George Manville Fenn (continued 5)

Mrs Stiff’s forefinger was pointed at first one and then another quadru- or bi-ped intruder.

“Ever since Mr Clayton’s been gone, sir, here you’ve had these things a coming in. And now, is it right, sir? Is tortushes—six of ’em—proper things to be a-scrawming over a Brussels carpet as cost us six-and-six a yard, without the planning and making? And let me tell you, sir, as six-and-sixes to buy yards of carpet ain’t scraped out of the gutters; let alone the other expenses of furnishing a house, with upholsterers and furniture shops thrusting veneer down your throat when you go in for solid; and if, to save your money, you go to one of the auction-rooms, you’re a’most ragged to pieces by the Jew brokers; and if you won’t employ ’em, them a-running up things and bidding against you shameful. Furnishing a house don’t mean marrying a lady and putting her in it, I can tell you, Mr Redgrave, sir; and when it’s your own Brussels as you’re a walking on, and your own sofas as you sit on, you won’t destroy ’em with all sorts of nasty filthy animals, as is that full of insecks as makes it miserable to come in the room.”

“Now, look here!” exclaimed Lionel, whose countenance wore a comical aspect of trouble and despair,—“look here!” he exclaimed, starting up; “I don’t want to go—I don’t want the trouble. There, I’ll promise you, I won’t buy any more, will that suit you?”

But the long-suffering Mrs Stiff was now fully roused, and determined to hold the ground which she had gained. She said, and very justly, that she could not afford to go on upon such terms, as the result must be notice to quit from their own landlord. She was determined now to have a thorough clearance, or Mr Redgrave must get apartments where people did not mind having their rooms made into a “wild beast show.”

This being the climax of Mrs Stiff’s speech, that lady flounced out of the room, the centre of an aërial vortex raised by her voluminous garments, leaving Lionel Redgrave and his landlord staring very hard at one another.

“I say, you know, what’s to be done?” said the young man, at last.

Mr Stiff shook his head as solemnly as a sexton welcoming a fully furnished funeral, when, leaping up angrily, to his landlord’s great astonishment, Lionel threw up the window, and then, though not without some difficulty, set at liberty the whole of his birds, the parrot rewarding him for his kindness by nipping a piece out of his finger.

“There, now!” said Lionel, binding a handkerchief round his bleeding finger, after directing a blow right from the shoulder at the offending parrot, which, it is hardly necessary to say, missed its aim—“there now! take those empty cages away, and send the girl to sweep up the bits.”

Mr Stiff winked to himself as he obeyed, and rattled out of the room with quite a load of cages, but only to return at the end of five minutes.

“Well,” said Lionel, inquiringly, “what now?”

“About them there ferrets, sir?” said Mr Stiff.

“Oh! take them away by all means,” said Lionel, impatiently.

“Yes, sir, in course; but what shall I do with them?”

“Wring their necks—sell them—send them down the drains after the rats,” exclaimed Lionel; and the wire-fronted box, containing the furry, snakey animals, was carried down; but only for Mr Stiff to return at the end of ten minutes, hot, henpecked, and nervous, to encounter Lionel’s savage glances.

“Well, what next?” cried the young man to the troubled ambassador, who, open to receiving both fires, had now come charged with a message which he hardly dared to deliver, for, after the sweep made of birds and cages, he felt that it was rather dangerous to ask for fresh concessions, and therefore he remained silent until Lionel fiercely repeated his question.

“Please, sir, there’s them tortushes,” said Stiff, at last.

“Con-found the tortoises!” cried Lionel; “give them to some of the street boys.” And, moving to the window, he hailed a doctor’s boy passing with his medicine-basket. “Catch, my lad,” he shouted; and he threw him down—one after the other—three of the sluggish little reptiles, with heads and legs drawn within their shells so as to be out of danger. “Now, I hope you are satisfied,” he said to his landlord; who, after a good hunt had continued to discover in out-of-the-way corners the other three offenders.

Mr Stiff’s only response was a shake of the head—a motion kept up until he reached the lower regions, whence he returned, more hot and flustered than ever, to be greeted with a storm of abuse from his angry young tenant.

No, he would not give up the dogs, that he wouldn’t, and Mr Stiff might go and tell his wife so. He had already thrown away above thirty pounds’ worth of things to satisfy them. He gave twelve pounds for that parrot, he said, and now they wanted him to part with his dogs. Why! he had only got back the bull-terrier after paying ten pounds one day, and five the next, through losing it in Decadia, let alone the heavy sums he had paid for the others. Part with his dogs! No, that he wouldn’t, so there was an end of it; and if Mr Stiff came bothering him again, hang him if he wouldn’t serve him as he had served the tortoises.

There might have been an end of it, so far as Mr Stiff was concerned; but when he returned to the kitchen, he was soon sent back to the drawing-room, with fresh diplomatic charges, which he delivered in spite of the window-throwing threat; but, still failing to make satisfactory arrangements, he was accompanied in a further visit to the first-floor by the irate landlady herself—hot, out of breath, and voluminous in her discourse.

And now the wordy warfare recommenced, charge after charge being made by Mrs Stiff, to the discomfiture of Lionel Redgrave, till a truce had been agreed upon: the young tenant was to retain his chambers on condition that he brought no more “wild beasts” or birds—so Mrs Stiff put it—and did not, as, one by one, the four dogs he was allowed to keep were lost, either try to recover them, or supply their places with fresh favourites.

“Confound the pair!” cried Lionel, as they left the room; and, according to custom, proceeded to solace himself with a cigar.

“I don’t care,” exclaimed Mrs Stiff, as she reached her best kitchen, and sat down panting; “we ought to have persevered, and then we should have had the house clear of his rubbish. How do we know how long the silly young noodle—all money and no brains—will be before he loses even one of his dogs?”

“Don’t you fret about that,” laughed her husband; “that won’t be long first. Why, he never hardly goes out now without some ill-looking vagabond dodging him; and there’s one in particular follows him home as regular as clockwork. Do you think he’s always slinking about for nothing? Not he. You wait a bit, and you’ll see.”

Volume Two—Chapter Ten.

Mutterings.

D. Wragg was out on business, down by the docks. He had left home directly after breakfast, telling his lodger, the little Frenchman, that he was “good to buy five hundred of zebras, or a hundred of grays, or a miskellaneous assortment of anything fresh brought over;” and he tapped his breast-pocket as he spoke, winking and jerking himself up and down.

“Dessay I could find a customer for a monkey, if I brought one home.”

A sharp glance was directed at Patty by Janet, as the dealer spoke; for Wragg’s absence being likely to last the whole day, while Canau’s engagements would occupy him for a considerable portion of it, Mrs Pellet had been persuaded to let Patty come and bear her friend company during the time when she would otherwise have been left alone in charge of D. Wragg’s stock-in-trade.

“Coming back,” said D. Wragg, “I shall see about the four-wheeler, so as we can go down comfortable. What time shall we start?”

He looked at Janet as he spoke, but she was thoughtful and silent; coming back though into the present, upon being again addressed.

“All right, then!” said D. Wragg; “to-morrow morning, directly arter breakfast, say half arter eight, and that will be nine; and you and Mother Winks will be sure and get a basket all ready.”

D. Wragg took his departure, after an affectionate glance all round at the birds and the rest of his stock-in-trade, while the little Frenchman stood lighting his cigarette with the match handed him by Janet.

“You will stay with Janet?” he said to Patty, as he turned to go.

“Yes; she has promised,” said Janet, quickly; “but you will be back in an hour to paint the birds?”

“Good! yes, in one hour;” and raising his hat, he replaced it, old and pinched of brim, very much on one side, and sauntered out.

The two girls, left now alone, stood silently in the shop for a few minutes, and then entered the back-room, where, in a quiet, pre-occupied manner, Janet commenced arranging cardboard, gum, and various packets of feathers, upon the table; an operation interrupted almost directly by a loud tapping upon the shop-counter.

Patty turned to answer the summons for her friend, but, on reaching the glass-door, she started back, looking pale and anxious.

“Oh, pray go!” she whispered to Janet, whose dark eyes were fixed maliciously upon her.

“So it is the gay cavalier, is it?” laughed Janet, in a harsh angry fashion.

“No, no!” whispered Patty, “but that dreadful man. He follows me, and always comes to the shop when he thinks I am here.”

“I’ll answer him,” said Janet, fiercely; and then in a whisper, “should you have turned back if it had been some one else?”

Patty’s sole reply was a look of reproach, one, though, that spoke volumes, as the deformed girl left the room to encounter the heavy, surly-voiced young man, who, upon being sharply asked what he wanted—

“Didn’t quite know. Perhaps it were a bird, or it might be a ferret; but he wasn’t quite sure. How-so-be, she wasn’t the one as was in the shop the other day. Where was the other one? Oh! she was busy, was she? Then p’raps he’d call again;” after which the heavy gentleman loitered slowly out of the shop, to hang about the window, glancing in at the birds and chewing straws.

“He’s gone!” said Janet, returning to the room. “He’s a hideous wretch, ugly as I am. Such impudence! He did not want to buy anything. But what a little coward you are!”

“Yes,” sighed Patty, “I am—I know I am. Ah! Janet,” she continued, after a short pause, “I wish I were a lady!”

“For the sake of the gay cavalier, of course,” laughed Janet, sneeringly, and then she looked angrily across at her companion, who bent her head, whispering to herself—

“She won’t believe me—she won’t believe me.”

