Mr. Frank Hopper was very kind and pleasant, but he was distinctly the master; and although Fred was flattered by his friendly manner, and much pleased when he offered to be godfather to his first boy—the eldest child was a girl—still, he felt that he was only a kind of head clerk, or foreman, instead of managing the business himself, and he resented this in private.
I wonder how often "lead me not into temptation" means "give me grace to be contented"? Certainly a discontented man is a man peculiarly open to temptation. And it came to Fred through his stepmother. I do not know exactly how he discovered that she was using her money, her "insignificant little sum of money," as she called it when he spoke to her, in speculating. He warned her that she was running a risk. She assured him that she ran no risk, and that she had really increased her store "a little." But she never mentioned to him her brother, the stockbroker's clerk.
Not unnaturally Fred began to think that if a woman like his stepmother could make money in this way, he could no doubt do very much better. There was a rule in the firm that no employé should speculate, on pain of dismissal. But, then, no one need ever know! So Fred Rayburn set out gaily on the road to ruin.
When he had been married for some years, a great grief befell him and Janet. They had three children, a girl and two boys, and they all three got the measles, and the little girl died. Little Frank and the baby, Fred, recovered. Frank was a very loving little fellow, and long after they hoped he would have forgotten his playfellow, he would begin to cry at the sight of some toy or picture which reminded him of her, and his words:
"Where is Lily? Oh, I want Lily," went to his mother's heart.
At first, Janet tried to turn his thoughts into some other channel; but Frank still "wanted Lily," and at last Janet began to comfort him by telling him that Lily had gone to heaven, and was very happy—every one was happy there.
"Who takes care of her, muddie?"
"God, my dear."
"Does He love her?"
"Oh, yes; very much!"
Frank thought this over for a while, and presently remarked—
"But we love her too. Oh, I want Lily back again, muddie!"
"She cannot come," poor Janet said slowly; "but you must be very good, and then some day you will go to heaven too, and see her again."
Hereupon Frank startled her by asking, "Who told you that, muddie? How do you know about it?"
For a moment Janet did not answer. How did she know? Did she know it at all, or was it only the easiest way to comfort Frank?
"Oh, muddie, you did make that out to stop me crying! Oh, where is Lily gone?"
"I did not make it, indeed, dear. It is all in the Bible."
"What's the Bible?"
"A book, dear. I wish I knew it better, and then I could read to you about—"
"About Lily?"
"No; it was written long, long ago. But about heaven."
"Is it true, muddie?"
"Oh yes! God wrote it; that is, He told His servants what to write in it."
"Do read to me about heaven, muddie. Lily was good, wasn't she? I'll be good, too."
Janet had a beautiful Bible, one of her wedding presents. It lay on a little velvet-covered table, and it was not dusty, because Janet kept everything very neat and nice. But it was quite as new-looking as when she first had it, and she had no other. However, she opened it now, and after much turning over its leaves, she read some verses from the last two chapters of the Revelation.
But either this was above the child's comprehension, or some strange instinct told him more than Janet could say, for he set up a terrified cry, and declared with tears and sobs that "he did not want to go to heaven—it was too grand and big. And oh, Lily would not like it either."
It was long before Janet could quiet her boy; and as she sat beside his little bed that evening, and saw how disfigured his pretty little face was, all tear-stained and red, and how every now and then a great sob shook his slender frame, she began to wonder what on earth she could say to quiet him when next he "wanted Lily."
Moreover, his cry that "Lily would not like it" had awakened an echo in her aching heart. That little timid, loving girl of hers, so easily frightened, so apt to cling to "muddie"—ah, what a poor little thing to go all alone into a strange place, however beautiful, where she knew no one! Janet lived to see that these thoughts were very ignorant, and even now she had a dim feeling that she was wrong to think, thus; and so, between a desire to comfort Frank and a terrible need of comfort for herself, she began to turn over the pages of her neglected Bible, and to read a little here and there.
And if ever people tell you that there is no comfort and no help to be found in the Bible, just remember that this is generally said by people who do not read it. Janet presently came upon the story of the little ones brought to Christ for a blessing, taken up in His arms, welcomed and loved. "Suffer little children to come unto Me, for of such is the kingdom of heaven." Yes, Lily was a lovely, innocent, good child; her mother could quite believe that "of such are the kingdom of heaven." And Christ was there; Lily would have been "suffered" to go to Him. It was a ray of comfort—just a ray of that "Light that lighteth every man"—the first that had shone into Janet's heart. But the rays of that Sun have a most wonderful power of increasing and brightening. Janet soon read her Bible for other things besides a need of comfort. She was not clever, but she had plenty of good sense; and before long, she was a different woman, and her two little boys were carefully taught and trained.
But her husband did not altogether like her "new notions;" he thought them harmless, indeed, "if she did not go too far," but he had no sympathy with them, and silenced her when she tried to share them with him. Not unkindly—Fred never was unkind.
Frank was about six years old, and little Fred about four, when events happened which broke up that little home over the brewery gate, and scattered the family far and wide.
First, Mrs. Rayburn's brother, growing overbold from long success, ventured all his own savings and all his sister's money in one great venture, and lost it. The poor woman had but a few pounds left in the world, and she took to her bed and very nearly died of the shock. Janet was so occupied with her that she failed to observe how uneasy and unhappy her husband seemed. Fred had indeed lost a good deal of money; his little capital was slipping through his fingers so fast that it was wonderful that he did not leave off his speculations, and keep what he had left. But this seems to be the last thing a man thinks of doing, if he has once taken to speculation; and the day came when he had to pay away the last of the money his father had left him.
But, though this was bad, there was worse to come. I do not understand these things well enough to tell you exactly what he did; but I know he made a reckless effort to regain what he had lost without having any capital to pay up if he failed. And he did fail, and found himself in a most miserable position. Not only did he owe money that he could not possibly pay, but, of course, the whole affair became generally known, and that meant ruin.
