"The New Mistress" (continued 4)

“You told Mrs Chute so this afternoon, mother! Has she been here?”

“Of course she has, Hazel,” cried Mrs Thorne with asperity. “Do you suppose because I am humbled in my position in life I am going to give up all society? Of course I look upon it as a degradation to have to associate with a woman like Mrs Chute—a very vulgar woman indeed; but if my daughter chooses to place me in such a position as this I must be amiable and kind to my neighbours. She is a very good sort of woman in her way, but I let her know the differences in our position, and—yes, of course I did—told her that my daughter might be riding in her carriage now if she liked, instead of drudging at her school; for I’m sure, though he did not say so, Edward Geringer would have kept a brougham for you at least, if you would only consent, even now, to be his wife. Why, only last week he said—”

“Mother, have you heard from Mr Geringer again?” cried Hazel, whose cheeks were crimsoning.

“Of course I have, my dear child. Why should I not hear from so old a friend? He said that if you would reconsider your determination he should be very, very glad.”

“But you did not write back, mother?”

“Indeed I did, my dear. Do you suppose I should ever forget that I am a lady? I wrote back to him, telling him that I thought adversity was softening your pride, and that, though I would promise nothing, still, if I were a man, I said, in his position, I should not banish hope.”

“O mother, mother! how could you write to him like that?” cried Hazel piteously.

“Because I thought it to be my duty,” said Mrs Thorne with dignity. “Young people do not always know their own minds.”

Hazel turned away to busy herself over some domestic task, so that her mother should not read the annoyance in her face.

“Mrs Chute is a very weak, silly woman, Hazel, and I feel it to be my duty to warn you against her, and—and her son.”

Hazel could not trust herself to speak, but went on working with her fingers trembling from agitation, and the tears dimming her eyes.

“She has been in here a good deal lately during school-hours, and she has got the idea into her head that you have taken a fancy to Mr Samuel Chute.”

The little milk jug that Hazel was wiping fell to the floor with a crash.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, do be more careful, Hazel,” cried Mrs Thorne angrily. “There’s that broken now, and, what with your breakages and those of the children, it is quite dreadful. Of course she owned that her son was very much attached to you; but that I knew.”

“You knew that, mother!” said Hazel, who was very pale now; and any one but the weak woman who was speaking would have understood the conflict between anger, shame, and duty going on in her breast.

“Of course I did, my dear. Do you suppose I do not know what men are, or that I am blind, I have not reached my years without being able to read men like a book,” she continued with complacency. “I have seen Master Chute’s looks and ways, and poppings into the girls’ school; but as soon as his mother spoke I let her know that she need not expect anything of that sort, for I told her that my daughter would look far higher than to a national schoolmaster for her husband.”

Hazel felt that she must rush out of the room and go upstairs to give free vent to the sobs that were struggling for exit, but making an effort to master the mortification from which she suffered, she stayed and listened as her mother prattled on with a quiet assumption of dignity.

“No, ‘my dear Mrs Chute,’ I said—and I must give the poor woman credit for receiving my quiet reproof with due submission and a proper sense of respect for me—‘no, my dear Mrs Chute,’ I said, ‘you have been very kind to me, and my child is most grateful to your son for his attentions and the help he has been to her in giving her hints about the school and the children. Friends we may continue, but your son must never think of anything more. He must,’ I told her, ‘see for himself that a young lady of my daughter’s position and personal attractions might look anywhere for a husband, and that already there were several who, even if they had not spoken, evidently were upon the point of doing so. Mr William Forth Burge was certainly very much taken by your ladylike manner; and that I had noticed several peculiar little advances made by the vicar; while a little bird told me that there were more impossible things than that Mr George Canninge might propose for your hand.’ I would not stoop to mention what I had seen in several of the tradespeople here, but either of those three would be an eligible match for my daughter, and therefore I said, ‘Mr Samuel Chute must, as a man full of common-sense, largely increased by education’—I said that, Hazel, as a stroke of diplomacy to soften the blow—‘Mr Samuel Chute must see that such an alliance as he was ready to propose would be impossible.’

“It is a great responsibility, a family,” said Mrs Thorne, lying back in her chair and gazing meditatively at her fingertips. “Percy is a great anxiety—he is always wanting money, and I am only too glad to keep on good terms with Mr Geringer, who really does keep the boy somewhat in order. Though certainly, Hazel, you might do worse than marry Edward Geringer. Perhaps he would be wiser if he married me,” she said with a simper; “but of course middle-aged men prefer young girls. Yes, Hazel, you might do worse than many Edward Geringer. He is not young; in fact, he is growing elderly. But he would leave you all his money; and a handsome young widow with a nice fortune and no incumbrances can marry again as soon as she pleases.

“Ah, dear me! dear me!” she went on with a sigh, “what a different fate mine might have been if you had not been so squeamish, Hazel, and I had had better health! But there, I will not murmur and repine. I have only one thought, and that is to see my children happy. By the way, it is of no use for you to make any opposition: those two girls must have new frocks and hats—I am quite ashamed to see them go out—and Percy wants five pounds. What in the world he can want five pounds for, I’m sure I don’t know; but he says I cannot understand a young fellow’s wants in a busy place like London. I’ve had—let me see—five and seven are twelve, and five are seventeen, and ten are twenty-seven, and ten are thirty-seven—thirty-seven pounds of Edward Geringer on purpose for that boy, and I hardly like to ask him for more. Percy is a very great anxiety to me, Hazel; and if Mr George Canninge should take it into his head to propose for you, my dear, he could so easily place your brother in some good post. He might make him his private secretary, and give him charge of his estates. Who knows? And—Bless the child, what is the matter?”

Matter enough: Hazel had sunk in a chair by the little side-table, her face bowed down into her hands, and she was weeping bitterly for her shame and degradation, as she silently sobbed forth an appeal to Heaven to give her strength to bear the troubles that seemed to grow thicker day by day.

Chapter Twenty Five.

The Vicar is Sympathetic.

Faint, pale, and utterly prostrate after a long and wearisome day in the school, heartsick at finding how vain her efforts were in spite of everything she could do to keep the attention of her pupils, Hazel Thorne gladly closed her desk, and left the great blank room, where three of the girls were beginning to sprinkle and sweep so as to have the place tidy for the following day.

The air had been hot and oppressive, and a great longing had come over the fainting mistress for that homely restorative, a cup of tea; but in spite of herself, a feeling of bitterness would creep in, reminding her that no such comfort would be ready for her, leaving her at liberty to enjoy it restfully and then go and take a pleasant walk somewhere in the fields. For she knew that the probabilities were that she would find the little fire out, and the dinner-things placed untidily upon the dresser, awaiting her busy hands to put away, after she had lit the fire and prepared the evening meal.

There would be no opportunity for walking; the household drudgery would take up her time till she was glad to go to bed and prepare herself for the tasks of another day.

To make matters worse, Mrs Thorne would keep up a doleful dirge of repining.

“Ah, Hazel!” she would say, “it cuts me to the heart to see you compelled to go through all this degrading toil—a miserable cottage, no servant, and work—work—work like that dreadful poor woman who sewed herself to death in a bare garret. Oh, I’d give anything to be able to help you; but I’m past all that.”

“I don’t mind it a bit, dear,” Hazel would cry cheerfully, “I like to be busy;” and if ever the thought crossed her mind that her mother might at least have kept the little house tidy, and the children from mischief, or even have taught them to perform a few domestic offices for the benefit of all concerned, she crushed it down.

All the same her life was one of slavery, and needed no embittering by her mother’s reproaches and plaints. Of late she had grown very cold and reserved, feeling that only by such conduct could she escape the criticism of the many watchful eyes by which she was environed. There was very little vanity in her composition, but she could not help realising the truth of her mother’s remarks, and this induced her to walk as circumspectly as she possibly could.

Turning languidly, then, from the school on this particular afternoon, she was about to enter her own gate, when she became aware of the presence of Mr Chute who hurried up with—

“You haven’t given me your pence to change for you lately. Miss Thorne. I haven’t offended you, have I?”

“Offended me, Mr Chute? Oh no,” she replied. “I will count them up to-morrow, and send in the bag to your school.”

“Oh, no; don’t do that,” he said hastily. “Girls are honest enough, I dare say, but you shouldn’t put temptation in their way. I’ll come in and fetch them. I say, what a lovely afternoon it is!”

“Yes, lovely indeed!” replied Hazel, “but the weather seems tiring.”

“Oh, no, it ain’t,” he said sharply. “That’s because you’re not well.”

“I’m afraid I’m not very well,” said Hazel; “I so soon get tired now.”

“Of course you do. That’s because you don’t go out enough. You ought to have a good walk every day.”

“Yes; I believe I ought,” replied Hazel.