Janet’s long fingers now grew very busy over her work, as she nimbly arranged the wing, tail, back, and breast feathers of a partridge, with gum, upon a stiff piece of card, following, with an accuracy learned of the birds amongst which she had so long dwelt, the soft curves and graceful swellings of the natural form, making up pair after pair of ornaments, destined, after being finished off by Canau, and prettily mounted, to be disposed of by D. Wragg at a profitable rate.

Punctual to his time, the little Frenchman returned, and, quite at home, sauntered into the room.

“Good girls! good girls!” he said, lightly. “Now the colours and the brush. Did the Madame Vinks bring the music she said she would borrow from the chef d’orchestre? No? Ah! then, but I am disappoint, and must wait. Janet, that bird is too big—round—plump—too much like the Madame Vinks; but we will paint his beak and leg. He does look fit for the chef—the cook—and not for the ornament.”

Then taking up cakes, first of one colour and then of another, he moistened a camel’s hair pencil in the gum, and, with the skill of a finished artist, gave the finishing touches, beaks, eyes, legs, to the young girl’s work.

In the midst of the operation, though, there was again the sound of a step in the shop.

Patty rose and left the room, for Janet’s fingers were busy with the feathers, and she determined this time not to let cowardice prevent her from doing her friend the little service. The deformed girl’s manner, however, evinced but little gratitude for the act, for she sat with bent head, but flashing eyes and distended nostrils, eagerly listening to catch the slightest word.

And eager whispered words those seemed to her to be, but replied to only in monosyllables, and at last, when she raised her head and gazed through the open door, she winced as if she had been struck, on seeing a be-ringed hand stretched across the counter, and tightly holding one of Patty’s little white palms.

Janet did not heed that the young girl seemed to be vainly trying to release that hand, as she stood right back against the cages at the side of the shop.

It was a bright hot summer day, with window and door open, so as to catch every wandering breeze that might lose itself in the vast maze of bricks and mortar; and as Janet had that one glance in at the shop, the door of communication banged loudly, and her view was cut off.

For a moment the girl’s face was contracted by pain; then a fierce malicious look swept over it as she rose to re-open the door.

“No, no—no, no, mon enfant; let the door rest,” said Monsieur Canau. “Wait till I have finished this one bird. Patty will be here directly.”

Janet shrunk back into her chair, craning her neck forward, though, as she tried in vain to make out the words that were spoken. Her teeth gnawed her lip, and her nails seemed to be pressed into her hands, while the twitching of her wide nostrils told of the agitation that moved her so strongly.

Twice she made as though to leap up, determined not to bear longer the restraint put upon her, but only to subside again into her eager listening attitude, as Monsieur Canau still painted on, humming softly an operatic air the while, as from time to time he stood to watch the progress of his work.

He was evidently totally ignorant of what was taking place in the shop, his occupation for the time being completely filling his mind, so that neither did he notice the agitation of Janet, which grew each moment more marked and decided in character.

At last the girl sprang sharply up, and walked towards the door, but only to be stayed by Canau.

“A moment, little one!” he said; “the Indian ink is not here. Reach it down for me from the closet.”

With trembling hands, Janet crossed to the cupboard, and strove to find the cake of paint; but it was beyond her reach, and she had to take a chair before she could find it and return to the table.

“Good! Now mix me a little upon that saucer; not too much.”

Janet obeyed without a word, and still Canau did not notice her agitation.

At last, though, she was free; and with eyes glittering, she made towards the door, just as she could hear now some hurried words, uttered in a low tone, as if some one were pleading importunately.

Then a few quick broken sentences followed, and one of the cages was slightly moved from its place.

Another moment, and Janet’s hand was upon the fastening of the door, and she had thrown it open in time to see Patty’s drawn farther and farther over the counter in spite of her resistance, and there it was held.

There were more words—hurried, eager words—a faint cry of remonstrance, and then Patty’s hand was snatched away with a violent effort, and she rushed, hot and excited, into the room.

“Aha! there, mind, my child,” said Canau; “but you will make the feathers fly. What is it? Has one of the little dogs got loose, and have you hunted him? Eh? Ah, ma foi! but you are hot and red-faced, and angry! Has any one dared—but what is this?”

Monsieur Canau uttered this last query in fierce tones, for, following rapidly upon the entrance of Patty, there was the dislodging a cage or two, the rattle of some chains, and a general fluttering amongst D. Wragg’s feathered possessions, as Lionel Redgrave, in full pursuit, forced his way into the little room.

Volume Two—Chapter Eleven.

Lionel’s Check.

“There! I told you I would,” cried Lionel, who had hurried round the end of the counter, but not quickly enough to arrest the fleeing girl. “You know I met Wragg—”

He stopped short upon finding himself face to face with Monsieur Canau, who, reading at a glance, from Patty’s flushed and troubled face, the meaning of her retreat, started angrily to his feet, saying—

“Monsieur is in error; he makes a mistake. This room is private, and he will instantly retire.”

Taken by surprise, and half abashed for the moment, Lionel shrank from the shabby little figure before him. For the Frenchman, sallow and seamed of countenance, appeared to brighten up, and his breast began to swell, as he stepped towards the intruder.

But Lionel’s discomfiture did not last a minute. Waiting until Canau was close up to him, he exclaimed—

“And pray, who the devil are you?”

“Who am I, sir?” exclaimed Canau, fiercely; “I, sir, am a gentleman, the protector of these ladies. In my country, sir—in La France—it is not money, but birth, and the habits of a gentleman, that serve to make the aristocrat. You are in error, sir; and you will directly leave this room.”

Lionel was perfectly astounded, and each moment he grew more confused, hardly knowing whether to be amused, or to think that he was in some other part of the world.

Was he dreaming? he asked himself, or was this really Decadia?

But his short reverie was made even shorter, as, quite in an agony, Janet clung to Canau’s hand, whispering imploringly, as she gazed in his face—

“Oh! for my sake, pray, don’t! Do not be angry.”

“Hush! hush! my little one,” said the Frenchman, softly, a most benignant aspect overspreading his poor worn countenance. “Be not afraid—it is nothing. You, sir,” he continued, calmly turning to Lionel, “you are young, and you make mistakes. In my country satisfaction would have been asked; but this is not La France, and I forget. But monsieur will leave at once.”

In spite of himself, angry even at what he chose to call his weakness, Lionel felt that he was overmatched by his little adversary. He knew that they were standing upon different bases, and that while the one occupied by the Frenchman was solid and substantial, his own was rotten and untrustworthy. Above all, too, it would keep striking him as being startling, that there, in that low, wretched street, which he told himself he had visited for the purpose of carrying on a vulgar amour, one should start up with all the grand courtesy of a gentleman of the old régime, to rebuke him, and to call him to account for his flagrant breach of etiquette.

He could do no other; and at last, stepping over the threshold, half annoyed, half puzzled, he suffered himself to be backed into the shop, and then to the door, Monsieur Canau putting on his hat as he progressed, but only to raise it with grim courtesy to the young man, who, frowning and humiliated, involuntarily raised his own, before walking fuming away.

“This young man, this foolish boy—do you encourage him to come here, Janet?” said Monsieur Canau, angrily, as he returned to the room to find both the young girls in tears.

Her answer was a shake of the head, while Patty came forward and placed both her little hands in his, as she thanked him for his conduct, and begged him not to speak angrily to Janet.

“It is well,” he said, nodding his head many times, “and I am not angry with Janet. But this must not be: he must be stopped: he must come here no more.”

He paused, for a loud sob from Janet took his attention, and turning, he found her with her face buried in her hands as she bent down, weeping bitterly.

“Poor child!” said Canau, tenderly, “she is soon alarmed. The scene has been too much; but we will go up to our own room and have some music. It will greatly soothe and calm this troubled spirit. But no—not so; we must wait for Wragg—we must not leave till he comes; and Patty, my child, you must no more be in the shop alone. It is not right for you. But enough—enough of this. I will stay with you now, and we will finish the birds.”

Turning to the painting, he sketched on as if nothing had happened, conversing lightly in French, till seeing once more that the tears would flow, he raised his brows slightly, shrugged his shoulders, rolled up and lit a cigarette, and strolled into the shop, muttering, as he left the girls to each other’s sympathy—

“But this must be stopped: he must come here no more.”

Very thoughtful was Monsieur Canau, as he stood there in the shop, his gaze lighting here and there upon bird, beast, or fish. But he saw them not, for his mind was filled with the recollection of the incident of that morning, and his seamed countenance grew more full of line and pucker as he sent the blue vapour from his cigarette, eddying out upon the air in furious puffs.

Then he walked to the door to look up and down the street, considering within himself the while what he should say to the dealer on his return; then he wondered whether it was the little man’s doing that Lionel Redgrave had gone there while Janet and her friend were in charge, and he frowned again and again as the thoughts came thick and fast. But at last, muttering to himself these words—“He must come here no more,” he was about to turn into the house, when he became aware of a low surly face close to him, apparently watching his every motion.

Volume Two—Chapter Twelve.

D. Wragg’s Day Out.

If there is one thing more loved of your genuine Londoner than shell-fish, it is what he calls an “outing.”

We leave it to the statistician to decide upon the number of bushels of whelks boiled and consumed, after deposition in little white saucers, and peppering with dust; the loads of mussels, the great spongy-shelled oysters, and the barrows and baskets full of periwinkles stewed in Billingsgate or Columbia coppers, sold in ha’porths, and wriggled out with pins, and then luxuriated upon—while we turn to outing. Outing—whether it be by rail, boat, ’bus, van, or the various paintless, age-dried, loose-tired, nondescript vehicles forced into requisition for the purpose.