He was dismissed from his post, and Messrs. Hopper and Mason refused to employ him again even as a clerk: he just got a quarter's salary instead of a quarter's warning, and one week in which to pack up and turn out of the Gatehouse. And he had to go home—home! It was that no longer—and tell Janet, who knew as little about the impending misery as did poor little Frank and Fred. The children were playing in the parlour when their father rushed in, haggard and wretched.
"Where's your mother, Frank?"
"In grandma's room, I think."
"Run and tell her to come here to me. Take Fred with you, and go to the nursery, and stay there. Do you understand? Stay there."
For Frank, all unused to be spoken to thus by his good-tempered, pleasant father, was staring at him in silence.
"Yes, father; but, oh, you do look so! What ails you, father?"
"Go, child, and send muddie here. I want her. I have no time to talk to you."
Frank took the other little fellow by the hand, and they trotted off together. He knocked at the door of Mrs. Rayburn's room with a soft little hand. Janet knew the sound, and came to him.
"Muddie, father's in the parlour, and you must go to him; he wants you. Oh, muddie, he does look so!"
"What does he look like?" Janet asked, smiling.
"Well, like the p'orligal son in my picture-book," answered Frank, after considering the matter.
Janet laughed, closed the bedroom door gently, and went to the parlour. She was still laughing when she entered it. Poor Janet!
It was a cruel business, a horrible task for Fred Rayburn. It was so hard to awaken Janet's fears, so hard to make her believe that he was in earnest. But at last it was done; and then he was surprised to see how bravely she bore the tidings, and how full of practical help she was.
"Fred dear, the worst of it is your chance of being arrested. I don't think Mr. Henley has any right to threaten that, for the fault is his as much as yours. Have you any money, dear?"
"My quarter's salary."
"And I have twenty pounds—my little savings. I meant to surprise you; but, never mind that. Dear Fred, you must get away at once. The sooner you do so, the sooner you can begin life again, and we must earn enough to pay this debt. I will go at once and beg Mr. Henley to wait—not to have you searched for."
"You misunderstood me, dear. There is no danger of my being arrested at once. The danger is if Henley took proceedings against me, I might be imprisoned for—fraudulent dealing."
"Well, if you are not here, he is less likely to do that, don't you think? And, in any case, you must get away; you will suffer less so."
"How can I leave you, Janet? And yet, indeed, there is no use in my staying. As soon as ever it is known that I am dismissed, Henley will begin proceedings; but I won't go without you and the boys. Let us get away to-night; we'll go to America. I may get employment there. I must pay that money. Poor father, if he only knew! But the great thing is to get away."
"I wonder, Fred, would Mrs. Rayburn lend you money enough to pay Henley? Then you could stay here, where you are known, and—"
"Janet, Janet, do you not yet understand that to go where I am not known is my only chance? But certainly if I could quiet Henley, it would be a great thing, and I know she has money. I'll go and ask her; she is very good-natured."
"And I will pack your things. You will go to-night, and leave me to sell the furniture and follow you with the children."
"You forget—the greater part of the furniture belongs to the house. My father bought a few things after his second marriage, and there is your piano. But we'll settle all that when I have spoken to grandma. I'll go to her now. It is partly her doing, so she may well help me," he muttered as he left the room.
"What a good girl Janet is!" he thought. "Half the women I know would have cried and scolded; not one word of reproach from her! Oh, I have been a fool! And we were so happy."
It was easier to make his confession to Mrs. Rayburn than to Janet; but Fred little knew how near he was to learning more of dear, good-natured grandma's true character than he had learned in all these years! Her one consolation had been, that she still had her comfortable home; now, in a moment, she learned that she must look out for some means of earning her bread. In her sudden anger, she sat up in her bed and began—
"You don't mean to tell me that you—"
But she was very weak, having been seriously ill, and here the words died away on her lips, and she fell back, buried her face in the pillow, and burst into tears. And before she could speak again reflection had come to her aid. Fred was a young man still, and might yet be a useful friend again. So she told him sadly how things stood with herself, and that she regretted it more for his sake than for her own. For she had long thought that she would have money enough to help him to educate the darling boys, and put them into good professions. Now, alas! that would never be, for she had lost every penny; she was literally a beggar!
Fred, quite touched by her kindness, told her that they were all in the same boat, and must stick together. He looked upon her just as if she were his mother. She must come out to him with Janet.
"I couldn't think of it, Fred. You have your wife and children to care for; I must work for my own bread. I shall write to Lord Beaucourt; he had a great liking for my mother, and may help me to a situation. You have mouths enough to fill without me."
And when he had left her, she said to herself, "Ay, mouths enough, and very little to put into them! A tolerably good clerk is all you are, my boy, and now you have not even an unblemished character. I should have to work all the same, and maybe for them as well as for myself. No, thank you, Mr. Fred; it is not playing the flute that will help you now, and if my lord will get me a snug place, as he offered to do when poor mother died, I don't want to have you on my hands. I think I was a fool not to take the offer then. What great good has my marriage done me? By the way, Janet has a brother somewhere, doing well, if I remember right. But no, Fred is not likely to do well after all this; I'll keep to my resolution."
Fred, of course, had to tell Janet that there was no hope of help from grandma.
"And I think you are right, dear, and that I had better get away at once. I will take just what will pay travelling expenses, and keep me for a few days. I will write and tell you where to join me. You must settle everything here, and come as soon as I send for you. I could not stand the—the disgrace, Janet. Every one will know to-morrow that I am dismissed, and Henley won't be silent."
Poor, selfish Fred! He desired nothing so much as to get away before his disgrace was known, and poor Janet, in her unselfish love, was as anxious about it as he could be. Fred had always held his head high, and whatever private discontent he felt with his situation, he had always been considered a very fortunate young man, much better off than others of his years. To meet those who had always admired and looked up to him, in his new character, as a dismissed man and a defaulting speculator, he felt would drive him mad. So, having kissed his two boys as they slept sweetly in their little beds, he bade farewell to Janet, telling her to come to Liverpool, to the Ship Hotel, Guelph Street, where he would write to her; he could not say where he would be, as that would depend upon the boats he might be in time for. And then he was gone; and poor Janet crept off to bed, cold and stunned, and almost heartbroken.