“It’s going to be a lovely evening,” said Mr Chute.

“Is it?” said Hazel wearily.

“Yes, that it is. I say—it’s to do you good, you know—come and have a nice walk to-night.”

“Come—and have a walk!” said Hazel wonderingly.

“Yes,” he said excitedly, for he had been screwing himself up to this for days; “come and let’s have a walk together. I—that is—you know—I—’pon my soul, Miss Hazel, I can’t hardly say what I mean, but I’m very miserable about you, and if you’d go for a walk along with me to-night, it would do me no end of good.”

“Mr Chute, I could not. It is impossible,” cried Hazel quickly.

“Oh no; it ain’t impossible,” he said quickly; “it’s because you’re so particular you won’t. Look here, then—but don’t go.”

“I must go, Mr Chute; I am tired, and I cannot stay to talk.”

“Look here: will you go for a walk to-night, if I take mother too!”

Hazel had hard work to repress a shudder as she shook her head.

“It is very kind of you,” she said quietly; “but I cannot go. Good afternoon, Mr Chute.”

“You’re going in like that because you can see Lambent coming,” he said in a loud voice, and with his whole manner changing; “but don’t you get setting your cap at him, for you shan’t have him. I’d hang first; and, look here, you’ve put me up now—haven’t I been ever since you came all that is patient and attentive?”

“You have been very kind to me, Mr Chute,” said Hazel, standing her ground now, and determined that he should not see her hurry in because the vicar was coming down the street.

“Yes, I’ve been very kind, and you’ve done nothing but trifle and play with me ever since you saw how I loved you.”

“Mr Chute, you know this is not the truth!” cried Hazel indignantly. “I have tried to behave to you in accordance with my position as your fellow-teacher.”

“Then you haven’t, that’s all,” he cried fiercely. “But you don’t know me yet. I’m not one to be trifled with, and there ain’t time to say more now, only this—you’ve led me on and made me love you, and have you I will—there now! Don’t you think you’re going to hook Lambent, or Canninge, or old Burge; because you won’t. It’s friends or enemies here, so I tell you, and I’ll watch you from this day, so that you shan’t stir a step without my knowing it. I’m near enough,” he added with a sneer, “and when I’m off duty I’ll put mother on.—Oh, I say, Hazel, I am sorry I spoke like that.”

“Good-day. Miss Thorne,” said the vicar, coming slowly up with a disturbed look in his face. “Good-day, Mr Chute.”

“’Day, sir,” said Chute, standing his ground, while the vicar waited for him to go.

“You need not wait, Mr Chute,” said the vicar at last; and the schoolmaster’s eyes flashed, and he was about to make an angry retort; but there was something in the cold, stern gaze of the clergyman that was too much for him, and, grinding his teeth together, he turned upon his heel and walked away.

“Mr Chute is disposed to be rude, Miss Thorne,” said the vicar with a grave smile, as he laid his gloved hand upon the oak fence and seemed to be deeply interested in the way in which the grain carved round one knot. “I beg that you will not think me impertinent, but I take a great interest in your welfare. Miss Thorne.”

“I do not think you impertinent, sir,” she replied; “and I have to thank you for much kindness and consideration.”

“Then I may say a few words to you,” he said gravely; and there was an intensity in his manner that alarmed her.

“I beg—I must ask”—she began.

“A few words as a friend. Miss Thorne,” he said in a low, deep voice, and the grain of the oak paling seemed to attract him more than ever, for, save giving her a quick glance now and then, he did not look at her. “You are very young. Miss Thorne, and yours is a responsible position. It is my duty, as the head of this parish, to watch over the schools and those who have them in charge. In short,” he continued, changing from his slow, hesitating way, “I feel bound to tell you that I could not help noticing Mr Chute’s very marked attentions to you.”

“Mr Lambent,” began Hazel imploringly.

“Pray hear me out,” he said. “I feel it my duty to speak, and to ask you if it is wise of you—if it is your wish—to encourage these attentions? It is quite natural, I know—I do not blame you; but—but after that which I saw as I came up, I should be grateful, Miss Thorne, if you would speak to me candidly.”

Hazel longed to turn and flee, but she was driven to bay, and, after a few moments’ pause to command her voice, she said firmly—

“Mr Chute’s attentions to me, sir, have been, I own, very marked, and have given me much anxiety.”

“Have given you much anxiety?” he said softly, as if to himself.

“When you came up, Mr Chute had been making certain proposals to me, which, as kindly as I could, I had declined. Mr Lambent,” she added hastily, “you said just now that I was very young. I am, and this avowal is very painful to me. Will you excuse me if I go in now?”

He raised his eyes to hers at this, and she saw his pale handsome face light up; and then she trembled at the look of joy that darted from his eyes, as, drawing himself up in his old, stiff way, he raised his hat and saluted her gravely, drawing back and opening the gate to allow her to go in, parting from her then without another word.

Chapter Twenty Six.

A Surprise.

Hazel’s first impulse was to hurry up to her room, but to her astonishment, she became aware of the fact that her mother had been watching both interviews, by her manner, for she was standing inside the room door, and throwing her arms round her daughter she kissed her on both cheeks.

There was another surprise for Hazel though, for a loud voice exclaimed—

“Oh, I say, Hazel, ar’n’t you going it? I shall tell Geringer you’re going to marry the parson.”

“Percy! You here!” she cried, completely ignoring his words.

“Looks like it, don’t it? I say, how jolly white you’ve got.”

“Have you asked for a holiday, Percy!” she said, responding to his caress, and noting at the same time how tall and manly he was growing, for he was passing from the tall, thin boy into the big, bony, ill-shaped young man, with a hoarse voice and a faint trace of down upon his lip and chin.

At the same time she noted a peculiarly fast, flashy style of dress that he had adopted, his trousers fitting tightly to his legs, his hair being cut short, and his throat wrapped in a common, showy-looking tie, fastened with a horseshoe pin.

“Have I asked for a what?” he said, changing countenance a little—“a holiday? Well, yes, I suppose I have—a long one. Eh, ma?”

He looked at Mrs Thorne as if asking for help, and she responded at once.

“I wouldn’t let Percy come into the school, my dear, but let him wait till you came out,” she said. “The fact is, Hazel, my dear, the poor boy has been so put upon and ill-used at the place where he consented to act as clerk, that at last, in spite of his earnest desire to stay there for both our sakes, my dear—I think I am expressing your feelings, Percy?”

“Right as the mail!” he replied quickly.

“He felt that as a gentleman he could submit no longer, and so he has left and come down.”

“Left and come down?” said Hazel mechanically, as she thought of the narrowness of her present income, and the impracticability of making it feed another hearty appetite as well as those at home.

“Yes; they were such a set of cads, you know,” said Percy, sticking a cheap glass in one eye and holding it there by the brow. “Regular set of cads, from the foreman down to the lowest clerk.”

“Did you have a quarrel with your employer, Percy?” said Hazel gravely.

“I don’t know what you mean by having a quarrel with my employer, Hazel,” replied the boy. “I told him that he was a confounded cad, and that I wouldn’t stand any more of his nonsense.”

“What had you been doing, Percy?”

“Doing?—doing? Why, nothing at all. It was impossible to get on with such a set of cads.”

“There must have been some reason for the quarrel,” said Hazel.

“Really, my dear, this is very foolish of you,” cried Mrs Thorne quickly. “You do not understand these things. For my part, I think Percy has done quite right. It was bad enough for the poor boy to have to submit to the degradation of going to work, without putting up with the insults of a—of a—a—”

“Set of cads, ma,” said the lad.

“Yes, my boy—cads,” said Mrs Thorne, getting rid of the word with no little show of distaste.

“I think, mamma, that out of respect to Mr Geringer, who has been so kind to us, you ought to write to Percy’s employer.”

“Haven’t got an employer now, so you can’t write to him,” said the boy sharply. “Nice sort of a welcome, this, from one’s own sister. If I’d known it was coming to this, I’d have jolly soon gone down Charles Street.”

“Charles Street! Oh, my dear Percy, pray, pray don’t think of going there!” cried Mrs Thorne. “What is going down Charles Street?”

“Going to enlist, mamma—taking the shilling.”

“Oh, my boy!—oh, Percy!”

“Well, what’s the good of coming down here to have your own sister turn dead against you, like the confounded cads at the office.”

“I do not turn against you, Percy,” said Hazel; “but I cannot help thinking there is something wrong.”

“That’s right; go it. Nice opinion you’ve got of your brother. Something wrong, indeed! Why, what do you suppose is wrong?”

“For shame, Hazel! How dare you!” cried Mrs Thorne. “It is cruel to him, and an insult to me. Why do you think such things of your poor orphaned brother? If your father had been alive, you would never have dared to speak so harshly. Oh, Hazel, Hazel, you make my life a burden to me, indeed, indeed.”