They are not particular, these Londoners, where or how they go—the very fact of there being the fresh air, green trees, and sunshine, that they miss at home, is sufficient; and all the dwellers upon suburban roads can attest to the air of tired satisfaction to be seen in the faces of many of those who come wearily back after that hardest of hard day’s work—an outing. Tired, but happy all the same, and bearing now flowers, perhaps only lilac or hawthorn; later on in the season, bunches of green or ripening corn—treasures to be placed in water, or suspended dry over glass or picture, to bring back for months to come the recollection of the bright day spent in the country lanes.

The four-wheeler of which D. Wragg had spoken was at the door at the time appointed, ready to take the whole party, including Patty, who had been persuaded by Janet to obtain permission to accompany them, not without some reluctance on her own part; for after yesterday’s scene she felt that she would have preferred the quiet protection of her own home. It was a very shabby, sun-blistered green vehicle, whose appearance suggested a thorough knowledge of every road out of London—the kind of carriage that, give it motive-power, would be sure to find its own way home, in spite even of an obstinate horse. It looked as if accustomed to stop almost of its own accord at road-side public-houses, for its drawer and occupants to drink, while it rested its creaking springs and jangling iron, fetching its breath for another dusty run, as it longed for one of those wayside horseponds through which it might be driven to the easement of its thirsty joints and badly-fitted wheels, almost now disposed to moult the spokes which rattled musically in their freedom from paint.

The four-wheeler was drawn by a curved-nosed beast of an angular nature, whose character was written in his sleepy eye and bended knees, worn by contact with hard or dusty roads. His vertebrae stood up like a minor chain of Andes, extending from his mangy neck to the tableland dominating the cataract-like tail of scrubby hair. To complete his description, he was a horse of a most retiring aspect, whose presence caused dogs to sniff, and cats to run a red rag-like tongue over their white teeth and skinny lips, as they thought of the barrow, and the three small slices upon a skewer.

Mrs Winks was in a state of moist and shiny excitement. She had already placed a fair-sized flat basket beneath the seat, and quite destroyed the appearance of her print apron, by rolling it up and folding it into fidget-suggested plaits.

But it was with no envious eyes that Mrs Winks gazed; for London, she said, was quite big enough for her, and contained all she wanted. Them as liked might go into the country for her, which she was quite sure could show no such flowers, fruits, or vegetables as Common Garding. She liked to see others enjoy themselves, though, and her face beamed with good-humour as she held a chair for Janet to stand upon and climb to her seat, when Canau led her out with as great care and courtesy as if she had been a duchess of the French court.

Patty, although the visitor, had insisted upon giving up to Janet the place of honour beside D. Wragg, who was already seated, and was making the angular horse toss its head in response to the unnecessarily jerked reins.

Then came Patty’s turn to be helped into the back-seat—a bright little blossom with petals of white muslin—and Canau took his place by her side, both he and D. Wragg being perfectly stiff in the board-like white waistcoats, got up for them expressly by Mrs Winks.

That lady received divers admonitions respecting the administration of more water to the stock-in-trade; and a stern order “not to make no mistake; but if that party came about the little spannle, it warn’t the same, and he’d best call again.”

“Hooray! give’s a copper, guv’nor,” shouted a small boy, as D. Wragg now energetically jerked the reins, and cried, “P’st!” and “Go on then!” for the horse would not move, evidently considering that D. Wragg had cried “Wolf,” in his previous jerkings of the reins; but at last the brute ambled off slowly, only, though, to be checked at the end of half-a-dozen yards, for his driver to shout to Mrs Winks—

“Here, I say! them there sparrers, I won’t let ’em go at the price Pogles offered. Don’t you make no mistake: I don’t get my sparrers for nothing—p’st!”

They went on a few yards farther, but only for D. Wragg to recall something else—which made him pull up short and wave Mrs Winks forward with the whip.

“I didn’t give them there bantams their mixter this mornin’, and their combs is white as lather. Give ’em a few drops in their water.”

“Now, do go on, there’s a good soul!” cried Mrs Winks, impatiently; “just as if I couldn’t mind the place as well as you!”

“I don’t think as there’s anything else I want to say,” said D. Wragg, rubbing his nose—what there was of it—with the shaft of the whip.

“No, I shouldn’t think there was,” said Mrs Winks, pettishly; “so now go on.”

Mrs Winks turned to re-enter the shop, but she was calculating too much, for D. Wragg did not set her at liberty until he had called and recalled her to the very end of the street, to warn her about the rats—about that there pair of fancy rabbits—and lastly, to tell her to be sure and not forget about the spannle.

“Now, don’t you make no mistake about that there dorg, for that there’s the particularist part of it all.”

“There! drat the man! what does he mean dragging me away like this?” puffed the dame, fiercely; and, heedless of a shouted order sent flying after her as the four-wheeler turned the corner, she made her way back to the shop, while D. Wragg urged on his horse, working hard at his driving, so as to reach the country for a day of pleasure.

The pleasure was in anticipation, but there was a shade on the brow of both girls, as they seemed to feel the coming of what was to be to one a stroke that should make a tender heart to ache with bitter misery—to bring forth confession upon confession, and to waken both to the fact that there are dreams of the day as well as dreams of the night—dreams of our waking moments as well as dreams when the body is steeped in sleep.

But now, they were still in Decadia, with D. Wragg—no very skilful driver—urging on his horse as he applied the whip and jerked the reins, telling it “not to make no mistake, for he was behind it.”

“Come on, will you?” cried D. Wragg, to increase the speed. Result: the angular horse wagged its tail.

On he went, however, stumbling slowly along, bowing his head in sympathy with a halting leg; and they proceeded through the least frequented streets, D. Wragg being influenced in his choice of them by his want of confidence in himself as a driver.

On still, past the parts where the shops began to look new, but blighted as to trade; where the houses were more thinly scattered, until they had attained to their object of being in the country, when the horse was allowed to take its own pace.

It was not a pleasant pace; for there was, when he went slowly, too much turning of the head, and dragging along of one of the hind legs; while, when apparently startled to find that he was doing but little more than keeping up with the pedestrians on either side of the road, he started off for a hundred yards in a sharper trot, it was made unmusical by the clink, clink of shoe against shoe as the poor brute overstepped itself.

But in spite of these failings, the party in the four-wheeler seemed perfectly content, for they were progressing; suburban residences, with their pleasant green parterres and shrubberies, were gliding by them on either hand, so that there was always something new to notice; and besides, were they not leaving behind the misery, the dirt, and squalor of the Great City?

Learned in such matters, from his connection with the bird fancying and catching professions, D. Wragg had made up his mind to the most countrified spot he knew within easy range of London, the result being, that at mid-day the party were dining al fresco in the pleasantly wooded region beyond Woodford Bridge; and then in the afternoon, Patty and Janet were wandering hand-in-hand—children once more in thought—along by sweet hedgerow and waving corn.

Now they would rest for a while upon some stile to listen to the familiar note of a bird, which seemed more joyous here, though, in a state of freedom; now pausing to mark the busy hum of insect life; then wandering on again, speaking little, but revelling in the sweetness of the country—doubly dear to these prisoners of the great city.

It was their way of enjoying such trips as this; D. Wragg, for his part, taking solitary rambles for the purpose of combining profit with pleasure—clearing his “ex’s” he called it—by hunting out suitable spots for his bird-catching clients, by the side of shady grove, or upon some pleasant common, where feathered prey might be inveigled and melted down into silver,

Canau, on his part, would take his thoughtful walks about, with his little screwed-up cigarette; it being an understood thing that at a certain hour they were all to meet at the little inn where the horse was resting, partake of an early tea, and then face homeward.

Pleasant fields, with here and there a farmhouse or villa, with its closely-shaven lawn and trimly-kept garden full of floral beauties, but presenting no greater attraction to the two wanderers than did hedge and bank rich with darkening leaf, berry, and flower; and on they strolled, both very quiet and thoughtful, forgetting D. Wragg, Canau, and Babel itself, in the enjoyment of the present.

Passing slowly along—picking a harebell or scabious here, a cluster of sweet honeysuckle, or the bugloss there—Patty and Janet wandered over the road-side grass, their steps inaudible, till they reached a high hedge and evergreen plantation, which separated them from the grounds of a pleasant residence, upon whose lawn a party was assembled, apparently engaged in some out-door pastime. They were so close that the voices were easily distinguishable: the light happy laugh of maidenhood mingling with the deeper tones of male companions. Now and then, too, through the trees the light floating drapery of more than one fair girl could be made out, as it swept over the soft lawn.

At first little notice was taken by Patty and Janet; but suddenly, upon hearing a remark to which a merry laughing response was given, the former stopped short, to crimson and then turn pale, as she dropped the flowers which she had gathered.

She stood perfectly motionless, as a laughing, girlish voice, exclaimed—

“No, no; it’s Mr Clayton’s turn now—he’s my partner!”

“Clayton—Harry Clayton; why don’t you come?” exclaimed a man’s voice; “why, I declare, if he isn’t proposing to Miss Rawlinson!”

Patty was pressing forward, parting the leaves with one hand, heedless of the thorns which pricked and tore her soft fingers, before she was able to obtain a passing glance of dark, study-paled Harry Clayton, rising with a smile from the feet of a young lady seated upon a garden-chair—a maiden who, at that distance, seemed to Patty to be very beautiful in her light muslin dress, and framed as it were in the soft verdure around.