[CHAPTER III.]
IN LIVERPOOL.
NEXT day, Janet sent for a broker, and pointed out to him such articles of furniture as Fred had told her belonged to him. She was in the midst of making her bargain when, to her surprise, in came Mrs. Rayburn, who had not left her room for many days.
"Betty told me, my dear, that Mr. Pitman was here; so I guessed it was about your piano, and I crept in, for I may as well dispose of my few things at the same time."
And, turning to Mr. Pitman, she proceeded to point out what she claimed. It was not very much, but it was nearly all that Janet had been speaking about, and the poor girl reddened when she found Pitman looking doubtfully at her. She said—
"I did not know, grandma, that these things were yours. We thought they were ours."
"Oh, my dear, the things my kind husband bought for me? But say no more; I know you have always had them as your own, and it was stupid of me to—"
"No, no; I only spoke lest Mr. Pitman might think I had known it before."
The business was soon settled, and a van carried off all the Rayburns' share of the furniture. Very bare the parlour looked, and Fred cried for his "pitty cot," when laid to sleep in his mother's bed. Frank, old enough to be frightened at his mother's sad face, made no plaint about anything, but ran with messages and helped her with all his might.
Their few belongings were soon packed, and all, save one box, sent off to Liverpool by goods train. Janet paid up her household bills for the last week, and then everything was done. She had no one to say farewell to save Mrs. Rayburn; her own father and mother had died since her marriage, and her only brother had emigrated. Janet had always been a home-keeping woman, and had no very intimate friends.
"What shall you do, grandma?" she asked. "Where will you live till you hear of a place?"
"I shall stay here, dear, until I'm turned out; then my sister-in-law will take me in for a few days."
"You'll write and tell me what you hear from Lord Beaucourt, won't you? Indeed I hope he will be kind to you. I have been so hurried that I hardly seem to feel things yet; but indeed I am very, very sorry for you. It is so hard on you."
"It is indeed. But Lord Beaucourt is one who never forgets them who have served him well, and my mother was his confidential housekeeper—no common servant; more like a friend, you know—for many years, and his lordship was always most kind to me. Of course, I shall write, and you must write to me. How I shall miss you, dear, and my darling boys! There's some one at the door, Janet."
"Come in," Janet called out wearily.
And in came Mr. Frank Hopper.
"Good evening, Mrs. Rayburn," he said, as she rose to meet him. The elder woman was sitting in the shadow of the window curtain, and he did not see her.
"This is a sad business, Mrs. Rayburn. I am sorry to hear that Rayburn has gone away. It struck me that you might be in difficulties, and that I had better see you."
"Of course we are in difficulties, Mr. Frank."
"Yes—but I want—I meant—in a word, Mrs. Rayburn, do you know where your husband has gone, and—are you to join him?"
"Why, certainly I am," Janet said angrily. "Oh, Mr. Frank, how could you think that Fred would desert me and the children?"
"It looked so bad, his going off in this way. I was afraid there might be—debts, you know. I wished, if possible, to help you."
"No, Mr. Hopper, you cannot help me. I have money to keep us until we go out to Fred; I could not take help from you. I think you have been very hard on my husband. I am an ignorant woman, and perhaps ought not to say this; but it seems to me that you have been very, very hard on him."
"You mean in dismissing him? But he knew the rules, and knew that we never depart from them. But I don't want to talk of that. Where's my little namesake? I have a present here for him."
"Not for him; we will not accept help from you under any names, Mr. Frank."
"Well, I would help you if I could," the young man said quietly; "but I understand and respect your feelings. Business men have to be guided by rules that seem harsh to women, I am sure. Only remember, if you ever feel that there is anything I can do, you have my address. It will give me real pleasure to help you, Mrs. Rayburn."
He bowed and withdrew, and old Mrs. Rayburn gave young Mrs. Rayburn a lecture for being so proud and so foolish.
"I cannot help it," Janet said. "Did you remark how it was all that he wished to help me; not a word of kindness for Fred, who has worked under him so long? No, I will not put up with that sort of kindness."
Janet had never left Hemsborough except to go to school in a small town not ten miles off, so the journey to Liverpool was quite a formidable undertaking for her. But she had plenty of commonsense, and managed very well. She and her boys reached the Ship Hotel in safety. And now there was nothing to do but to wait.
Waiting is always weary work, and poor Janet was anxious about her husband and uneasy about her boys. Accustomed to play about the big brewery yards and sheds, where every one knew them and took more or less care of them, the boys fretted if she kept them in her room in the hotel; and yet the street and the adjoining quays did not seem a safe playground for them. The hotel was very small, very crowded and noisy, and by no means cheap. However, Janet lived as cheaply as she could; and at last a letter came.
Fred wrote from New York, not, as she had hoped, from Halifax, for she had wished him to go there to be nearer to her brother. He had as yet failed to get permanent employment. He could just live, and that was all. People told him that he was not likely to get good employment in New York. Yet what could he do? He had not funds now to go to her brother in British Columbia, and he feared it would be some time before he could save enough. She must husband her money, and stay in England for a while, for if she came to him now, what he feared was, that they would sink into the class that just lives from hand to mouth, and that the boys would get no education. She was to write to him at once, for he longed to hear of her and the boys. Frank and Fred must not forget him.
Janet thought long and deeply over this letter, and the immediate result of her meditations was that she wrote to Mr. Frank Hopper. Poor Janet! She felt very reluctant to do it.
"Ship Hotel, Guelph Street, Liverpool.
"DEAR SIR,
"You were kind enough to say that you would help me if you could. Will you give me a few lines which I may show to any one here to whom I may apply for work? I am quite unknown here, and my husband and I have decided that it is better for me not to join him just yet. I think he will most likely go after a time to my brother in British Columbia, and there is no use in my going out till I can go there direct. I am a very good dressmaker, and wish to find work in order to help my husband.
"Your obedient servant,
"JANET RAYBURN."