“My dear mother, those words are uncalled for. I only asked Percy for some explanation of his conduct. We have had no warning of this; not one of his letters has hinted at the possibility of his leaving his situation; but we do know that he has been extravagant.”

“Go it,” cried Percy sulkily; and he began to rummage in his pockets.

“Really, Hazel, I think he has managed on very little,” said Mrs Thorne indignantly.

“I differ from you, mother; for I had hoped that my brother would have striven to help us, and not found himself compelled to drain our resources more and more.”

“Look here,” cried Percy, “I sha’n’t stand this. There’s plenty more posts to be obtained, I dare say, and then I shall be a burden to no one.”

“Don’t talk like that, my dear,” cried Mrs Thorne. “Hazel is only a little tired and cross, and she’ll be as different as can be, when she has had her meal. There, I won’t be angry with you, my dear; sit down and have some tea. Poor Percy was nearly starved, and I got some ready for him myself. I was afraid you would not like to be called out of the school.”

Hazel glanced at the little table where the remains of the tea were standing, with empty egg-shells, a fragment of bacon, the dirty cups, and a large array of crumbs.

“I made him a good cup, poor fellow! he was so worn out; so if you fill up the pot, my dear, I dare say you’ll find it all right.”

This was the first time that Mrs Thorne had attempted to prepare the tea, and when she had performed her task it was in an untidy way. Now that the meal was over, everything looked wretchedly untempting to a weary person seeking to be refreshed.

Hazel looked at Percy, but he avoided her eye, and sitting down with his back to her, he began to fill a little cutty pipe from an indiarubber pouch.

“My dear Percy, what are you about?” cried Mrs Thorne.

“Only going to have a pipe,” he said, striking a vesuvian and holding it to the bowl; “a fellow can’t get on without his weed.”

Hazel’s eyes flashed as she saw the thick puffs of smoke emitted from her brother’s lips, but she did not speak; she waited for her mother, whose forehead looked troubled, but who made no remark.

“If I speak now,” thought Hazel, “it will only make more unpleasantness.” So she filled up the teapot which was half full of leaves, and then sat down to her comfortless meal.

Finding that she was silent, Percy took it that she had repented, so he assumed the offensive as he sat and smoked, showing himself an adept at the practice, and soon half-filling the little room with the pungent vapour.

“Precious mean little place this for you to have to live in, mamma,” he said contemptuously.

“Yes, it is, my boy, and I feel it very deeply,” said Mrs Thorne in a lachrymose tone.

“Ah, just you wait a bit,” he said. “I’ve left that old office, but don’t you be afraid. A fellow I know has put me up to a few things, and perhaps I shall astonish you one of these days.”

“You mean you will get on well, my dear?”

“That’s it. Only you wait. There’s plenty of money to be picked up by any one with nous. Ten times as much as any one can get by keeping his nose to a desk and trying to please a set of cads.”

“Yes, dear, I suppose so.”

“Some people have no more spirit than a fly,” continued Percy. “Fancy a girl like our Hazel settling down in a bit of a hut like this, when she might have been the making of us all.”

“Ah, yes, my dear,” sighed Mrs Thorne, “that is what I often tell your sister, who might, if she had liked, have married—”

“My dear mother, will you kindly discuss that with Percy when I am not here!”

“Oh, of course, if you wish it, Hazel,” cried Mrs Thorne. “I am not mistress here, Percy. This is Hazel’s home, where I and your poor little sisters are allowed to live on sufferance and—”

Sob—sob—sob.

“Oh, I say, Hazy, it’s too bad,” cried Percy. “You know how weak and ill poor mamma has been, and yet you treat her like this.”

“Yes, my boy; I’m a mere nonentity now, and the sooner I am dead and put beneath the sod the better. I’m only a useless burden to my children now.”

“Don’t talk like that, ma dear,” cried the lad. “You only wait a bit, and as soon as I’ve got my plans in order I’ll make you a regular jolly home.”

“That you will, I know, my dear boy,” cried Mrs Thorne; “and I hope you will try hard to do something to redeem our lost position.”

“What are your plans, Percy?” said Hazel suddenly.

“Oh, nothing that you could understand,” he said haughtily. “I don’t wonder at poor ma being miserable, if you treat her as you are treating me!”

“Percy,” said Hazel gently, “only a few months ago you had no secrets from me, and we planned together how we would work and make mamma a happy home.”

“And nicely you’ve done it,” cried the lad ungraciously.

“You declared, upon your honour as a gentleman, that you would never turn from me, but that you would strive to take poor papa’s place, and be a help and protector to your mother and sisters. I ask you, how are you keeping your word?”

Percy fidgeted about in his chair, glanced at his mother, and then began playing with his pipe.

“If you have made some grievous mistake, dear, tell us at once, so that we may join with you in trying to repair it; but do not weakly take umbrage at my asking you rather searchingly what you have been doing.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said the boy sulkily.

“Tell me exactly how you came to leave your office?”

“I did tell you. A set of cads!”

“Then I shall write to Mr Geringer, and ask him to send me the full particulars. Perhaps we can make peace for you so that you can go back.”

“Go back, Hazy?”

“Yes: go back. I do not wish to seem unkind, Percy, but you will not be able to stop here.”

“And why not, pray?” cried the lad defiantly.

“There is one reason why not,” said Hazel, pointing to the pipe. “You ought not to have lit that here, Percy. This is not my house, but the cottage attached to the school, in which, while I teach the children, I am allowed to live.”

“Now you’re beginning about my bit of tobacco,” cried the lad. “You’re as bad as old Geringer!”

“Really, Hazel, you are in a very, very cruel frame of mind to-night,” said Mrs Thorne, whimpering; “but never mind, my boy, you shall share my home as long as your poor mamma has one. Perhaps Hazel will give us a refuge here to-night—to-morrow we will seek one elsewhere.”

“You will do no such foolish thing, mamma,” said Hazel with spirit; “and as for you, Percy, I insist upon knowing the whole truth.”

The boy flushed and threw up his head defiantly; but Hazel rose from her place, crossed to him, and laid her hands upon his shoulders. Then, bending down, she kissed him, and stood by him with her arm round his neck.

“Tell me everything, dear,” she said; “it is your sister who asks.”

For answer Percy dashed his pipe beneath the grate, laid his arms upon the table, his head went down, and he began to cry like a great girl.

“Oh, Hazel, Hazel, what have you done?” cried Mrs Thorne. “Percy, Percy, my boy, come here.”

“Hush, mother!” said Hazel sternly; and, kneeling down, she drew the boy’s unresisting head upon her shoulder, and held it there, smoothing his hair the while.

“Oh, Hazy, Hazy,” he sobbed at last. “I’m a beast—a brute—a wretch; and I wish I was dead.”

“There—there! Hazel, see what you have done!” cried Mrs Thorne angrily. “Oh, my boy, my boy! Come here to me, Percy; I will stand by you whatever comes.”

But Percy seemed to be quite satisfied to stay where he was, for he made no movement beyond that of yielding himself more and more to his sister’s embrace.

“Hush, dear!” she said tenderly. “If you have done wrong, be frank and outspoken. Let us hear the truth.”

For answer, the lad, approaching manhood in stature, but with his child-nature still greatly in the ascendant, wept more bitterly; but at last, perfectly heedless of his mother’s plaints and appeals, he raised his head, wiped his eyes, and, flinging his arms round his sister, kissed her passionately again and again.

“There; now you will tell us all, Percy,” said Hazel, responding to his caresses.

“You’ll turn your back on me if I do,” he groaned.

“Is it likely that I should, Percy! There, speak out frankly—is it something about money!”

“Yes,” said the lad, hanging his head.

“You have been getting in debt!”

“Well, not much. Hazy—not more than I could soon pay off,” said the boy, looking timidly in her face, and then shrinking from her searching eyes.

“There is something more?”

“Ye-es,” he faltered; and then, desperately, after a few moments’ hesitation, “It was all Tom Short’s fault.”

“Who is Tom Short?” asked Hazel.

“A fellow in our office. He won seventy pounds by putting money on horses, and it seemed so easy; and I thought it would be so nice to get some money together so as to be able to help poor mamma.”

“There, Hazel, you hear!” cried Mrs Thorne triumphantly.

“And so you began betting on horse-races, Percy—a habit poor papa used to say was one of the greatest follies under the sun.”

“Well, no, dear, it wasn’t exactly betting, but going to a bookmaker and putting money on any horse you chose. He did the betting. You only give him your money and wait.”

“Till you know it is lost, Percy!”

“Well, yes; it was so with me, because I was so terribly unlucky. Some fellows win no end that way.”

“And you have always lost, Percy?”