Then the listeners’ ears were saluted by a merry burst of laughter, drowning the expostulating tones of a man’s voice; while, with bleeding hands, ay! and bleeding heart, head bent, and the tears running from her great grey eyes, Patty turned and almost staggered away, closely followed by Janet; who, taking her arm, hurried her along, till, crossing a stile, they sat down beside the softly undulating corn.

The stillness was complete around, only broken by the cawing of a colony of rooks amongst some distant elms.

“Oh Patty, Patty, darling!” whispered Janet, taking the bended head to her breast, when, giving way to the desolation of her young heart in the fresh trouble that seemed to have come over her so suddenly, Patty wept long and bitterly, awakened as she was so rudely from a dream in which she had allowed herself to indulge.

“Oh Patty, Patty!” softly whispered Janet again, as, down upon her knees, she rocked the little head that rested against her to and fro—hushing her friend as if she had been a child, murmuring, too, as she bent over her—“And I thought so differently—so differently!”

“Let us go—let us go away from here,” sobbed Patty, after vainly struggling to repress her feelings.

“Not yet—not yet,” said Janet, as she played with the hair which fell upon her breast. “There is no one to see us here, and you are not yet fit for people to look at you. You must not think me cruel if I say I am glad to see you suffer—glad your poor breast can be torn and troubled; for I thought so differently, little one, and that it was the gay handsome boy who had stolen the little heart away; for I knew—I knew—I’ve known that there was something wrong for weeks and weeks; and I’ve been angry and bitter, and hated you; for, Patty, Patty,” she cried, passionately, hiding now her own swarthy face, “I feel that if he would but take me, to beat me, or to be as his dog that he fondles so—to wait upon him—to be his slave—I could be happy. You don’t know—you cannot tell—the misery, the wretchedness of such a heart as mine. Do you think I am blind? Do I not know that he would laugh and jeer at me? Would he not think me mad for looking up at him?” she cried passionately, as she struck her face—her bosom—cruelly with her long, bony fingers. “Do you think I don’t know what a toad I am—how ugly and foul I must be in the eyes of men? And yet I have a woman’s heart; and though I’ve tried not to worship his bold insolent face, I could almost have died again and again for one—only one—of those sweet words he has flung at you so often, when I have thought you were trying to lead him on. If I could but have had one word, to have lived on it for a few moments; even to have known directly after that it was false and delusive! Patty, Patty, darling! you must forgive me, because I have hated you for all this, and without reason. I have been madly jealous, and I believe that I am mad now. Oh! hold me! hold me! and help me to tear out this cruel love that is breaking my heart—killing me—but you cannot understand—even you cannot tell what it is to live without hope.”

“Oh Janet!” sobbed Patty, reproachfully.

“I know, I know,” cried Janet, passionately; “you love him and he is another’s. But you are pretty; your face is fair, and bright, and sweet; and you will soon forget all this, and love again. But look at me—at this face—at this shape! Oh! why did I not die when I was little? instead of living to become such a burden even to myself? They say that the crippled and deformed are vain, and blind to all their failings; but do you think that I am? Oh! no; I could loathe and trample upon myself for being what I am; while he is so brave, and straight, and handsome.”

She clung, sobbing passionately the while, to Patty’s breast—clinging to her with a frightened, wild aspect, as if she almost feared herself, till, by slow degrees, the laboured sobs became less painful, and the flowers which she still clutched in her poor thin fingers withered away upon their bruised stalks.

The corn waved and rustled about them; the gaudy poppies nodded and fluttered their limp petals around; and here and there some cornflower’s bright purple peeped out from amidst the tangle of pinky bear-bind and azure vetch. Now a lark would sing loud and high above their heads, or some finch or warbler, emboldened by the silence, would perch upon the hedge hard by, to jerk out a few notes of its song, and then flit to some further spray.

Peace seemed diffused around, and began by degrees to pervade the troubled hearts of the two girls.

“We must go,” said Janet, at last, as she dried her eyes. “I am going back to London to love my old favourites—the fish and the birds.”

Then, looking up in a quiet and compassionate way at Patty, as if she alone were in trouble—

“Come, darling,” she said, “let’s try and forget all this; but kiss me first, and say that you are not angry—not ashamed of me for what I have said. What makes you so silent? Why do you not answer?”

“I was thinking—thinking,” said Patty, wearily, as she put her arms round Janet’s neck and kissed her; “I was thinking that if I could have been like you I should have been happier, for I should have been wiser and known better.”

“Hush!” said Janet, softly; “I am wise, am I not?”

Then taking Patty’s hand as they rose, in an absent, tired fashion, they walked on toward the little inn, where Monsieur Canau was awaiting them.

The sun still shone brightly, and there was the rich mellowness of the early autumn in the atmosphere, tinting all around with its soft golden haze; but it seemed to the two girls that the smoke and ashes of London had fallen upon the scene, and they longed in secret for the time of departure to arrive.

Once, though, as they sat in the pleasant little inn-parlour, Janet saw her companion start from her abstracted mood, for voices were heard approaching, and it was evident that some of the party from the lawn were about to pass the window of the room where their evening meal was spread.

Janet pressed the agitated girl’s hand beneath the table, as she saw the folds of the little white muslin dress rise and fall; but the act was unseen by the others; and soon afterwards D. Wragg went away to see about the horse, while Canau lit his cigarette, and strolled outside, leaving the girls alone.

They sat together on the back-seat going home, while the horse jogged slowly along, with Monsieur Canau buried in thought, and D. Wragg extremely quiet, save when he uttered some admonition to the animal he was driving.

Hardly a word was spoken, but heart seemed whispering to heart of the secrets that had been hidden until that day, when, as if with one impulse, they had both leaped forth into the light.

“What were you thinking about?” said Janet at last, softly, as she turned to gaze in Patty’s face, so as to see that her companion was gazing up to where, clear and bright, the stars looked down upon the shadowy lanes.

“I was trying to read how it will all end—what is to be my fortune,” said Patty; and she turned with a sad smile towards her questioner, and passed one plump arm round Janet’s frail waist. “And you? can you read your fortune there?”

“No need—no need,” said Janet, sadly. “There are no good fairies now, Patty, to touch the deformed with their wand and make them straight and bright. I know my fortune—to be looked upon with aversion to the end. But there must be no more trifling,” she said, fiercely. “You must not come to us any more. He has been tempted into coming and spending his foolish money in the expectation of seeing you; but he must be kept away now.”

They rode on in silence for some time, during which D. Wragg had his hands pretty full with the horse, which seemed to have taken a sudden desire to see whether the left-hand hedge was black-thorn or white; and baulked in his desire to investigate on that side, made a desperate effort to reach the right. This, however, was also checked, and he settled down once more into a slow jig-jog of the most somnolent nature for those who were behind.

“I am not so mad,” said Janet, softly, after a while, “that I do not know what is just and right. He shall speak no more to my darling. For, in my strange, uncouth, wild way, Patty, I love you, not as I might a sister, but with something of the desire a mother must feel for her little one.”

And then there was silence and sadness as the two girls sat hand-in-hand till the first straggling gaslights were visible, sitting with out another word till Monsieur Canau helped them to alight, and then saw Patty safely to the door of the Duplex Street house, where the end of Patty’s day out was a sigh and many tears.

Volume Two—Chapter Thirteen.

Janet a Listener.

Janet went to her lonely room, sad and sinking of heart, to kneel upon a box by the window, gazing out above the house-tops, as if her wishes were far away in the country from which she had so lately returned.

An hour passed like this, and then from below there came the sound of voices in altercation, followed almost directly after by the noise of a struggle. Then, as she stood trembling, there were the panting, hard breathing, and half-stifled ejaculations of those who seemed to be engaged, and then utter silence.

Janet crept back to her box, for the sound of quarrel and fight was no uncommon one in Brownjohn Street, and again she knelt there thinking—thinking always, with her glittering eyes hot and aching. But now came the sounds again, and, startled and nervous, she ran to her door, which she opened, and then stood out upon the landing, for the voices seemed to come from down-stairs, at the street-door, and one of these she recognised as that of D. Wragg, the other belonging to the heavy young man who had of late taken so much interest in the contents of the dealer’s shop.

“Now, look here, Jack Screwby,” Janet heard D. Wragg exclaim; “don’t you make no mistake; trade’s trade, but I ain’t cut my wisdom-teeth for nothing. So look here; if you come to my shop again, and speak to them gals as you did, and hang about here as you’ve hung, and talk about it like you’ve talked, I’ll—well, there; just you look out and you’ll see.”

“Wot’s he allus a hangin’ about for, then,” growled the other voice; “you wouldn’t talk like this sort to him—no I ain’t! I ain’t drunk—so now then! P’raps I’m as good a man as he’s, and got a bit o’ money to go into the fancy with any time I like; and arter the good turns I’ve done you, if you were anything of a man, you’d say, Come and be pardners. I’ve done you no end of good, D. Wragg; and now, as I wants to be good friends, you’re all wrong with a chap as is p’raps ekalls with them as does in dawgs.”

“You air drunk, that’s what you air!” exclaimed D. Wragg, indignantly, “or else you’d never come talking like that there! Pardner, indeed!” he continued, contemptuously; “there, get out!”

Then once more there came the sound of scuffling, evidently caused by D. Wragg supplementing his order with the efforts of his hands, Mr Screwby opposing with all the resistance he could bring to bear.

Before many moments had passed, it was evident that the owner of the mansion had gained the victory over his semi-intoxicated foe; for the scuffle was followed by two or three oaths, a clattering of heavy boots, and then the banging of the side-door; after which Janet stood ready to retreat, as she heard the “stump—stump” of D. Wragg’s lame foot coming along the passage.