Mr. Hopper at once sent her a letter which answered her purpose. She was fortunate enough to get employment in the cutting-out department of a great shop in Bold Street, where she gave such satisfaction that she was told that she should be the head of the department when the lady now over it married, which she was about to do soon. She was free at about seven o'clock, and might be free rather earlier in winter.
She sent the boys to a little preparatory school in the street in which she now lodged, Frank to learn, and Fred to be safe; and the servant at the lodgings undertook to give them their dinner when they came home, and on fine days to let them play in what she (perhaps satirically) called the garden, and generally to keep a watch upon them. Then she was able to write to Fred to say that she had got employment which, with the few pounds she kept, would support her and the boys for a time; and she sent him all the rest of the money she still had, urging him to go to her brother Gilbert, and "not to be longer about sending for her than he could help, for she felt very sad without him."
Poor Janet! She would not have admitted to any one, even to herself, that she in the least distrusted her husband. Yet, in doing this, she was unconsciously influenced by a touch of distrust. She felt that if she kept money enough to take her and the boys out, maybe Fred would go on just keeping himself; he had never taken kindly to steady, dull work, and this kind of life might have some strange attraction for him. Whereas, if he knew that she was working hard, and that he must send her the passage-money, he would certainly feel quite differently. As for herself and the children, she had no fears. God would take care of them.
But God's ways are not our ways; and Janet's simple faith was to be sorely tried. And it stood the trial, because it was simple and humble. When things happened that she did not expect, Janet did not forthwith conclude that God had forgotten His promises; she concluded that she had not fully understood them.
The summer was now past, and the winter was a severe one. Liverpool is a very cold place, too, and Janet felt it herself, though she did not actually suffer in health. But the children caught cold again and again. They would creep back to their rather dreary home when school was over, with their little overcoats unbuttoned, and their warm comforters forgotten. After a time, Janet succeeded in teaching Frank that it was his duty to take care of Fred, and of himself too, because it made poor "muddie" so wretched to see them ill. From that time, Frank remembered; and it was touching to see the tender, protecting care he took of little Fred, who really suffered far less from cold than did Frank himself. Frank grew tall and thin and white, but he never complained, for "poor muddie would be sorry, if she knew how his bones pained him."
Looking back upon that time in Liverpool, it always seemed to Janet very long, yet it really lasted but a few months. She heard regularly from her husband, and he wrote in good spirits. He had set out to join Gilbert Gray, but, having reached a town called New Durham, in British Columbia, he fell in with an acquaintance who was in business there, and who had put him up to one or two very good things; he would soon be quite independent. In sending him that money she had, he thought, laid the foundation of a fine fortune; but he would send her the passage-money very soon now.
All this made Janet uneasy, she knew not why. She felt a little uneasy, too, about grandma, as Mrs. Rayburn had for years been called in the old Gatehouse, for she had never heard from her since they parted, though she had written to her. However, in the spring she had a letter from her.
"Kelmersdale Castle, near Rugeley.
"MY DEAR JANET,
"I am afraid you are thinking me very unkind, getting letters from you and never writing to you; but you will understand how this happened, when I tell you how I have been knocked about. I am glad you have found work that suits you, but, in your place, I would have gone after Fred at once. I love him like a mother, but, after what happened, I think him weak, and I hardly expect now that you will ever get out to him. You ought to have left the children in England and gone after Fred. No risk in leaving them for a time; any one would be kind to those darlings. But I suppose it is too late now, as you parted with the money.
"As for me, a letter from my lord came the day after you went away, offering me my choice of two situations, matron of a big orphanage near Stafford, or housekeeper at Kelmersdale Castle. The matronship was the best pay, so I took it. But, my health being so feeble, I found the work too much, and after my little darlings, Frank and Fred, the children seemed a dreadful lot, and after a few weeks, I wrote to my lord to say my health would not stand it, and that if the other place was still open, I would prefer it. I am thankful to say my lord had not been able to suit himself, so I came to the Castle, and I just wish I had the dear boys here, with such places to play about, and every comfort.
"The place is very old, and was once besieged. I am learning all the history off by heart, for many a shilling can be got by showing visitors over the Castle in summer. My lord never lives here long, but comes on business or for the shooting. The living rooms are small, with thick walls and little windows high up. My rooms are very comfortable, and I have servants under me, and am to see all kept in order; the armour, and old pictures and furniture. But, except just when the earl is here, I have little to do but to amuse myself like any grand lady. The salary is small, or I should send you a present, as well I might after all your kindness to me, which I can never forget. I hope the darling boys have not forgotten grandma. I seem to hear Frank calling me, dear little rogue. Some day you must all come and pay me a visit; I know my lord will give leave.
"You say the boys go to school, but in the summer holidays they might be glad of a change. But take my advice and get after Fred as soon as you can; don't lose your hold over him, it will be the ruin of him.
"Ever your affectionate mother,
"LYDIA RAYBURN."
"Oh, I wish people would not say things like this to me!" cried Janet, unconscious that no one had said anything to her about her husband except Mrs. Rayburn and her own anxious, loving heart.
Mrs. Lydia Rayburn little thought when she penned that letter, so full of patronizing kindness, what the effect of her words would be; for simpleminded Janet believed that she meant every word most sincerely.
She sent the letter on to Fred, and said to the two children, "How fond grandma is of you both, boys!"
To which Frank replied thoughtfully, "Is she, muddie?"
Soon after this Fred failed to write for some weeks, and Janet was getting seriously uneasy, when she received a letter from her brother; not one of his usual brief epistles, but a long, closely written letter with a money order enclosed.
"Old Man's Ferry Farm, Gattigo, British Columbia.
"MY DEAR SISTER,
"I do not know whether what I must now tell you will be a surprise and a shock to you or not. Of course, I could see that you were not speaking out quite frankly about your husband and the loss of his good place; not that I am blaming you, for he is your husband, and you are bound to stick to him. You wrote me word that he was on his way to me, and I laid out my plans for giving him and you a start here if I could. But he did not turn up, and only ten days ago I got a letter from a lawyer in New Durham—a rising new town a good way from us—enclosing a letter from Rayburn.