“Yes, Hazy; and it does lead you on so,” he cried earnestly, “you lose, and then you think your luck must turn, and you try again, because one winning means making up for no end of losses.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” said Hazel sadly.

“And so I kept on and kept on, trying so hard; but the luck hasn’t turned yet. I’m sure it would, though, if I had been able to keep on.”

“That is what all gamblers think, Percy.”

“Don’t call me a gambler, Hazel, because I’m not that.”

“And that is where the money went that poor mamma borrowed for you, Percy?”

“Yes,” he said despondently; “but I mean to get it all back again some day, and to pay it, and interest too.”

“That is quite right, Percy; but not by betting.”

“I don’t see why not,” he said. “Other fellows do.”

“Let them,” replied Hazel; “but it is not a course to be followed by my brother. Tell me, did your employers find out that you were engaged in betting?”

“Ye-es,” faltered Percy; “and it was all through that sneak, Tom Short.”

“And they dismissed you?”

“Well, I think I dismissed myself; I resigned, you know.”

“Call things by their right names, Percy. Well, I am glad you have told us. We will say no more now. But to-morrow we must begin to take steps to get you another engagement.”

“But look here, Hazel,” cried the lad, “if you and mamma could knock together twenty pounds for me to start with, I feel as sure as sure that I could make no end by putting it on horses at some of the big races. You’ve no idea what a pot of money some fellows handle that way. Ah, you may smile, but you are only a girl, and very ignorant of such things. You wouldn’t laugh if I was to turn twenty pounds into a thousand.”

“No, Percy, I should not laugh if you turned twenty pounds into a thousand,” said Hazel. “But there, we will say no more now; only promise me this,—that you will not smoke again in this cottage, nor yet make any more bets.”

“Yes, I’ll promise,” said the boy sulkily. “I suppose I must.”

“I’m sure no one could have behaved better than Percy has, my dear,” said Mrs Thorne. “He has been perfectly open and frank. All that you can find against him is that he has been unlucky. Poor boy! If your father had been alive!”

Here Mrs Thorne entered into the performance of a prose dirge upon her sufferings, and the cruelty of fate—of what would have happened if Mr Thorne had lived, and finished up during a résumé of her prospects when she was Hazel’s age by finding that Percy had gone fast asleep, Hazel being upstairs, making arrangements for the accommodation of this addition to their family, a task of no small difficulty to people with their limited means.

Chapter Twenty Seven.

The Facts.

Several things interfered with Hazel’s obtaining a good night’s rest. She had given up her bedroom to Percy, and the little sofa was cramped and hard. But had she been in the most luxurious of beds, Hazel Thorne would not have slept well, for she was haunted by the angry, vindictive look of Mr Samuel Chute, and troubled by his threats. Next there was the shame and mortification of knowing that her mother’s weak words had gone home, and were being used against her. Then the quiet deference of the vicar and his peculiar way made her uneasy as she went over and over her interview with him, and recalled the smallest matters of his reference to Mr Chute.

Lastly there was Percy’s sudden arrival, and the battle she found herself having with the idea that, in spite of his apparent frankness, the boy had not told her all.

At last, towards morning, she dropped into an uneasy sleep, in which she dreamed that Mr William Forth Burge had told her he loved her, and that he would provide for Percy and make her mother a comfortable home, if she would be his wife.

In her trouble she awoke suddenly, to find that it was morning; and, unwilling to tempt sleep again, she rose, dressed, and prepared the kitchen and sitting-room for the breakfast before going upstairs and softly awakening the two little girls, who, under her tuition, had become adepts at dressing each other in turns.

Whispering to them to be silent and not awaken their mother, Hazel stole down again, and went to the door to glance up the street, for it was nearly half-past seven, and she had a strange fancy that a letter would arrive that morning.

Sure enough, before another ten minutes had passed away she saw the postman coming down the last row of houses towards the schools, and she was about to hurry out and meet him, when, through the wire window-blind, she caught sight of Mr Chute, who stepped out and received a letter from the postman, with whom he at once entered into conversation.

Hazel, from where she stood, could see everything that passed, and that Chute stretched out his hand to take a large blue envelope from the postman’s hand; but this the rustic official refused to allow. He, however, permitted the schoolmaster to peruse the address, and that of another letter, before going on with his delivery.

Hazel felt that he was coming there, and she opened the door in time to stop his heavy thump.

“Two letters, miss—big ’un and little ’un,” he said, thrusting the missives into her hand. The next moment Hazel was reading the directions, both of which were to her mother.

One was from Mr Geringer—she knew his hand well. The other, the large blue envelope, was probably from Percy’s employer. She had expected that letter; and, yes, there were the names on the back, stamped in blue letters in an oval, “Suthers, Rubley, and Spark.”

Hazel stood hesitating as to what course she should pursue. She held in her hands, she knew, the explanation of Percy’s return home. If the letters contained painful revelations her mother would suffer terribly. Ought she to let her see the news without reading it first?

Of late all the correspondence had fallen to her share, and Mrs Thorne, when a letter had arrived, had been in the habit of saying, “Open that, Hazel, and see what it is.”

She hesitated a few minutes, and then opened the blue envelope.

The letter was short and stern in its diction, saying that knowing Mrs Thorne to be a lady of good family, and one who had suffered much trouble, the firm had felt it to be their duty to write to her before taking further proceedings with respect to her son, who had, they regretted to say, abused the confidence placed in him, and been guilty of embezzlement, to what amount they were not prepared to state.

Hazel stood with her brow wrinkled, gazing straight before her for some minutes before, with a weary sigh, she opened the second letter—Mr Geringer’s—which endorsed the information contained in the first, and finished as follows:—

“It is very terrible, my dear Mrs Thorne; and, for my poor friend’s sake, I deeply regret that his son should so soon have shown a disposition to go wrong. It comes the harder on me because I was the cause of his going to these people, who took him entirely upon my recommendation. I regret your position, of course, and beg to assure you of my deep sympathy. Had we been related by marriage, I should have felt it my duty to see the lad through his difficulty, the result, I find, of folly, he having entered upon a course of betting upon horses. As it is, you must excuse me for saying that my credit will not allow of my having my name mixed up with the transaction.”

He remained, as a matter of course, Mrs Thorne’s very sincere and attached friend; but, all the same, he had given Hazel a severe stab in the course of the letter, which again placed her conduct in an unsatisfactory light. Was she always to be accused of standing in the way of her mother’s and brother’s prospects? And as she asked herself that question, quietly folding the letters the while, she could not help seeing Mr Geringer’s selfishness showing through all.

But what was to be done? The people evidently meant to prosecute Percy, and at any moment he might be taken into custody. She knew enough of the law to see that he was in a very perilous position, and if her mother knew, she trembled for the consequences.

“I am glad I opened the letters,” she thought; “but now I know, what shall I do?”

A host of ideas passed through her brain, for the most part wild, impossible notions, that could not be carried out.

Percy must escape—go away somewhere; but how, and to what place?

This was unanswerable; and besides, she knew that sooner or later, the police, if in search, would be sure to find him.

No; he must stop and face it out—it would be the most honourable proceeding. But she wanted help—she wanted some one to cling to in this hour of difficulty; and to all intents and purposes she was alone, for it was impossible to ask her mother’s aid and guidance at a time like this.

What should she do?

Mr Geringer?

No; his letter showed how her refusal rankled in his breast, and if she appealed to him he might wish to make some bargain with her to act as a payment.

Mr Lambent?

No; she could not ask him. He was most kind, but she shrank from appealing to him. She dared hardly think of him, and dismissed him at once; for, set aside the exposure and the lowering of her position in his eyes, he frightened her. And then there were his sisters, who would be sure to know.

Archibald Grave’s father?

No; she dared not appeal to him. And when she began to run over the list of her relatives, there did not seem one likely to take a step to help her in this terrible strait—help her, for everything seemed to fall upon her shoulders.

“What shall I do? Whom shall I ask?” she said half aloud; and, as half prayerfully she asked the question, there rose up before her the round, simple, honest face of Mr William Forth Burge, smiling at her as was his wont and seeming to invite her to ask his help.

“Oh no; it is impossible,” she said half aloud, as Mr Chute’s words of the previous evening came back to her mind. “I could not ask him. What would he say?”

But all the same, she could not help thinking of his amiability, the interest he had taken in her and hers, and that even if she dared not herself ask him, there was a mediator in the person of Miss Burge, who, gentle, amiable little body that she was, would readily espouse her cause.

“But what are they to me? It would not be right to ask them. I dare not—I cannot do it.”

Just then the two children came dancing down to leap up at her and kiss her, making her sorry for their sakes that her face wore so dismal a look. But it did not trouble them. It was, “How long will breakfast be, sis?” and then they were off out to look at their little gardens, to see how much the plants and seeds had progressed during the night.