“Pardner, indeed!” muttered D. Wragg, “pardner, indeed! He—he—he—he—he!” he sniggered; and then he seemed to stand holding by the bottom of the balustrade to indulge in a few minutes’ sardonic mirth. “He’s as drunk as an owl—a vagabond! Dursn’t tell tales, though, if I did kick him. Let him tell, though, if he likes; who’s afraid?”

Judging from the tones of his voice, though, an unbiassed listener would have been disposed to say that Mr D. Wragg was also rather far gone towards being inebriated; while, as to the fact of being afraid, if he were not in a state of fear—why did he speak so loudly?

The fact was, that after setting down his friends, D. Wragg had driven off with the rickety four-wheeler, whose problem still remained unsolved, to wit, how it had possibly contrived to hold together for another day. But held together it had, even till its return to the owner’s; and D. Wragg had made his way back to Brownjohn Street to finish the day with what he called a “top-off,” at one of the flaming gin-palace bars, where he had encountered Mr John Screwby, who then roused the dealer’s ire by certain references, one and all of which Mr D. Wragg had classed under the comprehensive term of “cheek!”

“Shall I stop him and speak to him?” thought Janet, as she listened to the heavy step; then, after a few moments’ hesitation, “No,” she said, “but I will keep watch.”

That Janet intended to keep her word was evident from the fact that she hurried back to her room, where the window was still half open, and looking out cautiously to make sure who was the man with whom D. Wragg had been in dispute, there, as she had expected, was Mr John Screwby in one of his favourite attitudes—that of leaning with his back up against a lamp-post, staring heavily at the house, and, drunk or sober, full of exuberant action, which manifested itself in nods and shakes of the head and fist. His anger could be heard, too, in low and ominous growls, similar to those emitted by caged wild beasts when their keeper forces them to display their noble proportions by stirring them up with a long pole.

At last, though, Janet had the satisfaction of seeing the brute slouch away, but not without turning once more to shake his fist at the door, as he said a few words which did not reach the listener’s ear, and then he was gone.

The words were loudly enough spoken, but they were drowned by the rattling wheels of a passing cart; the utterance, though, seemed to give Mr John Screwby the greatest satisfaction, promising to his animal heart the gratification of a grudge; for the words were—

“I’ll have it out o’ some on yer for this!”

Volume Two—Chapter Fourteen.

Brought Home.

Whish-ish! whoosh-oosh! over and over again, Ichabod had pumped the wind-chest full, till the handle came down heavily, and the boy had balanced himself upon it with the hard wood deeply impressing his stomach, and enjoyed the luxury of a ride down. Then he had seen the little leaden weight run up again, as the wind slowly filtered out. But though he repeated the process some half-dozen times, no stops were drawn out, no loud chords came pealing from the organ, and at last, tired out with pumping wind for nothing, Ichabod Gunniss spun the little weight about, and pulled at it until he broke the string, and saw the end disappear inside the organ-case, when he pulled out his pocket-knife, whetted it a while upon the sole of his ill-shaped shoe, and, for about the twentieth time, he began to carve that eternal “I.G.” upon the back of the organ-case. But, in spite of the whetting, the knife was blunt; and though, by going with the grain of the wood, Ichabod had no difficulty in making a capital I; yet, as soon as he came to the grand curves of the capital G, he found out the difficulty of his task, and after a few slips and slides, he gave the thing up in despair.

Jared was in the curtain-hung pew, but he had not been heard to move for quite half an hour. Perhaps he was composing a new voluntary, perhaps asleep; but all was perfectly still, so Ichabod looked about for something with which to amuse himself.

Now, it will be allowed that the interior of a church is not the place where you would expect to find many objects specially adapted for passing time in any other than a religious way, particularly if that church be empty as regarded its congregation. So, for a while, the boy looked round in vain: there were no flies to catch, for the weather was growing cold; there was not room to spin his top; it required smooth stones and moisture to work his sucker; pitching his worsted cap up in the air and catching it upon his head was all very well, but it was tiring; and though, on the whole, tolerably satisfactory, yet without appreciative spectators it was not lasting as a pastime. He could not indulge in the luxury of tying himself in knots bypassing his legs over his head; not that he was afraid of Jared coming, but on account of his being a fast growing boy, and given to filling his garments very tightly soon after they had been served out to him. In fact, at the present time, there was a good deal of wrist beyond the cuffs of his coat, and an interval between his vest and leather lower garments, which had of late fitted him so tightly, that, unknown to the world at large, Ichabod had treated them as an extra cuticle, and slept in them rather than toil for a quarter of an hour to get them off; while, now, to have attempted anything after the fashion of an elastic brother would have had the effect of making him shed his coat like a caterpillar, always supposing that Ichabod’s muscles were stronger than the charitable integument. Besides, if he got himself into such difficulties, he might be cuffed—not that Jared ever had cuffed him, but from Ichabod’s experience of human nature, he knew it to be given to cuffing, and it seemed quite possible that such a proceeding might intrude itself upon his gymnastic exercise, even from so quiet and long-suffering a person as Jared Pellet.

There seemed to be nothing of any kind to amuse the boy, though he looked with great interest at the largest pedal-pipe, and wished that he could get inside, and treat it as if it were a chimney. But it was out of his reach, so he scratched his head in despair.

“What’s the good o’ bringin’ a cove here if he ain’t a-going to play?” he muttered, rubbing his nose viciously, and then once more seizing the bellows-handle, and pumping at it until the wind-chest must have suffered from plethora, and been well-nigh to bursting, while the compressed air forced its way out again with an angry hiss. “He’s asleep, that’s wot he is,” muttered Ichabod.

The boy then had another look round for something fresh, but there was nothing more amusing to be seen than an old dog’s-eared S.P.C.K. prayer-book in half a liver-coloured cover, bearing the following legend:—

judgment dai wil say were is the book you stole awa from Jane Muggins hir book, January 9, 1838.

- the rest being torn away, while the above was soon peeled off by the busy Ichabod, and scattered about the floor. He then, before returning the book to its place, ornamented the title-page with a fancy portrait of Mr Purkis, the beadle, that gentleman being indicated by a powerful cocked hat, which gave the sketch the appearance of a shoemaker’s half-moon knife, or straight-handled cheese-cutter. Then Ichabod yawned loudly and wonderfully, displaying an elasticity of facial muscle that was surprising, while it was evident that his mental faculties were busy at work devising some new délassement,—the piece of string with a button at one end, which he had in his pocket, and which was generally needed for spinning and setting up one of the immortal Decadia tops. These were in Ichabod’s day known to be bigger and better than any other tops in London, could only now be plaited, crochet-chain fashion, after flicking it like a whip to make it snap, and however much of a pastime to a young lady, it proved but tame to Ichabod, who only plaited it once, and pulled it out again with a snatch, chewed the end, and wound up his top. Then he struck a Greek statue sort of attitude as he made believe to spin it, but not without bringing his knuckles sharply into contact with the organ-case, and finding their skin more easily removable than the leathern garments, into whose pockets he now replaced the top and string, as, with both hands plunged deeply, he routed in their recesses for something fresh.

He brought forth his string of buttons and polished his leaden nicker—a flat disc that had evidently been moulded in the top of a brass weight. He counted the buttons, rubbing favourite specimens upon the sleeve or his coat, and admiring the crests upon the “liverys,” and the shanked and pearl buttons. Then he stripped them nearly all off the string to give place to a metal ornament with its great G, which, after a few minutes’ hesitation, he cut off his own coat, looking guiltily round after the deed to see that he was not observed. Then commenced the restoration or re-threading of the buttons, when the one bearing the great G looked so well in its pewter beauty, that Ichabod could not resist the temptation, but knife-armed, he carefully felt behind him, and cut the two ornaments from their abiding-place at his waist, where they had long reposed upon the back of his coat, just above the little tails; and then his itching fingers began to clutch at those in front, which he would have cut off also but for a wholesome dread of castigation.

But the three already appropriated were a great acquisition to his string, and when, according to size, the buttons once more occupied their places, and had been admired, and polished, and breathed upon, Ichabod sighed for something new, as he replaced the collection in his pocket.

Then the boy had another good pump at the bellows-handle, riding down upon it more than once; but there was still no demand for the air, so he had to devise some other occupation to satisfy the cravings of his restless spirit.

Those leather inexpressibles of his were almost inexhaustible in treasures, for now the lad’s face lighted up as he found something fresh to suit—a dirty, sticky ball of india-rubber, which, with a little masticating, became available for the purpose of pulling out, and then after the enclosure of a small portion of air, became the base of several little bladders, which would, when compressed between the thumb-nails, explode with a sharp crack.

But even that would not last for ever, and Ichabod next brought forth a squirt, but this unfortunately was useless without water, and had to be put back after a polish upon the coat-sleeve, when he again declared it to be a shame to bring him there when he “worn’t wanted;” and feeling more than ever certain that the organist was asleep, he began to creep on tip-toe towards where he could see through the curtains, and inspect the interior of the organ-pew.

“I knowed he was,” muttered Ichabod, relieving his feelings by making a grimace at his employer—one evidently copied from a carved corbel outside the church; for, drawing down his lower eyelids with his forefingers, he hooked the fourth digits in the corners of his rather too capacious mouth, and stretched eyes, and lips to their greatest extent.

The face produced was striking, especially as seen in the dim light of the old church; but Jared Pellet saw it not, though the boy altered his opinion as to the organist’s somnolency upon hearing something which sounded like a sob. For, with face buried in his hands, Jared was bending down over the keys, motionless, and evidently suffering from some bitter mental pang.