"Not to make too long a story of it, your husband told me that he had been on his way to me, five months ago, when at New Durham, he fell in with an old friend, and went into some kind of business with him, putting all the money he possessed into it. They seemed prosperous for a time, and Rayburn declares that he did not know that the articles they were selling were regular cheap locks and stoves and such things, with good English names on them, which this fellow Turner had got made out here, and not even of good materials. Of course, this could only go on for a time—people here are no fools—and Turner must have found out that he was suspected, for he made off with all he could get hold of, and left Rayburn to bear the consequences. Rayburn had a narrow escape of being roughly handled by a lot of fellows who had come to the town together to have it out with Turner. In these half-settled places people have a very short kind of justice, but he got away out of the shop with a whole skin, and was taken up for the cheating. Then he told the lawyer that he was my brother-in-law, and that I could speak for him, and so they sent for me. I went, of course, and found him very ill, I really think from fretting, for there is no doubt that he was badly treated by Turner.
"They have not caught Turner, and now they will hardly do so; and I think Rayburn will get off for want of evidence against him. I would get him out on bail, but that he is so ill, that it is better for him to keep quiet. When he is free, I shall take him home with me, and Aimée will nurse him till he is all right again. And, if I find it possible, I may still do what I was thinking of—start an hotel in Gattigo to be supplied from my farm, and you and Rayburn to manage it. If he had come direct to me, all would be easy. Now I fear it may be a feeling against him, and in that case it would be risking money in setting up the hotel, and it is a great pity, for he is the very man for the place; he has such a pleasant manner. But there is no use in crying over spilt milk. I wish he was not your husband, for, truth to say, I do not like this business, though I cannot help liking him. And I will do what I can for your husband.
"Now, Janet, the fact is, if you have as much good sense and good principle as I believe you to have, you ought to come out by the next boat, and join Rayburn, and not part with him again. In some way we will find an opening for him, and with you beside him, and me at your back—particularly now you are on your guard—he may yet do very well. He is feather-headed, easily taken with anything new, and impatient of slow gains. Rayburn says you are to send the boys to their grandmother, who is sure to take good care of them, being very fond of them. He desired me to say that on no account are you to bring them with you, if Mrs. Rayburn will take them for a while, as he is very anxious that they should never hear of his being in prison here. I think myself that it would be better for you to come alone, and we will get them out as soon as we know what you and Rayburn will do; but there may be no use in your settling here, and it will be better to get them to the place you finally decide upon, direct.
"I enclose money for your journey, and, on the other side of this sheet, I will put down your exact best way, and all particulars I can think of. Do not lose a boat, and come direct to Gattigo. Rayburn will probably be here before you. The hotel plan, if still possible, would be the best for him and for you; but, unless you are here, I will not risk it. Besides, having you with him will make him seem more dependable and respectable, and, you see, he has made a bad start, and has a prejudice to get over. Do not think me unkind, though I know I may seem so, because I am not used to much letter-writing, and do not know how to wrap things up.
"My wife is just longing for you to come; there is not a woman she cares about within many miles of us.
"Your affectionate brother,
"GILBERT GRAY."
Then followed the directions for her journey, which were so clear and minute that a child could have followed them.
A year ago the idea of such a long lonely journey would have reduced Janet to tears and misery; but she had learned to know her strength, and it was not her own part in the matter that frightened her. Nor was it the leaving the boys at Kelmersdale, for she had no doubt of their well-being there, and had been thinking of asking grandma to take them for a fortnight or so, as Frank would be the better for a change of air. She had a brave heart and a childlike faith, and thought but little of herself; but oh, what bitter tears she shed over that letter! But she lost no time; in half an hour after the letter came, she was in the office of the line of boats Gilbert had named, inquiring when the next left Liverpool.
[CHAPTER IV.]
KELMERSDALE.
JANET found that the next boat would sail in four days; so, if she could be set free from her engagement at Gair and Co.'s, she could well be ready in time, even if she had to take the children with her. For, of course, if Mrs. Rayburn either could not or would not keep the little ones, they must needs go with her.
The first thing to be done now was to telegraph to Mrs. Rayburn. She passed an office on her way to Gair's. She sent her message, but only said, "Can you send to meet us at Rugeley to-morrow?"
"I can explain much better when I am with her," she thought; "and if she cannot take the boys, the expense is not very great, after all."
Having arranged for the answer to be sent to Gair's, she went thither herself, arriving five minutes late, for the first time.
"Has Mr. Simmons come yet?" she asked a young man who was arranging the window.
"He's in the office, Mrs. Rayburn."
And to the office Janet repaired. There she told her story, with certain reservations. Her brother, she said, had sent her money to go out to Canada to her husband, who was ill. When he recovered, her brother knew of a promising opening for him, in which her help would be necessary. Her month's salary was nearly due, but she was willing to forfeit it, if she might go at once. There was no press of work, and Miss Green was a very capable cutter-out. Mr. Simmons, a slow and solemn man, rather thought that such an abrupt departure was impossible, but would speak to Mr. Gair. Luckily for Janet, it was kind old Mr. Gair who was in the office, and he came out to speak to her himself.
"We're sorry to lose you, Mrs. Rayburn, but we will not stand in your way, as the matter seems of consequence. Pay Mrs. Rayburn up to the first of July, Simmons; she has been a steady and useful worker."
Finally, the old gentleman sat down and wrote her a regular discharge.
"Keep that, Mrs. Rayburn," he said, looking kindly at the anxious young face. "It may prove useful, though I hope your husband will do well. Do you take your children with you?"
"No, sir; I shall take them to Kelmersdale Castle, near Rugeley, where their grandmother is the housekeeper. If she can keep them, I am to leave them with her for a time."
"Well, good-bye, good-bye," said Mr. Gair, retreating hastily towards his private room, for his sons were wont to laugh at him for being always ready to interest himself in any one. But he took a parting glance at Janet, and something in the youth, sweetness, and determination in her face touched his heart. Muttering, "I will now; they may say what they like, just for once I will please myself," back he came.