Hazel went through another phase of troublous thought while the children were in the garden, and the kettle was singing its homely song; and as she thought she stood waiting to make the tea so as to carry up Mrs Thorne’s cup, which was always partaken of before that lady attempted to rise in the morning.

Just as the tea was made there was a step on the stairs and, looking very sleepy and red-eyed, Percy came into the kitchen.

“Morning, Hazel,” he said rather sheepishly, as he looked at her in a half-penitent curious way; but he made no offer to kiss her, nor she him. “I say, what time does the post come in here?”

“The post Percy?” said Hazel quietly, as she went on preparing Mrs Thorne’s tea. “Do you expect a letter?”

“Yes,” he said. “I’ll go out and meet the postman, and see what the place is like. Letters’ll be here soon, I suppose?”

“Not till to-morrow morning,” said Hazel, watching his changing countenance.

“Not till to-morrow morning!” he cried wonderingly.

“No; there is only one delivery here a day. The postman has been.”

Percy was taken aback, and he stood staring, unable to find words and to meet his sister’s stern, angry look.

“Percy,” she said at last, “are you trying to be a man?”

“Of course I am,” he said quickly. “Every fellow at my time of life tries to be one.”

“Would it not have been more manly, then, when I invited your confidence last night, if you had told me frankly the whole truth?”

Percy’s jaw dropped and he stood gazing at her with a vacant, pitiful expression.

“Then a letter has come this morning,” he said.

“Two letters have come this morning,” she replied, “and I know everything. Stop! What are you going to do?”

“Cut,” he said sulkily. “It is of no use to stay here.”

“Do you think the police would not find you if you went away?”

“Police!” he cried, turning pale.

“Yes. Your employers warned us in the letter that they had not settled yet what they should do since—since—oh, heavens! is it true?—they found out that my brother was a thief.”

“No, no—not a thief, Hazy! ’Pon my soul, I only borrowed the money. I meant to pay back every shilling. I made sure that I should win, and I never meant to steal.”

“You committed theft of the worst kind, Percy. A common thief breaks in and steals; he has not been trusted with that which he takes. You had been; and you not only broke your trust but stooped to the basest ingratitude as well.”

“Yes, I know, Hazy,” he cried hoarsely, and with his lips white; “but tell me, does my mother know? Oh, for pity’s sake, don’t tell poor ma!”

“Do you think it will pain her more than this discovery has pained me?”

“Is that why she isn’t down? Has it made her ill? I meant to have been first and got the letters; but I was so dog-tired last night I overslept myself. I say, Hazel, does she know?”

“She does not know yet; but she must know.”

“No, no! pray don’t tell her! You mustn’t—you shan’t tell her!” he cried. “It would only be making bad worse.”

“And how am I to account for your absence when you are fetched away?”

“I say, Hazel, is it so bad as that?” he cried piteously.

“Yes; I am afraid so. There is no knowing what steps your late employers may take.”

“Set of beastly cads!” muttered Percy.

“For objecting to their clerk’s dishonesty! Shame on you, if you have any shame left.”

“And now you turn against me, Hazy!” cried the lad. “I did think last night that you were sorry for me and meant to help me.”

“I am sorry for you,—sorry that you could have disgraced yourself and us to this terrible extent I feel it bitterly that you should have kept back what you did last night; but that cannot be changed now, and—”

“Isn’t breakfast ready?” cried Cissy, coming to the door. “We are so hungry.”

“Yes, dears, come in,” cried Hazel cheerfully. And the little party, after Mrs Thorne had been diligently attended to, sat down to the homely breakfast, Percy making a pretence of being too much troubled to taste anything, but ending by eating with all the heartiness of a growing lad; while it was Hazel who just managed one scrap of bread and a cup of tea, as she sat thinking of what proceedings she had better take.

Chapter Twenty Eight.

Ann Straggalls Turns Messenger.

It was soon school-time, and leaving her brother, who needed no instructions to send for her should any one call, Hazel Thorne hurried to her duties, read prayers with wandering mind, and then, fully resolved upon what course to pursue, she started the children at their various lessons, and at last, in the midst of the noisy buzz, went to her desk and, quite in a fit of desperation, wrote to Mr William Forth Burge, simply saying that she was in great trouble, and would he as a friend come and give her his help and counsel?

As soon as she had finished and folded the letter she began to hesitate, asking herself whether she ought not first to have written to Miss Burge; but she came to the conclusion that she had done right and picking out the most trustworthy girl she could think of at the time, she bade her take the letter up to Mr Burge’s house.

Hazel Thorne was excited enough during all these proceedings but her excitement would have increased had she been aware of the fact that one of the partition shutters was slightly lowered, and from this point of vantage Mr Samuel Chute was from time to time inspecting her every act.

For Mr Chute was a good deal exercised in his spirit.

“If it isn’t to be friends it shall be enemies,” he said; and he not only set himself to watch, but told his mother—to use his own words—to have an eye on the next-door people, a commission which Mrs Chute seized upon with avidity, it being one greatly to her taste.

Samuel Chute, then, knew of Percy Thorne’s coming before Hazel, and also who the tall, overgrown lad was. He knew of the arrival of the business letters that morning, and after due debate in his own mind, he came to the conclusion that there was something wrong.

“They won’t get over me in a hurry,” he muttered; and taking it that there was a conspiracy of some kind afloat, he went quite early into the school and lowered the shutter, ready to keep a watch upon Hazel’s movements, and to be ready—he only knew why—with movements of his own.

So it was there that he saw Hazel looked agitated and ill at ease, and also saw her write a letter and call up one of the girls, fat Ann Straggalls—the slow, innocent and sure—being selected for the task.

Mr Chute thrust his hands through his hair and made it stick up fiercely as he left his desk, frowned all round the room, said “Sh! sh!” in several classes, and then walked quickly to the door, turned and gave a glance round to find every eye in the school directed at him, and then stepped out into the front just in time to find Ann Straggalls engaged in a struggle with Hazel’s missive, which refused to be tucked down into the bosom of the stout young maiden’s dress, consequent upon the tightness of certain strings.

“Here! Hi! Straggalls!” cried Chute, and the girl crawled shrinkingly to him in the same way as the boys would have turned, a sharp, quick call from Mr Chute always suggesting impending punishment to the youthful mind.

“How is it you are not in school, Ann Straggalls?” said the schoolmaster importantly.

“Plee, sir, teacher, sir, sent me with this letter, sir. I’ve got to take it, sir.”

“What letter, Straggalls?”

“This letter, sir,” said the girl, holding out the crumpled missive.

“Letter? Ah, a letter for you to take, eh?” he said, after a glance at the direction; and his teeth gritted together as he thought that Hazel had never written to him.

He would have detained the missive, but he dared not, and half turning upon his heel, he saw that the vicar’s sisters were coming down the street, an observation which impelled him to make a quick retreat.

“There, go on,” he said; “and mind and make haste back.”

“Yes, sir, plee, sir, that’s what teacher told me to do.”

“Writing to Burge, eh?” said Mr Chute as he re-entered his school. “That’s to tell him that I spoke out to her yesterday. Ah! just let him take her part and I’ll soon give him a bit of my mind. She’s carrying on with him, is she? I know it as well as if I’d been told; but perhaps I shall be one too many with all of them yet.”

The next minute he was bitterly regretting that he had not detained and read the letter, though he knew all the time that he dared not, and he finished up for the present by having another peep at Hazel through the slit above the shutter, expecting, as his brain suggested, that she would be writing another letter, but only finding her busy with one of the classes.

Meanwhile, with her cheeks flushed and eyes brightened at the escape she had just had, Ann Straggalls stumped eagerly along to perform her commission, but only to encounter the Lambent sisters, before whom she stopped short compelling them also to stop or else turn off to right or left, unless they were willing to fall over her. For, according to traditional instruction at Plumton Schools, it was the proper thing for every schoolgirl who met the vicar’s sisters to make a bob to each, and these two bobs Ann Straggalls diligently performed.

“Not in school, Straggalls?” said Rebecca, in a stern, inquisitorial tone of voice.

“No, ’m, please, ’m. Teacher’s sent me with a letter, ’m.”

“Indeed!” cried Beatrice, thrown by excitement off her guard. “To Mr Canninge?”

“No, ’m, please ’m; to Mr William Forth Burge, ’m.”

“To Mr William Forth Burge!” cried Rebecca, excited in her turn. “What is Miss Thorne writing to him for?”

“Please ’m, I don’t know, ’m. Teacher said I was to take this letter, ’m, and I don’t know any more.”

“It is very strange, Beatrice,” said Rebecca querulously.

“Strange indeed,” replied her sister, who felt better on finding that her suspicions were incorrect, and worse at having betrayed the bent of her own thoughts, and not troubling herself about her sister’s feelings in the least.