Ichabod, upon hearing the sob, darted back to his place in an instant, to seize the handle and pump more wind into the once again empty wind-chest; but hearing nothing more, he decided in his own mind that the noise he had heard was but a snore, and he stole forward to relieve his feelings with another grimace. But this time he tortured not his physiognomy; for, making some slight noise as he peered through the curtains, he encountered the full gaze of the organist, who was looking up; and by some strange fascination, man and boy remained as it were fixed by each other’s eyes, for quite a minute.

“Plee, sir, didn’t you call?” said Ichabod, who was the first to break the silence.

“Call—call!” echoed Jared. “No, I did not call.”

“Shall I blow, plee, sir?” said the boy.

“A blow!” murmured Jared, dreamily; “yes, a heavy blow—a blast from one of the storms of life!” and he once more buried his face in his hands, while Ichabod relieved his feelings by sticking his tongue into his cheek, and lifting up and putting down one leg; before he again spoke to ask if there was anything the matter.

“Go home, boy—go home,” said Jared, slowly, and speaking as if he were half-stunned.

“Shan’t you want to practise, sir?” queried Ichabod.

Jared made a negative movement of the head, and, waiting for no further dismissal, the boy caught up his cap, scuttled down the stairs, clattered out of the door, and was gone, whooping and hallooing with delight at his freedom, while the organist, slowly lifting his head, and looking about as if in a weary stupefying dream, took up a letter from the key-board, where it had lain, and where he had found it that day when he came to practise—a letter written in the vicar’s bold hand, sealed with the great topaz seal that hung to his broad old-fashioned watch-ribbon, and directed to him, while it enclosed a little bright peculiarly-shaped key, which Jared remembered to have seen lying in his music-locker for weeks past, when he had come up into the loft, though, after the first time, when he had picked it up and turned it over, it had hardly taken his attention. But now, slowly and half-tottering, he rose, and left the organ-pew with the letter in one hand—an old-fashioned letter, written upon blue quarto paper, folded so as to dispense with an envelope—the key in the other, descended the stairs, crossed nave and aisle to one poor-box, where he tried the key, to find that it opened the lock with ease; then sighing as he closed it, without noticing that the vicar had removed the contents that morning when he left the letter for the organist upon the key-board of the instrument, Jared crossed the silent church to the other door, to try the box there, with the same result; when once more ascending to the gallery, he stood again in the organ-pew, looking towards the chancel, and then read his letter for about the sixth time.

Once only, he looked up: it was afternoon, and the sun streamed in at the great west window, illumining the chancel, when there, as if lit up especially for him to read, the golden letters of that particular sentence brighter than the others—bright and flashing, but stained by the sunbeams that pierced a painted pane of a fiery hue—there were the words—

“Thou shalt not steal.”

Jared Pellet groaned as his eyes fell and rested upon the paper he held, and he began once more to read, muttering now and then a word or two or a sentence half aloud.

“No prosecution—came with a friend—wished to try the organ—found a false key amongst the music—knew wards—flashed upon him that it opened the poor-boxes—own conscience be my punishment—engagement terminate at Christmas—best for all parties—and may God forgive me.”

“And may God forgive me,” groaned Jared aloud, after a long pause. “Forgive me for what?” and then he stood turning over and over the key he held in his hand, scanning it again and again, as if it were indeed the key to the mystery of the robbery. He wiped his forehead, and looked about him trying to think, and wondering from whence came the key. He tried to determine in his own mind the day upon which he had first seen it, but without success; though even had he been sure of the date, the knowledge, he was obliged to own, would have been valueless. It seemed but too certain that an enemy had placed the key where it had been found, though he struggled long against the thought, saying plaintively to himself, “I have no enemies.” And indeed, if his assertion were not absolutely true, he certainly had none of his own wilful making.

Then he sighed again bitterly, folded the key in the letter as he had first found it, took it out, and read the letter again, though he now knew every word by heart, and could repeat it with his lips, but it was, as it were by rote, and the meaning seemed hard to understand. It had come upon him with such a shock, he was so utterly unprepared, that when at last more than once the truth had forced its way home, he roused himself with an effort from the prostration it caused, and tried to find some grain of comfort in the letter, which, however, afforded it not. Again he folded the key inside the missive in a dreary absent way, replaced his books in the locker, and was about to drop the cushioned lid, when he recalled where he had last seen that key, and raised a few sheets of music to make sure that it was not still there, in the farther corner where it had slipped. But no; there was only a tuning-fork, and a little fluey dust mingled with scraps of paper. So he dropped the lid, and sat down for a few moments, with his hands to his forehead, but he raised himself again, opened the organ, then lifted the lid of the locker, took out a piece, and placed it upon the stand ready for practice; but remembering directly after that the boy was gone, he once more closed the instrument, and looked helplessly about, till, as if seized by some sudden impulse, he caught up his hat and hurried out of the church, forgetting to lock the door, but hastening back to do so when he had gone about a hundred yards.

Volume Two—Chapter Fifteen.

Prove it.

A quarter of an hour after leaving the church, Jared was at the door of the vicar’s residence, where his summons was answered by the old Lincolnshire woman who had come up to London with “Maister,” and filled the posts of cook and housekeeper.

Now, most people would have told their servants to say, “Not at home,” to such-and-such a person; but the vicar had his own ideas upon such matters, and the old woman was ready for the expected visitor, for she exclaimed—

“Maister said he wouldn’t see you, if you called, Mr Pellet; and if you wanted to say anything, you was to write.”

“But did he say”—ventured Jared.

“No; he didn’t say not another word,” said the old housekeeper; and Jared turned disconsolately away, walking down the street in a purposeless manner, until, moved by another idea, he roused himself and hurried in the direction of Mr Timson’s stores, where he found the head of the establishment, very stern and important, in his counting-house, but apparently ready to listen to reason.

“It’s all a mistake, sir; I’m as innocent as a child,” exclaimed Jared.

“Hadn’t you better shut the door first, sir?” said Timson, drily; when Jared hurriedly closed the glass-door of communication with the warehouse. “That’s better,” said he. “As well not to let all the world know.”

“It’s all a mistake though, Mr Timson,” again exclaimed Jared.

“Just so—just so, Mr Pellet, sir; but prove it;” and Timson thrust his fingers into his waistcoat, and then drew himself back as far as he could.

“That key has been in my locker for weeks and weeks now,” said Jared. “I saw it lying there, and thought it might have been left by somebody. It never occurred to me that it would open the poor-boxes.”

Mr Timson raised his eyebrows, and looked deeply into the account-book before him, and then he placed three fingers upon the three columns—pounds, shillings, and pence—and slowly and methodically thrust them up the paper, as if calculating the amount of all three at one and the same time. He muttered, too, several indistinct words, which sounded like the names of various sums of money, before he turned again to Jared.

“I always told the vicar it was false keys, Mr Pellet; but if we’ve put the saddle upon the wrong horse, or the boot upon the wrong foot, why the wearer must kick it off, sir.”

“But you don’t think that I did it, sir?” exclaimed Jared, pitifully.

“Well, I don’t know, Mr Pellet—I don’t know,” said the churchwarden. “I don’t know, indeed, sir. I don’t want to think it’s you; but what are we to do? Mr Gray comes to me, lays his hand on my shoulder, and he says—only last night, mind, sir”—(Mr Timson had his apron on, and therefore he said “sir”)—“‘Timson, I’ve found out the culprit’.”

“‘Then I hope you’re satisfied, sir,’ I said.

“‘No,’ he said, ‘no, not at all; I’ve found him out, but now I wish to goodness that I had not, for it seems a cruel thing.’

“‘Who is it, sir?’ I said.

“‘Oh!’ he said, ‘it’s poor Pellet I found a false key at the bottom of his book-locker when I took the organist of St Chrysostom’s to try our instrument.’

“‘Pooh!’ I said, ‘nonsense, sir! stuff!’

“‘What!’ he says; ‘why, you suspected him yourself, and said you were sure he was the culprit only the other day.’”

“Oh Mr Timson!” groaned Jared. “Now don’t you be in a hurry,” grumbled the churchwarden, pettishly. “Hear me out, can’t you. You young fellows always will be so rash.”

Jared raised his hands deprecatingly, and the churchwarden continued—

“‘Very true, sir,’ I said, ‘so I did everybody in turn; but, depend upon it, ’tain’t Pellet.’ Those were the very words that passed, Mr Pellet; and now you’ve got to prove yourself innocent, that is, if you can, sir; for, though I stuck up for you to the vicar, I must say that it looks very black against you. We wanted to find the key to the mystery, and we found it, sir, in your box, so you’ve got to prove yourself an honest man, and show how the key got there.”

“But I can’t, Mr Timson,” said Jared. “I’ve not the slightest notion.”

“Then it looks all the blacker against you, Mr Pellet, that’s all I can say—blacker than ever—Kyshow at the very least, without so much as a dust of green to relieve it.”

Jared groaned.

“Why, sir, not saying it was you,” continued Mr Timson, excitedly, “a man must be a terrible scoundrel to go and rob the poor, even if he was poor himself, when he was situated as you are, and knew that the vicar, or somebody else not far from you at the present time, might—I do not say would, sir—might have helped him out of a difficulty if he had been in a corner.”

Standing hat in hand, Jared looked at the churchwarden, while for a moment the little glass-enclosed office seemed to swim round him; but only for a moment; then came a choking sensation in his throat, and a blank dreary hopelessness settled down upon him. He tried to speak, but the words would not come; he endeavoured to make up some defence, to think out some plan of action, but, blank, blank, blank—all seemed blank and hopeless, and it almost appeared to him now that he really was the thief they took him for.