"Are you sure you can manage all this for yourself, Mrs. Rayburn? Is there anything that I can do for you?"
Janet looked up in his face with a somewhat tremulous smile.
"I have been so afraid," she said, "but if every one is as kind as you are—but, indeed, that is not likely. I don't know how to thank you, sir; your kindness gives me such courage."
"I think you have plenty of courage," the old man answered, "and a better Friend than I can be. One who can go with you, and yet be with the children at home. Is it not so?"
"Oh, it is—it is indeed! Yes, I can say that sincerely."
"Then you serve my Master, and so you need never be afraid, for you will be cared for. God bless you, child."
Janet left the shop with that blessing warm at her heart. She went home, and busied herself in getting the boys' clothes together and packing them. She took a cabinet photograph of her husband and cut away the edges, to make it fit into a little miniature case she had among her few ornaments: this she meant to give to Frank. She made a list of the things in the trunk, which she carefully packed for the children. While thus employed, the answer to her telegram was sent on from Bold Street. It was brief, but said that a vehicle should be at the station to meet the 12 a.m. train.
Then the boys came home from school, and Janet nearly broke down when she heard their shout of rejoicing when they saw her at that unusual hour. When she had given them their dinner, she took Fred on her knee and put her arm round Frank, as he stood beside her.
"Now, listen to me, my little boys. I have something to tell you which you will not like, and neither do I; but it cannot be helped, and I want you both to be good—very good—and so help me to bear it. For I must go away and leave you for a time, and—and—it nearly breaks my heart."
"Leave us—here, muddie?" Frank said, fixing his blue eyes on her face, and growing white in the endeavour to "be good."
"Won't be left," said Fred, sturdily; "we go wif you."
"Not here, Frank, and not alone. To-morrow, I shall take you to a beautiful place in the country, where I hope to leave you with grandma. There you will have green fields to run about in, and grandma to take care of you. You remember grandma, Fred, don't you?"
Frank had slipped down, and sat on the floor at his mother's feet, staring up at her, and keeping unnaturally still, with every trace of colour gone from his face. And there he still sat, when Fred had forgotten all about this terrible parting and was playing merrily about the room, and Janet was completing the packing of the box.
"Why must you go, muddie?" he cried at last, catching at her dress as she passed him.
"My darling, my little Frank, don't look like that. I would not leave you if—if I could help it. Father is ill and, wants me. When he is well, you shall both come to us."
She sat down and lifted him upon her knee.
"The time will pass quickly, Frank. See, here is father's picture—I give it to you; keep it safe, and show it to Fred, that he may remember him. And you will be good, and not make poor muddie fret. And you will take care of Fred, and try to keep him from being troublesome to grandma."
"I will try," Frank said. "May I go to bed, muddie? I'm tired, and don't want any supper to-day."
Janet was rather frightened, he looked so white and weak. She put him to bed, and brought him some bread and milk, which he took to please her. When she woke him next morning he seemed quite himself again, and, having said his prayers, he came and stood before her, saying earnestly—
"I will try to be good, muddie, and I promise to take care of Fred all I can."
And he was good, poor little fellow, giving no trouble whatever, and trying to keep Fred quiet during the journey. But Fred had bound himself by no such promise, and was in uproarious spirits, making noise enough for half a dozen.
At Rugeley she left the train and looked about for some one from Kelmersdale. Presently a short, square-built, awkward young man came up to her, making a clumsy bow, which he accompanied by a curious movement of one foot, like the pawing of an impatient horse. But it was shyness, not impatience, that made him paw.
"Be you Mrs. Fred Rayburn?"
"Yes; is Mrs. Rayburn here?"
"No, but I have the taxcart here for you and the children. Be this your box? Come along, then."
With a final paw, which sent the gravel flying, he picked up the box and led the way to where he had left the taxcart. Janet sat in front beside the driver, with Fred in her arms, for she could not trust the excited child out of her sight. Frank and the box kept each other company, and Frank was glad, for he wanted to cry just a little without "making muddie cry." It was a lovely drive, but none of them saw much of it.
At last they drove through a great heavy gate into a paved court, walled on three sides, and with a large pillared porch on the fourth, with a great broad flight of stone steps leading to a large iron-studded door. This was wide open, and just inside stood Mrs. Rayburn, and with her a young servant, in white cap and apron and blue satin bows.
"Well, Janet dear, here you are, and here are my darling boys," Mrs. Rayburn cried. "It was a surprise—your telegraph saying that you were coming. Why, Frank looks but poorly; a little country air will do him good. Jacob, bring in that box. Fred's grown a little; as to Frank, he's run up far too fast for strength. Come to my sitting-room—isn't this cosy? Maria, we'll have dinner as soon as 'tis ready."
Maria departed, and Mrs. Rayburn went on.
"So you have a holiday—how long is it, Janet? I hope you can stay some time. My lord is never here except during the shooting season, when he has a party for the sport; so I can do just as I like. And I advise you to leave the children with me just for a bit—just till Frank picks up a colour and a little flesh. He looks very peaky."
"Yes; Liverpool does not agree with him. May the boys run out and play in the court, Mrs. Rayburn? I want to talk to you alone."
"I'll just send and get the gate shut, and then they'll be as safe as possible."
She left the room, and soon a man crossed the yard and shut the gate. The two boys went out, but only into the porch. Fred was so sleepy that he was glad to sit on the stone steps with his head on his brother's shoulder. Frank, white and weary, knowing the whereabouts of every bone in his body by a separate ache, yet manfully held the little one in his arms, and sat gazing at the paved court and the high walls. Somehow he felt like a bird in a cage.
"Now, Janet, we're alone. Let's have a talk till dinner is ready."
"Mrs. Rayburn, do you think Lord Beaucourt would be annoyed if you had my boys here for a time?"
Having just asked them to stay, Mrs. Rayburn could not very well tell a different story now; but when she made that request, she had no idea that Janet would part with her darlings for so much as a week. But, after all, the boys could not be in her way. The house was large and the weather warm; they could be out for the greater part of the day, and they would not cost her a penny. So, after an almost imperceptible pause, she said—
"My lord annoyed? Oh, dear, not at all. My mother, you know, was a confidential servant—almost a friend; and he is just as kind to me. If you like to let Frank stay here, I'll take the best of care of him—you know that."