“Ought we to do anything, Beatrice?” said Rebecca, whose fingers itched to get hold of the letter.

“Do anything?” said Beatrice.

“Yes,” said Rebecca in a low tone, unheard by Ann Straggalls, whose large moist lips were some distance apart to match her eyelids, as she stared at the vicar’s sisters; “ought we to let that note go?”

“Oh, I could not think of interfering,” said Beatrice, shaking her head. “Besides, it would be impossible. Henry gives the new mistress great latitude, and possibly he might approve of her corresponding with Mr Burge.”

“I—I don’t like letting her go,” said Rebecca, hesitating, a fact of which her sister was well aware. “I don’t think it is proper, and it seems to me to be our duty to take some steps in such matters as these.”

“I shall not interfere with Miss Thorne in any way,” replied Beatrice. “Henry is, I dare say, quite correct in his views respecting the mistress’s behaviour, and I certainly shall not expose myself to the risk of being taken to task again by my brother for interfering, as he called it at the schools. You had better make haste, Straggalls, and deliver your message.”

“Please, ’m, it’s a letter, ’m,” said Ann Straggalls in open eyed delight at catching the speaker tripping.

“Make haste on and deliver your letter, child,” said the lady with dignity; and the girl made two more bobs and hurried away.

“It was quite impossible, Rebecca,” said Beatrice reprovingly. “The letter is no business of ours.”

“Are we going down to the school to-day?” asked Rebecca.

“Not now,” replied her sister; “but we might call upon Mrs Thorne. I wonder what Mr Chute has had to do with that letter to Mr Burge.”

“Yes, I was wondering too. He was certainly talking to the girl Straggalls as we came into sight.”

And then, itching with curiosity, the sisters walked on.

Ann Straggalls held her head a little higher as she went on up the street through the market-place. She felt that she was an ambassadress of no little importance, as she had been stopped twice on her way.

As luck had it, she came upon the Reverend Henry Lambent as he was leaving the Vicarage gates, looking very quiet and thoughtful, and he would have passed Straggalls unnoticed, had not that young lady been ready to recognise him, which, nerved as she was by her pleasant feeling of self-satisfied importance, she did by first nearly causing him to tumble over her, as she made the customary bob by way of incense, and then saying aloud—

“Plee, sir, I’ve got a letter.”

“A letter, child! Let me see—oh, it is Straggalls.”

“Yes, sir—Annie Straggalls, sir, plee, sir.”

“Then why don’t you give me the letter, child? Who is it from?”

“Teacher, plee, sir.”

A flush came into the vicar’s pale cheeks, and he raised his drooping lids as he impatiently held out his hand and waited while Ann Straggalls struggled to produce the letter. She had had some difficulty in placing it in what she considered to be a safe receptacle, forcing it down below the string that ran round the top of her frock. That struggle, however, was nothing to the one which now took place to release the missive, for the note had crept down to somewhere about Ann Straggalls’ waist where it was lying so comfortable and warm that it refused to be dislodged, in spite of the pushing of one hand, and the thrustings down of the other. The young lady posed herself in a variety of attitudes, reaching up, bending down, leaning first on one side, then upon the other, but all in vain. She grew red in the face, her hands were hot, and the vicar became more and more impatient; but the letter was not forthcoming, and at last she exclaimed, with a doleful expression of countenance—

“Plee, sir, I can’t get it out.”

“You’ve lost it,” cried the vicar angrily.

“No, sir, I ain’t, plee, sir. I can feel it quite plain, but it’s slithered down to my waist.”

“You tiresome girl!” cried the vicar impatiently, for it was an awkward dilemma, and he was beginning to think of the penknife in his vest pocket, and the possibility of cutting the note free without injury to the young lady’s skin, when she solved the difficulty herself by running off to where she saw a little girl standing, and the result of the companion’s efforts was so successful that Ann Straggalls came running back beaming with pleasure, the letter in her hand.

“Good girl!” exclaimed the vicar, thrusting a sixpence into her palm, as he eagerly snatched the letter, devoured the address with his eyes, and the flush died out of his cheeks.

“Why, the letter is for Mr Burge,” he said excitedly.

“Yes, sir; for Mr William Forth Burge, plee, sir.”

“Take it,” exclaimed the vicar huskily, and thrusting the note hastily into the girl’s hands, he turned sharply round and walked back into the house, thoroughly unnerved by the incident, trifling as it may seem.

“He’s give me sixpence!” said Ann Straggalls wonderingly; and then—“Didn’t he seem cross!”

At last, after these interruptions, which duly published the fact that Hazel Thorne openly wrote to Mr William Forth Burge, the note came to that gentleman’s hand, for Ann Straggalls reached the gate, pushed it wide open, and knowing from experience what a splendid gate it was, she passed through, and stopped to watch it as it swung back past the post, with the latch giving a loud click, and away ever so far in the other direction; then back again with another click; away again with another, and then to and fro, quicker and quicker, click—click—click—click—clack, when the latch caught in its proper notch, and Ann Straggalls smiled with satisfaction, and wished that she had such a gate for her own.

The clicking of the gate took the attention of Mr William Forth Burge, who was busy amongst his standard rose-trees, with a quill-pen and a saucer, using the former to brush off the abundant aphides from the buds into the latter. He smiled with satisfaction as he released from its insect burden some favourite rose, whose name was hanging from it upon a label like that used for the old-fashioned medicine bottles—“one tablespoonful every four hours”—but, all the same, it was undoubtedly unpleasant for the aphides that were being slaughtered by the thousand.

Miss Burge had her work and a garden-seat, and she was looking up from time to time, and smiling her satisfaction at seeing her brother so happy, for of late he had been dull and overclouded, and did not take to his dinners and his cigars so heartily as of old.

She too looked up as the gate clicked, and together the brother and sister watched the coming girl, who had not seen them yet, but was staring, open-mouthed, at the various flowers. First she made a pause before one, and her fingers twitched with the intense desire she felt to pick it; then before another which she bent down to smell, and so on and on slowly, fighting hard and successfully against temptation, till she came to a rose in full bloom, before which she came to a complete standstill.

“Oh, you beauty!” she cried aloud as she bent down and began sniffing with all her might. “Oh, don’t I wish Feelier Potts was here!”

But Feelier Potts was not there, fortunately for Mr William Forth Burge’s Gloire de Bordeaux, for that young lady would have felt no more scruple in ravaging the bush than in picking the buttercups and daisies of the fields; so at last Ann Straggalls turned with a sigh of regret, to find herself face to face, with the owner of the garden, who was smiling at her blandly.

“Plee, sir, I’ve brought a letter, sir, from teacher, sir.”

Little Miss Burge felt startled as she saw the change that came over her brother’s face, for, in place of its customary ruddiness, it grew mottled, and he stood gazing at the girl as if her words could not be true.

“A letter? For me?”

“Yes, sir, plee, sir; teacher sent it.”

“Take her in, Betsey; give her some cake or biscuits,” he said hastily, as he almost snatched the missive.

Little Miss Burge sighed as she took the girl by the hand and led her away, Mr William Forth Burge following directly after with the letter, which he took into his study, for it was too sacred to be read out in the open air.

It only took a minute to seat Ann Straggalls in the hall with a big lump of cake in her hand, portions of which she transferred to her mouth and worked at with machine-like regularity, and then Miss Burge hurried to the study, to find her brother walking up and down in a great state of excitement.

“Betsey,” he cried hoarsely, “she’s written to me—she’s sent for me!”

“Oh, Bill, has she?” cried the little woman sadly.

“Yes; she’s written to me—she’s sent for me.”

“Bill dear, I don’t like that.”

“What?”

“It don’t—please don’t be angry with me—but it don’t seem nice.”

“Not nice—not nice!” he cried almost fiercely. “Why, read here. Poor gal! she’s in trouble. There’s something wrong. Here, where’s my best coat. I’ll go down.”

“Oh! that’s different,” cried little Miss Burge, who seemed greatly relieved. “Poor girl! Why, whatever can be the matter?”

“I don’t know. You mustn’t stop me, Betsey,” he cried. “I must go directly—I must.”

“Oh, Bill! Bill! Bill!” sobbed the little lady, throwing her arms round his neck and bursting into tears.

“I can’t help it, Betsey,” he cried; “I can’t help it. I never had it before, but I’ve got it badly now, dear; and I ain’t a bit ashamed to own it to you.”

“Oh, Bill!”

“Don’t try to stop me, Betsey.”

“But you won’t do anything foolish, dear?”

“It wouldn’t be foolish if it was her,” he said excitedly.

“No, Bill, I suppose not; but I don’t like her sending for you to come.”