“Prove it, sir—prove it,” resumed Timson, placing his thumb upon the edge of his desk, and pressing it down as if he had Jared beneath it, and was keeping him there until he proved his innocence. “I’m sorry, sir, very sorry, sir, and so is the vicar. Don’t you go and think, Mr Pellet,” he continued, in quite an indignant tone,—“don’t you go and think that we wanted the poor-boxes robbed; we didn’t, you know; and we didn’t want to find out that it was you.”

Jared waved his hand deprecatingly.

“Well, well, well, sir,” exclaimed Timson. “Prove it, sir, prove it—as I said before, prove it,” and he pressed the thumb down harder and harder.

“But, man, how can I?” exclaimed Jared, desperately.

“Shoo—shoo—shoo—shoo—shoo;—shoo—shoo!” ejaculated Timson. “Don’t raise your voice like that, sir, or I shall be indignant too. It won’t do, Mr Jared Pellet. You’re in the wrong, sir—you’re in the wrong.”

“I know, I know, Mr Timson,” said Jared, imploringly; “but what can I do?”

“Prove it, sir, prove it,” said Timson again. “I want to see you proved innocent; and if we are wrong, there’s my hand—leastwise, there it is when you’ve proved it;” and for fear that Jared should seize upon it, he tucked it under the tail of his coat, turned his back to the fire, and then stood looking fiercely at the dejected man before him.

But Jared had no thought of seizing the churchwarden’s hand, for as he stood there, bent and wrinkled of brow, he was going over, for the fiftieth time, the contents of the vicar’s letter, and then thinking of those at home, and the poverty that this loss of his situation must bring upon them. Then he thought of the disgrace, from which he felt that he must free his character; and in imagination he saw himself once more proud and erect in the presence of his accusers, but refusing with scorn the prayer of the vicar that he should continue to be organist. No! that would never be; he would fulfil the duties to the last, and then, once more clear in character, he would seek for some fresh means of subsistence for the family in Duplex Street.

No organ here—no glass reflector in Timson’s counting-house; but Jared was still dreaming of being cleared from the accusation, when he awoke with a start, as the churchwarden exclaimed again—

“Prove it, sir, prove it!”

“Ay! prove it; but how?” and desolate, despairing, and half broken-hearted, Jared Pellet left the office, seeing nothing external, but mechanically making his way into the streets, where he wandered about, hour after hour, aimless and dejected; his mind a very chaos of conflicting thoughts, save in one instance, where brightly and strong shone a ray from his clouded imagination, and that ray was before him always.

Other plans were made, broken, and confused, but this still stood out clearly before him—come what might, they must not know of this at home—for he felt that the secret lay almost in his own breast, since a few words to Purkis and Ruggles would ensure their silence.

Volume Two—Chapter Sixteen.

A Telegram.

Upon the principle that it never rains but it pours, trouble seemed just now to be rife, and Patty took upon herself more than her share. Janet used to say again and again that her friend must visit her no more, but sorrow only seemed to link them more and more together. Janet, however, was a good deal at Duplex Street, and there used to be some mournful old minor quartettes played. Patty presiding at the piano, while Jared scraped the bass out of an old violoncello, to Canau and Janet’s first and second violin.

But somehow, at this time, Decadia seemed to have a fascination for Patty, and though Mrs Jared was ready to complain, she saw that her child was suffering, and did not give utterance to her thoughts.

The consequence was that Patty was more and more at the dingy house, her light step passing, as it were, too quickly over the pollution around to take taint therefrom. There were times, though, when the incidents at the place seemed to repel her, and she would determine to stay away; but Janet’s troubles, and the unvarying kindness of Canau would have been sufficient to draw her there without the yearning look in Janet’s great pleading eyes when her friend had been longer away than usual. And when suspicion had fallen upon the house, let people think what they might, Patty told herself that it was her duty to cling to her friends the closer for their troubles.

Now, if in these nineteenth century busy hurrying days we were in want of a seer, we should hardly go to the ranks of the constabulary to seek him; but all the same it seemed as if police constable James Braid was right in his prophetic mind when, in allusion to various visits that he had seen paid by Lionel Redgrave to Decadia, he shook his head, and exclaimed, “You’ll go there wunst too often—wunst too often, my fine fellow.”

Police constable James Braid must have been right; for it came to pass one day that Harry Clayton was seated in his rooms with the “oak sported,” a wet towel round his weary head, and his mind far away in the antique, when there was a summons at the door, and his attendant placed a telegram in his hand. He took the envelope eagerly, for to a nearly friendless man, messages, even letters, were but occasional visitants; but his countenance rapidly assumed a pained expression, as he comprehended more fully the meaning of the abrupt words he read, and associated them with the past.

The message was as follows:—

“From Richard Redgrave, Regent Street, to Harry Clayton, Caius College, Cambridge.—Pray come to me directly: Lionel has disappeared.”

For a few moments Harry stood with the paper half crushed in his hand, a flood of recollections, dammed back by hard study, now sweeping all before it, and causing him intense suffering.

“I feared as much—I might have known it would come to this,” he said, bitterly; and then he paced rapidly up and down his room, his brow knit and the face of Patty seeming to torture him, as he tried to drive it from his mind.

Within an hour, he was at the Cambridge Station, and in due time reached Lionel’s chambers in the Quadrant, to obtain the following brief information from Mr and Mrs Stiff.

That Lionel Redgrave had gone out one evening—this was the eighth day since—and had not returned. That they had waited three days, and then, feeling very uneasy, they had written down to Elton Court to Sir Richard Redgrave, who had immediately come up to town.

Sir Richard was now absent, but ten minutes later he returned, to greet Harry most warmly.

He was a tall, stern, military-looking, old man, but there was a mild, appealing look in his eye, and he seemed worn out with trouble and anxiety, for he was clinging to his last straw—to wit, the hope that Harry Clayton would remember enough of his son’s haunts to give some clue to his whereabouts, and thus relieve him of his horrible suspense.

“Sit down, Sir Richard,” said Harry, seeing his exhaustion.

The old man—as a rule, haughty and unbending—seemed as obedient as a child, and taking a chair, sat attentively watching the younger’s thoughtful face, as he rested his forehead upon his hand.

“He went out a week yesterday?” said Harry, after a few moments.

“Yes; this day makes the eighth.”

“Do you know what money he had?”

“Nothing for certain; but I sent him a cheque for fifty pounds in excess of his allowance, and at his wish, only two days before. See here!”

Sir Richard opened his tablets and showed Harry the memorandum.

“And look here,” continued the anxious father; “he had taken this off—roughly too,” and the speaker drew from his pocket the large old-fashioned signet-ring which the young man always wore, and which Harry well knew, from its tightness, to have been never off the young man’s finger.

Harry took the ring, and turned it over in his hand to find that it had been cut through in the thinnest part, evidently by the nippers of a bullet-mould, such as he knew to be in a pistol-case in the bedroom—a fact that he proved by opening the case, expecting that a pistol had been taken out; but though the nippers corresponded exactly with the cut, the pistol was in its place.

“He does not seem to have had any jewellery with him,” continued Sir Richard, “unless they are fresh purchases which I have not seen him wear. Watch, chains, solitaires, studs, rings, are all there, but no money.”

“Ring for the landlord,” said Harry abruptly; and, soon after, Mr Stiff entered the room, to stand mildly rubbing his hands, and smoothing a few greasy strands over the bald place on his head.

“Mr Stiff!”

“Sir to you,” said the landlord, arranging his head in his all-round collar, where it looked like a ball in a cup.

“Have you any reason to believe that Mr Redgrave had lately been in the habit of visiting either of the low districts—Decadia, for instance?”

Harry winced as he uttered these last words, but his brow was knit, and there was an air of determination in his face that told of a set purpose.

“Well, sir, I don’t see as I can say. You know what a gent he was for birds and things of that sort.”

“Yes, yes, exactly,” said Harry, eagerly; “and who brought them?”

“Well, you see, sir, sometimes one, and sometimes another; often it would be a little devil’s imp in breeches and charity-cap, as said his name was Ikey Bod; ketched him, I did, sliding down the French-polished bannisters more than once when I’d gone up with things to the drawing-room. Very often too it was that little lame man as come about the dog being lost. But there’s been nothing of that sort, sir, since my good lady, sir, Mrs Stiff, made a few words about Mr Redgrave having so much live-stock—tarriers, and ferrets and such—in the house.”

“That will do, Mr Stiff,” said Harry, quietly.

“But if I might make so bold as to say, sir—”

“That will do for the present Mr Stiff,” said Harry again; and the landlord wore quite an aggrieved aspect as he turned to leave the room.

“Do you think, then, that you have a clue?” exclaimed Sir Richard, eagerly, as soon as they were alone.

“I do not know—I hope so—I fear so,” said Harry, thoughtfully. “But stay a while—tell me first what steps you have taken.”

Sir Richard looked disappointed, but he went on speaking.

“I directly placed myself in communication with the police, but so far they have done nothing. But I am upon thorns—what do you know?”

“Nothing for certain, Sir Richard; but let me try alone—let me see what I can do,” said Harry, thoughtfully; for he was trying to arrange his plan of action, as he sought to pierce the cloud that seemed to be ahead. He knew but too well, from old associations, the character of the region which he now felt, from his own reasoning, Lionel had been in the habit of visiting, and with this thought came a sense of misery that crushed him.