"Yes; so you said in the kind letter I sent on to Fred. And he has sent me word by my brother to leave them with you if you really can have them without being troubled about it afterwards."
"To leave them both?"
"Yes; Fred is ill and in trouble, and Gilbert says I had better go at once. Gilbert has plans for us, but it is not quite certain yet where we shall be. I am to go to Gattigo to my brother, and Fred will meet me there, and when we know where we shall settle, we will get the boys out. It will not be for long. Gilbert thinks of setting up an hotel in Gattigo, with Fred and me to manage it. And when we are quite settled, and can make you comfortable, you must come out to us, grandma. However pleasant things may be made for you here, it is not like being in your own house with your own people."
"No, indeed, Janet, it's a deadly dull life here for one used to sociability and a large town. I often think of Hemsborough and the dear old gatehouse. I might be of use, too, in an hotel. Well, Maria is a good girl, and will help me willingly, and, as you say, it will not be for long. And what trouble is Fred in, poor dear fellow?"
"He went into partnership with a man he had known before, and this man, Turner, was not dealing fairly, and he had to run away, and Fred's money was all lost."
"If this Turner is the man who broke some years ago in Hemsborough, Fred ought to have known better than to have dealings with him. So he lost all he had?"
"Yes—but it was not much. Gilbert has got on very well, and seems sure that this hotel will succeed. But Fred was ill when the letter was written, and Gilbert says I ought to be there. They both wish me to come without the boys, but if you cannot have them, I shall take them with me." And Janet's face brightened a little, for oh! How much rather would she take them than leave them!
But Mrs. Rayburn was determined not to say anything which could make Janet think that her position at Kelmersdale was not as independent and pleasant in every way as she had represented it, so she declared that my lord would be quite pleased to know that she had the darling boys for company.
"For he knows it is a lonely life here, and he is so kind-hearted. But, you see, things were going all wrong for want of a really trustworthy confidential person at the head of the household. He will not be here till the middle of August, and perhaps not till September. Of course, they might be in the way then. But there's time enough, and you know, Janet, I'd do anything for you and Fred."
"I knew you would do this, if you could, so I have brought all their clothes. I must get back to Liverpool; the steamer sails on Thursday, early."
"Then you can stay here to-night. Do you think I'm going to let you travel back to-night, and you looking so tired and worn? No, no, stay for the night, and you'll see where the little darlings are to sleep, and how comfortable I shall make them; as well I may, remembering all your kindness to me, and how you nursed me when I was ill."
Her cordiality increased as she thought over the hotel project, and considered how pleasant it would be, when all was comfortably settled, to rejoin her stepson in Gattigo. Life at Kelmersdale was very dull to a woman whose idea of enjoying herself meant much gossip and many sociable tea-parties.
"I will stay, as you are so kind," Janet said, yet in her heart she wished she had the courage to go, and have the parting over.
Maria, a good-natured girl, with very little to do, seemed rather pleased at the prospect of a visit from the children, and said that the last housekeeper had a niece who used to stay with her for months at a time. There was a turret-room, six-sided, at the end of the passage on which Mrs. Rayburn's rooms opened, and this was got ready for the boys. Janet unpacked and arranged their clothes herself; and at night she tucked them up in an old-fashioned little bedstead, with a high back of carved wood. Conspicuous among the carving was an earl's coronet, which had once been gilded; I suppose some baby Earl of Beaucourt had once slept in the bed which now held poor Janet's boys. They slept as sweetly as any earl, and even Janet slept, worn out.
Next day, Janet said she must catch the train for Liverpool, which was due at Rugeley at a little after eleven. She had still a good deal of packing to do, some things to buy which she would want on the passage, and she must go to the school the boys had attended and pay what was due there.
She would not take the boys to Rugeley with her. When Jacob and the taxcart came to the door, she kissed Mrs. Rayburn, and whispered—
"Be—be tender with them. They have never had a harsh word. Frank will give you no trouble, and if Fred is not quite so good, oh! Have patience with him, he is but a baby. Good-bye, and thank you for all your kindness."
Then she knelt down on the stone floor of the hall, and held her boys to her heart for a few moments. Fred set up a lamentable howl, but Frank only gazed at his mother with wide eyes and a pale face. Janet rose, and walked hurriedly out into the porch; Jacob helped her into the cart, and in a moment they were gone.
"Come back, come back, muddie!" shouted Fred; "Take me wif you. I won't stay here."
"Nonsense, child!" said Mrs. Rayburn, catching him as he broke away from Frank and ran towards the door. "You've got to stay here. Come along to my room and watch the cart; you can see it from the window there."
When the cart had passed the last turn in the long road through the park at which it could be seen, Fred set up another roar. Mrs. Rayburn lifted him up, and went to where her spacious easy-chair stood, where she sat down.
"Stop that, Fred. Come here, Frank. Now, listen to me, both of you. You are to stay here for a time, and if you're good, you'll have a pleasant time of it. And I dare say you will be good, after a time, but you're both just a bit spoiled, because your mother is too soft in her ways with you. Now, I'm not like her."
"No, grandma," said Frank, with conviction.
"And if you're naughty or noisy or mischievous or troublesome in any way, I'll give you a right good whipping. If you'll be good, you'll find yourself very well off. And when you've had a whipping or two, I've no doubt I shall have no more trouble with you. Come, now, get your hats, and I'll show you a place where you may run about and play."
She took them out into the paved court, and across to a small iron gate, and, when she had unlocked and opened this gate, Frank cried out with surprise and delight—
"Oh, muddie, muddie, if you could just see this!"
On hearing this imprudent mention of "muddie," Fred began to roar; but he received a very prompt cuff on the side of his curly head, and ceased, staring hard at grandma.