“There, there,” he cried, “I won’t hear another word.” And he proved it by hurriedly taking his hat and going down straight to the school, leaving his sister in tears, and Ann Straggalls deep in cake.

Mr Chute was on the look-out, and saw him pass, and directly after the schoolmaster took up a slate and a pencil, and placing the slate against the partition, began to write thereon, with his back to the boys, but with his eager eyes gazing through the slit at where Hazel was busy with her pupils.

A minute later he saw Mr William Forth Burge enter the schoolroom and shake hands. Hazel spoke to him, but the words did not reach Chute’s ears; and soon after, as the hands pointed to twelve, the children were dismissed, and Hazel and Mr William Forth Burge were alone, but, to Chute’s great disgust they went out and into the cottage.

“Well, of all the shabby—Oh, I can’t stand this!” cried the schoolmaster, stamping his feet. “It’s too bad.”

But, bad or good, he had to submit to it for his chance of overhearing the conversation was gone.

Chapter Twenty Nine.

“I’m Very Glad You’re in Trouble.”

“I’m very glad you’re in trouble, Miss Thorne,” said Mr William Forth Burge, as he took the chair in the little parlour which Hazel placed for him, Mrs Thorne, not being dressed to her own satisfaction, having escaped into the kitchen, where her son was seated, sulky, and with his countenance full of gloom.

“Are you?” said Hazel, smiling sadly.

“No; not glad you’re in trouble, but that you’ve felt that I could help you,” said the visitor, suddenly recollecting that Hazel was standing, and rising to put a chair for her in turn.

“I am so lonely here—so helpless,” said Hazel after a pause, for she hesitated to begin and lay bare the trouble that was at her breast.

“Well, don’t say lonely, Miss Thorne,” said the great man. “I’m sure my sister and me has always felt a sort of longing to be neighbours, and to be friendly. For don’t you think because I’m a rich man that it’s made a bit of difference in me.”

“I felt your kindness so much, Mr Burge,” she replied earnestly, “that I ventured to ask for your advice and help in this very great trouble.”

“That’s right,” he exclaimed, his admiration and respect for the speaker shining out of his honest eyes. “I’m a very plain, common sort of man, my dear, but I’ve had lots of business experience, and p’r’aps I can help you better than some people would think.”

There was a pause here, for Hazel’s tongue seemed to refuse its office. Her visitor’s manner was so tender and kind, as well as respectful, that it touched her to the heart, and she looked at him piteously, as if imploring him to give her time.

“It’s a good big bit of trouble, I can see, my dear,” he said quietly. “Give yourself time and speak out; and if William Forth Burge can help you through with it, you may feel that it’s as good as done. Suppose I try a bit of a guess—just to help you like. Now, is it money? Don’t be offended at my saying so, but is it money, now?”

“It is about money,” faltered Hazel, making an effort.

“I thought so,” he said, brightening up and rubbing his hands softly. “Then don’t you worry a bit more, my dear; for my sister Betsey’s got lots of money saved up, and there’s nothing wouldn’t please her better than putting your bit of trouble all right for you.”

“I must explain to you, Mr Burge,” said Hazel.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said gently. “It might hurt you, perhaps; and, dear heart alive! why should you make yourself miserable about such a thing as money! Now, just you look here, my dear Miss Thorne. I’m going straight home, and I’ll send down my sister Betsey, and you just say offhand to her what will put it straight—fifty, or a hundred, or two hundred, or whatever it is—and she’ll have it in her ridicule, and the job’s done. There, I shall make you cry if I stay, and I don’t want to do that, you know. Good-bye. God bless you!”

He had started up, and was standing, hat in hand, holding out his hand to her, which she took and held while she tried to speak.

“No, no, Mr Burge,” she said at last. “Let me tell you all.”

“To be sure you shall,” he said soothingly. “There, there! don’t be afraid to speak to me, my dear.—Just you say to yourself, ‘William Forth Burge is an old friend of mine, and I’d trust him with anything, and he’s just the man to go to when I’m in trouble.’”

“You are very kind,” faltered Hazel, fighting hard to be brave. And at last she told him the story of her brother’s lapse.

“The young dog!” he cried angrily; and his voice was raised. “How dare he do such a thing, and disgrace you and his mamma? I—I could thrash him well.”

“It is so terrible—so shocking a thing. I don’t know what to do, Mr Burge. I feel so helpless: for the people, his employers—seemed to hint at prosecution.”

“Is—is he in there?” whispered Mr William Forth Burge, winking one eye and pointing with his thumb at the door.

“Yes; he is in the next room,” replied Hazel.

“I shouldn’t wonder a bit,” said the visitor very loudly. “I should say they are sure to prosecute and put him in prison.”

The moment after he nodded and frowned and winked at Hazel.

“Let’s frighten him a bit,” he whispered. “Let him think he is going to be in great trouble, and it will make him remember. But you give me the people’s names, my dear, and I’ll set my lawyer on to ’em; and don’t you worry yourself any more. I’ll square it all for you, and make it right.”

“But the shame—the disgrace!” cried Hazel.

“It’s no shame or disgrace of yours, my dear,” he said. “You couldn’t help it. I had three boys in my place at different times as was bitten that way. Lots of ’em are. A silly young dog! He deserves to be well flogged. But just you leave the thing to me, and I’ll put it right. But what are you going to do with him afterwards? You can’t keep him here!”

It was a question Hazel could not answer, for like a blow the idea came to her that by his act of dishonest folly her brother had lost his character, and that the chances were greatly against his obtaining further employment.

“Ah! You don’t know,” said Mr William Forth Burge cheerfully. “You can’t think. It is a job, isn’t it? Sometimes, my dear, I have thought that boys are a regular mistake. They’re a terrible lot of trouble, unless they make up their minds to be very careful and particular, and that they don’t often do. But never you mind. We’ll see if we can’t set it all right by-and-by. We’ll get him out of the scrape first, and then see what’s to be done with him afterwards. Now, suppose I put down who the people are; and you may as well give me the letters you talked about.—That’s right. Now wait a bit.”

Mr William Forth Burge’s coat was buttoned very tightly across his chest, and he had some difficulty in getting at the breast-pocket; but he extricated therefrom a large metallic paper pocket-book, such as would be used by a commercial traveller about to receive an order, opened the clasp, found a suitable place, and fixed it by placing the elastic band of the pocket-book round the leaves, after which he moistened the tip of the pencil between his lips from habit, and proceeded to enter the day and date of the month.

“Nothing like doing these things in a business-like way, my dear,” he said, as he wrote on, asking questions and making his notes, ending by saying:

“Now, suppose we have in the young fellow.”

“Have him in?” faltered Hazel.

“Yes; let’s have him in and give him a bit of a talking to. Don’t you think it will be best?”

Hazel thought for a few moments, and in that brief space she seemed to realise exactly what Percy would say, and how he would resent being taken to task by their visitor.

Mr William Forth Burge guessed her thoughts, and nodded and smiled.

“You’re afraid I shall be too hard upon him. That’s just the way with worn—I mean ladies. You’re too gentle and kind—just like your nature. Why, my sister, Betsey, she’d come here in a case like this, and she’d tell that brother of yours that he was a very naughty boy, and mustn’t do so any more, and there would be an end of it; only it wouldn’t do any good. For, bless you, my dear, if you talk like that to a boy who has been a bit out in the world, he’ll pretend to be very sorry and that he’s going to be quite square, and as soon as you’re out of sight he’ll grin at you and think how soft you are. Now, suppose you fetch him in.”

For answer Hazel rose and went to the kitchen, where she found that Percy had tried to secure himself by taking his two young sisters one upon each knee, and holding them there as a sort of armour of innocence against attack.

“Percy, there is a gentleman in the next room wishes to see you.”

“Oh, I can’t go—I daren’t go!” the boy said excitedly. “What does he want?”

“Surely, Hazel, my dear, you are not going to expose poor Percy to insult,” cried Mrs Thorne.

“Mamma,” said Hazel firmly, “I have asked Mr Burge to come down here and help me in an endeavour to settle Percy’s affairs.”

“Settle his affairs! Oh! surely, Percy, you have not been such a bad boy as to go and get into debt?”

“Yes, mother,” said Hazel quickly, as she responded to the boy’s imploring look, “Percy has behaved badly, and entangled himself with a very serious debt and Mr Burge is going to see what can be done.”

“Then you’ve been a bad, wicked, thoughtless boy, Percy!” exclaimed Mrs Thorne in a whining voice; “and I don’t know what you don’t deserve—going spending your money in such a reckless way, and then taking trust for things you ought not to have had.”

“Don’t you turn against me, ma,” whimpered the lad.