He called up from the past a soft gentle face, and rage and jealousy seemed for a while to make him half mad, till they passed away to make room for a feeling of pity, as he muttered two words, “Flight—France!” and then wiped the cold dew of perspiration from his forehead.

In a few minutes, though, he was once more himself, and sternly devoted to the object in view.

“Yes,” he said, after a pause, during which Sir Richard had watched him as if life depended upon his words, “let me go first;” for he thought to spare the old man pain, and prevent more than one angry scene, if that which he surmised should prove to be true.

Sir Richard seemed too much prostrated with that which he had gone through during the past days to offer resistance to his plans, and, besides, he had great faith in the young man’s foresight and discernment. So, yielding at once, he consented to stay, while, with throbbing temples, Harry Clayton turned from the house and made his way through the labyrinth of streets which led to Decadia.

Volume Two—Chapter Seventeen.

In Quest.

Harry Clayton’s brain was very busy, for he was able to evoke from his imagination much of that which had in reality occurred. He did not give Lionel the credit of being worse than most young men of his age, but he could easily surmise that he would be sure to repeat his visits to Brownjohn Street, and now it was that he cursed his own weakness, and blamed himself as the cause of all that had happened.

“Had I acted like a man,” he groaned, “I might have saved her.”

Had he not had proofs from the landlord that a regular correspondence had been kept up with the shop in Decadia, and, as he argued, Patty would doubtless be often there, and feel flattered by the attentions of a baronet’s son. The purchases must have been made at D. Wragg’s shop, and Patty had been used as a decoy-bird.

The character of the people seemed to increase in iniquity, as he thought upon all the surroundings. Then he thought he would go to Duplex Street first, but he cast the idea aside.

“They are honest people, and doubtless I should find them broken-hearted,” he mused.

It was all plain enough—thought only strengthened the conviction—the Brownjohn Street shop had been used as a trap, and Patty the bait. The prophecy uttered had come true—Lionel had gone there once too often.

But what had been the result? Had he gone away—not alone?—or was there some dark deed here to be brought to light?

His thoughts changed the next moment, and, as he hurried along, he told himself that he was, after all, perhaps only exaggerating; that this was the nineteenth century, and that now-a-days people were not inveigled and entrapped; that robbery was certainly common, and often accompanied with violence; but that murder was rare, and, when committed, was for the sake of greater gain than could be obtained from a young man going to keep an assignation.

Harry winced as that last word occurred to him, and he strode on swiftly, as if moved by profound agitation. Then once more he slackened speed a little, his thoughts reverting to Jared and his wife. No; they would never encourage anything of the kind, he was sure. Whatever meetings had been held, must have been without their knowledge; and he had been fool enough to clear the way at the first rebuff! Or was he ashamed of the associations?—which was it?

Harry groaned as he strode on, and now began to try and cast aside his fears for Lionel’s safety, telling himself once more that his imagination was clothing the affair with a tinge of romance which it did not merit.

Brownjohn Street was as of old when he last visited the region. Idleness was rife; and, as if waiting for work to fall into their hands, or, more likely, not waiting for it at all, there were stout, sturdy, soft-palmed young fellows loitering about by the score. Some were talking, others chewing straws, and again others engaged in gambling with halfpence on secluded portions of the pavement.

One and all had a sidelong glance for the well-dressed stranger passing along, and many a nod and wink was given as heads were turned, more than one of which attracted the notice of Harry; and he shudderingly wondered what would be the consequences if he were to come here frequently—perhaps by night—to visit some particular house, lolling insolently and carelessly along, as he had seen Lionel do, with a contemptuous defiant look in reply to every scowl?

Harry shuddered again as he wondered, and then he hastened his steps involuntarily till he reached the abode of Mr D. Wragg.

Without pause, he walked boldly in, to find all apparently as when he had seen the place last—birds, animals, all were there; but there was no dove-scene, and in place of the soft lineaments of Patty he encountered the swarthy face and harsh look of Janet, who was working behind the counter, her wiry little fingers rapidly continuing the work, although her eyes were fixed eagerly upon the new-comer.

It seemed to Harry that the girl gazed angrily at him from beneath her dark brows, and set her teeth firmly together as she unflinchingly met her visitor’s gaze.

A dull heavy feeling of misery now seemed to press harder than ever upon the young man’s heart, as his fears in one respect seemed to meet with confirmation. The next moment, sternly and angrily, he approached Janet, holding her as it were with his eye, and, leaning over the counter, he said in a low voice—

“I want his address!”

Janet did not speak, but stared at him wonderingly for a few moments, and then, in a puzzled way, repeated his words—

“You want his address—you want his address!”

“Yes,” said Harry, hastily, “I want his address;” and as he looked he could see that, in spite of the bold way in which his eye was met, Janet was trembling.

Harry waited for an answer, but the only words that came were—“You want his address!”

“Yes!” exclaimed Harry, sternly. “Where is he—where has he gone? You need not be afraid.”

“Afraid!—afraid of what?” said Janet, harshly.

“There—there! let us have none of this fencing,” cried Harry, angrily—“afraid to tell me. Where is he? Has he taken her abroad? Look here! I do not want to go to her home, for they must be in trouble.”

Janet burst into a mocking laugh; but Harry went on without heeding it—

“He has a father, and the old man is in despair. He fears that mischief has befallen him. We know that he is young and foolish, and that he has been here often to meet her.”

“I do not understand you—what do you mean?” said Janet, coldly, though it was evident that she was greatly moved.

Harry saw it, and never for a moment relaxing his gaze, went on—

“If they have gone away together, at least let me know for certain that he is safe—that we may expect to hear from him again soon; and I will not press you further than for information that will prove to me the truth. I speak plainly, for this is a most painful case.”

Harry paused, astonished at the change which had come over Janet, who, as the meaning of his words dawned upon her to their full extent, started back, and with one hand tore hastily at her throat, as if to check the strangling sensation that would arise. Then as she leaned towards him, as if fascinated by his eye, she gasped forth—

“Do you mean—do you mean?” she cried, hoarsely repeating her words, as her face assumed a livid aspect.

“Yes, yes; you know whom I mean—Mr Redgrave—”

“Mr Redgrave!” she said, hastily.

“Yes!” exclaimed Harry, “that gentleman who came here with me. He disappeared a week since. Tell me where they have gone, and you shall be rewarded.”

Still her gaze was wild and fixed, and no words fell from her lips, till in his impatience, and feeling that she was playing with him. Harry seized one of the bony wrists, when, the touch galvanising her into action, she snatched her hand away, and, as if fleeing from the memory of some past horror, tottered into the back-room; but not to escape, for she was closely followed by Harry.

Volume Two—Chapter Eighteen.

Janet’s Kindness.

Harry Clayton stopped short upon entering D. Wragg’s parlour, as if he had been smitten, for he found himself face to face with Patty, who stood before him pale and trembling, but who met his gaze with a calm look that disarmed him.

For a moment he could not speak, but stood as if petrified.

“You here!” he exclaimed. “Thank God!” and then he was silent again, struggling with the emotion that troubled him—a mingling of pleasure and doubt. “Miss Pellet—Patty!” he said at last, regardless of the bent and desolate figure crouching at her side, and he caught the young girl’s hand in his—“Mr Redgrave? he has been here a good deal lately to see you.”

“I believe,” said Patty, coldly, as she withdrew her hand, “Mr Redgrave has been sometimes, sir, to the shop.”

“But,” exclaimed Harry, earnestly, “do you know where he now is? If you do, pray tell me.”

“I cannot tell you—I do not know. I heard all your questions. He has not been here for quite a fortnight.”

“He was here eleven—twelve day since,” said a voice.

Harry turned sharply, to find himself face to face with the little Frenchman, who courteously raised his pinched old hat.

“Twelve days since!” repeated Harry, “and for what purpose?”

“Ma foi!” exclaimed Canau, with a shrug of the shoulders. “Perhaps Monsieur will walk with me, and we will talk. Not here!” Puzzled and anxious, Harry followed the new-comer into the shop, where he stood amidst the noise of the restless birds and animals, as if ready to answer the visitor’s queries.

But not at first; it was not until after some preliminary fencing, by which the shrewd little foreigner gained a little insight into Harry’s object and character, though the young man was frank and open as the day.

Canau, suspicious at first, soon saw this, and in his turn seemed to meet the visitor upon his own ground, apparently speaking openly and to the point.

“But he is young—a boy—and foolish; he does not understand my girls—I call them ‘my girls,’ Monsieur. He makes mistakes; but we forgive him. She,” he said, nodding towards the inner room, “is young too, and we like to have her here—to visit Janet. Perhaps it was to see her he came. But we forgive him, and he has not been much of late.”

Harry looked fixedly at the little Frenchman, as he spoke in his strange halting fashion, meeting the young man’s gaze with a shifting look. Were these words of truth, or was there something hidden? Was this man frank, or only an old deceiver, who could mask his face to suit any character when he was at war with society? Still there was such an air of candour in all that was spoken, and so much quiet dignity in the Frenchman’s words, that it was with a feeling he could not have explained that Harry thanked him for what had been said.

“But you do not seem to realise the fact,” exclaimed Harry. “He has disappeared so suddenly, and knowing him to have been a visitor here, we naturally looked towards this place with suspicion.”

“Yes, yes, but I see,” said Canau, quietly; “but he is not here. We do not know. This is a bad place round about, but we are quiet people here; and if they—these girls, knew anything, they would tell directly. I hope he has not been robbed. There are many here at night it would not be safe to meet. But there! he is young, he is gone upon some voyage, some travel; be at ease: he will return, and the old man be happy.”