To confess the truth, Fred had been quite spoiled by being the pet and plaything of the school he attended with Frank—and, indeed, of the house where his mother lodged also. He was a very handsome child, being like his father, and he was also a self-willed little monkey, who liked his own way, and was but little used to contradiction. Seeing "muddie" but for a short time each day, he was always very happy and tolerably good with her, so that poor Janet had little idea that her son had learned to get his own way—entirely with Frank, and to a great extent with others—by howling loudly when not pleased. Thus I may say that I do not altogether grudge him a little discipline, though a box on the ears is not a safe way to apply it.
Frank took his brother's hand, and drew him through the little gate into a large, old-fashioned garden, primly and stiffly laid out, and full of various flowers, though there was nothing very fine or rare. But to a child a flower is a flower, and there were walks to run up and down, little thickets of evergreen to explore, and, in the middle, a marble basin full of gold-fish. In fact, it was a Paradise, and in this Paradise, these two little Adams were to be left to their own devices.
"I shall come for you at two—that's my dinner-time, children. You must not walk on the beds nor pick flowers nor do any mischief, but play about and amuse yourselves. And I do hope, Frank, that you'll pick up a little colour, for at present, you're a show. I shall lock you in. Now mind, if you do any mischief, I shall whip you soundly."
To leave two boys, one not quite seven and the other only four, alone in a garden full of flowers, and to expect them to gather none is to expect too much of such very young human nature. Frank would never have done it, but Fred did; and Frank, though he disapproved, did not actually interfere to stop him.
Mrs. Rayburn spent the rest of the morning in writing to Lord Beaucourt, telling him what had happened (in her own way), and asking leave to keep the boys with her until their parents sent for them. As she had before given Lord Beaucourt to understand that Fred Rayburn was a ne'er-do-weel, who had ruined her, and his wife a silly, shiftless body, who never saw what mischief was going on, while she herself was a most amiable, trustful being, whose little all had been made away with by this thriftless pair, the earl was quite ready to pity her. He wrote that he was sorry that she had new difficulties with her stepson, but that the children would be in no one's way at Kelmersdale, and she could keep them, if she liked. This answer, of course, did not come for two or three days.
At two, Mrs. Rayburn went to the garden for the two boys, caught them red-handed—that is to say, Fred had his hand full of some gaudy tulips and china roses—and proceeded to administer what she called justice at once. She had found them near the marble basin, and on the edge of this she sat down.
"Did you hear me say that you were not to touch the flowers? Yes, you certainly did. And I said that if you did, I should whip you soundly."
"If we did any mischief, you said, grandma," answered Frank.
"And what do you call that?" pointing to the flowers in Fred's hand. "And what do you suppose Mr. Ross, the gardener, will say when he misses them? And the beds all trampled on, I suppose?"
"No, indeed, grandma, we never went on the beds at all. We did no mischief—flowers don't mind being picked."
"Don't you stand arguing there, sir; you were always one for arguing. It was all your fault, for Fred's only a baby, so I shall let him off this time."
And seizing Frank, she proceeded to lay him across her knees, and gave him a smart whipping. Then she set him on his feet, all flushed and giddy. The first thing he saw was the row of windows that overlooked the garden, and I think that the shame of having possibly been seen undergoing such disgrace was worse than the whipping.
Fred, hitherto staring, open-mouthed and terrified, now began to whimper.
"Oh, Fwank, was it for the f'owers? You said she'd be angwy. Beat me too, you bad woman. 'Twas me took 'em; Fwank begged me not."
Mrs. Rayburn was quite willing. Many a time at Hemsborough had her fingers itched to whip one or the other, or both, for she had scant patience with children, and Janet had perhaps too much. But as she put forth a hand to take hold of Fred, Frank pushed in between them, keeping the child behind him, and crying, as he faced her like a little lion—
"No, you've whipped me, and that's enough. If you touch Fred, I'll—I'll push you into the water! We'll run away and be lost; you shan't—you shan't touch Fred."
"Here's a row," said Mrs. Rayburn, half frightened at the violence of the usually gentle child, and the angry spark in his eyes. "I told you," she continued, "that I'd let him off this time, and I will, though he'd provoke a saint. But if you're to stay here, you must obey me, and I just mean to let you see that at once. There, now, come to dinner, and let me hear no more nonsense."
They followed her, a sad, quenched little couple as ever you saw. Frank could eat no dinner; the remembrance of that terrible scene was too much for him; and Fred, seeing this, shook his wee white fist at grandma—when her back was turned.
Dinner over, Mrs. Rayburn seated herself in her easy-chair, and took from her pocket Janet's list of the boys' belongings.
"What picture of your father is this on your list?" she asked. "It is not among your clothes. You'd best give it to me to keep for you."
"Muddie said I was to keep it, and show it to Fred every day, for fear we'd forget him. He's been so long away, you see."
"Well, show it to me."
Reluctantly, Frank drew from his pocket a little square brown case, and, opening it, showed the handsome, pleasant face of his father.
"Oh, only that! Why, it's the cabinet one just cut to fit the case. Yes, you can keep it. Fred there is very like him. You're like your mother. Eh, what's that child doing over there?"
"Nuffin," said Fred, hurriedly abandoning his design to pull the needles out of her knitting.
"You may both go now and play in the court," said Mrs. Rayburn. "There's no flowers there for you to spoil. I'm going to take a nap, for I'm tired out running after you. Now, mind me, boys, particularly Frank, as he's the eldest. I'll be good to you, if you're good; but you may as well give in at once, for I'm not like your mother, that never brought you into order by so much as a smack. Now, you know that I'm in earnest, so run away."
They stole away, hand-in-hand. Frank sat down on the white stone steps.
"Fred, dear," he said, "I do feel so sick and foolish."
"Poo' Fwank, mine own Fwankie," and the little arms stoles round Frank's neck, and the rosy cheek was fondly rubbed against the white one. "It was bad of Fwed not to mind you; Fwed will mind you always now; and be so good. Oh, Fwank, where's muddie?"
"She'll send for us as soon as ever she can. Muddie did not know that grandma would be cross."
But, it was curious enough, Frank was not one whit surprised to find her so.