“But I must turn against you, Percy. It is my duty as your mamma to teach and lead you, and when you are going wrong to scold you for being naughty. Now, put those children down directly, and go upstairs and brush your hair, and then go and see Mr William Forth Burge, who will, I dare say, being a very respectable sort of man, talk to you for your benefit. Hazel, my dear, make my compliments to Mr William Forth Burge, and tell him I am much gratified by his calling, but that I never receive till after three o’clock. Tuesdays and Fridays used to be my days, but of course one cannot be so particular now.”

“Yes, mother,” said Hazel quietly. “Come, Percy,” she continued, and she took his hand.

“I say, Hazy, must I go?” said the lad, wiping the perspiration from his forehead.

“Yes: come along and be brave and respectful. Let Mr Burge see that you are truly sorry, and I think he will try and see your employers, and make some arrangement.”

“What—so that there shall be no police bother?” he asked eagerly.

“Yes, I hope so.”

“I couldn’t stand that, Hazy; I couldn’t indeed. I should go and enlist or jump off a bridge, or something of the kind.”

“Don’t be foolish, Percy, but try and meet the difficulty like a man.”

“Yes,” he said, “I will. But stop a moment. I say, is my collar all right? Those children have been tumbling me.”

“Yes, it looks quite right.”

“And—must I go upstairs and brush my hair?”

“No, no; it looks quite smooth. Now, come—be brave and face it as you should.”

“Oh yes, it’s all very well for you, who haven’t got it to do,” he replied. “You can’t think what it is.”

“Yes, Percy, I can; and it makes me say to you: Why expose yourself to such bitter humiliation? Would it not have been better to be able to hold up your head before all the world and to say: I am poor, and occupy a very menial position, but I am a gentleman?”

“Yes, Hazel is quite right my dear,” said Mrs Thorne. “It is what I always say to her: Never forget that you are a lady; and I am glad to find that she does not forget my teachings.”

“I’ll come now,” said Percy. “I—I think I’m ready;” and, clinging to his sister’s hand, he went with her into the room where Mr William Forth Burge was seated behind his book, with his pencil across his mouth, as if it had been a bit to bridle his tongue from uttering that which he had wished to say. He was trying to look very stern, but an admiring glance shot from his eyes as Hazel closed the door after her and then said simply:

“This is my brother, Mr Burge.”

There was a few moments’ pause, during which Percy, after a quick look at the great man of Plumton, stood there humbled and abashed, for the knowledge of his position completely took away his natural effrontery, and seemed to have made him ten years younger than he was. A flash of resentment came for a moment, and made his eyes brighten and his cheek colour on hearing their visitor’s salutation, but they both died out directly, for all Percy Thorne’s spirit seemed to have evaporated now.

“Well, sir,” cried Mr William Forth Burge fiercely, for here was an opportunity for crowing over a lad who was a very different sort of boy to what he had been. He had never meddled with moneys entrusted to him, and had been content to plod and plod slowly and surely till he had made himself what he was. This boy—Percy Thorne—had tried to make himself rich by one or two bold strokes—by gambling, in fact, and this was a chance; so “Well, sir,” he cried, “and what have you got to say for yourself?”

Percy looked up and looked down, for it was evident he had nothing to say for himself, and he ended by gazing appealingly at his sister, his lips moving as if saying: “Speak a word for me! Please do.”

Mr William Forth Burge could be sharp enough as a business-man, simple as he was in some other matters, and he noted Percy’s glance, and softly rubbed his hands beneath the table as he rejoiced in the fact that he had been called in to help Hazel in this family matter. Then, seizing upon the opportunity of showing where he could be shrewd and strong, he said quietly:

“I think, Miss Thorne, you had better leave us together for a few minutes, and well see what can be done.”

Hazel hesitated for a moment, and then, in spite of an appeal from her brother, walked to the door, turning then to direct a glance at her visitor which completely finished the work that her eyes had unconsciously already done, and for a few moments after she had gone the ex-tradesman sat with his gaze fixed upon the table, completely unnerved and unable to trust himself to speak.

He soon recovered, though, and turned sharply to where the tall, thin boy stood, miserable and humiliated, resting first on one foot and then on the other, and after staring him completely out of countenance for a few moments, he showed himself in quite a new character, and gave some inkling of how it was that he had been so successful in his trade.

“Now, young fellow,” he said sharply, “I know all about it, and what a scamp you have been.”

Percy blushed again, and raised his head to make an angry retort.

“Well, scoundrel, then, or blackguard, if that other name isn’t strong enough for you.”

“How dare”—began Percy, scarlet.

“Eh? What? How dare I? Well, I’ll tell you, boy. It’s because I’m an honest man, and you ain’t. There: you can’t get over that.”

Percy could not get over that. The shot completely dismantled at one blow the whole of his fortifications, and left him at his enemy’s mercy. Giving up on the instant he whimpered pitifully—

“Please don’t be hard on me, sir; I have been a scoundrel, but if you—you—could give me another chance—”

Boy prevailed, and all Percy Thorne’s manliness went to the winds. He was very young yet in spite of his size, and, try how he would to keep them back, the weak tears came, and he could not say another word.

“Give you another chance, eh?” said the visitor sharply. “That’s all very well, but we’ve got to get you out of this scrape first. Your people, Suthers, Rubley, and Spark, write as if they meant to prosecute you for robbing them.”

“But I meant to pay it again, sir—I did indeed!” cried Percy.

“Yes: of course. That’s what all fellows who go in for a bit of a spree with other people’s coin say to themselves, so as to give them Dutch courage. But it won’t do!”

“But indeed I should have paid it sir.”

“If you had won, which wasn’t likely, boy. Only one in a thousand wins, my lad, and it’s always somebody else—not you. Now then, suppose I set to work and get these people, Suthers, Rubley, and Spark”—he repeated the names with great gusto—“to quash the prosecution on account of your youth and the respectability of your relations, what would you do?”

“Oh, I’d be so grateful, sir! I’d never, never bet again, or put money on horses, or—”

“Make a fool of yourself, eh?”

“No, sir; indeed, indeed I would not.”

“Well, what sort of people are these Suthers, Rubley, and Spark?”

“Oh! dreadful cads, sir.”

“If you say that again,” cried the ex-butcher sharply, “I won’t make a stroke to get you out of your trouble.”

Percy stared at him with astonishment.

“It’s all very fine!” cried Mr William Forth Burge. “Every one who don’t do just as you like is a cad, I suppose. People have often called me a cad because I’ve not had so good an education and can’t talk and speak like they do; and sometimes the cads are on the other side.”

“I’m very sorry, sir,” faltered Percy.

“Then don’t you call people cads, young fellow. Now then, you mean to give up all your stupid tricks, and to grow into a respectable man, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir; I’ll try,” said Percy humbly.

“Then just you go to your bedroom, brush that streaky hair off your forehead, take out that pin, and put on a different tie; and next time you get some clothes made, don’t have them cut like a stable-boy’s. It don’t fit with your position, my lad. Now, look sharp and get ready, for you’re going along with me.”

“Going with you, sir?”

“Yes, along with me, my lad; and I’m going to keep you till you are out of your scrape. Then we’ll see about what’s to be done next.”

Percy left the room, and his sister came back, to find Mr William Forth Burge looking very serious; but his eyes brightened as he took Hazel’s hand.

“I am going to take your brother away with me, and I sha’n’t let a moment go by without trying to put things square. I think the best thing will be for me to take him right up to London, and go straight to his employers; but I haven’t told him so. If I did, he’d shy and kick; but it will be the best way. And I dare say a bit of a talk with the people will help to put matters right.”

“But will they prosecute, Mr Burge? It would be so dreadful!”

“So it would, my dear; but they won’t. They’ll talk big about wanting to make an example, and that sort of thing, and then they’ll come round, and I shall square it up. Oh, here he comes. There, say good-bye to your sister, young man, for we’ve no time to spare. Now, go in first. Good-bye, Miss Thorne.”

“Mr Burge, I cannot find words to tell you how grateful I am,” cried Hazel in tears.

“I don’t want you to,” he replied bluntly, as he shook hands impressively, but with the greatest deference. “I couldn’t find words to tell you, my dear, how grateful I am to think that you are ready to trust me when you want a friend.”

Here Mr William Forth Burge stuck his hat on very fiercely, and went home without a word, Percy Thorne walking humbly by his side, and checking his desire to say to himself that after all, Mr William. Forth Burge did seem to be a regular cad.

Chapter Thirty.

Mr Burge is Business-Like.

“I am the last person in the world, Rebecca, to interfere,” said Beatrice, as she busied herself making a series of holes with some thick white cotton, which she wriggled till something like a pattern was contrived; “but I cannot sit still and see that young person misbehaving as she does.”

“I quite agree with you, dear, and it shocks me to see into what a state of moral blindness poor Henry has plunged.”

“Ah!” sighed her sister, “it is very sad;” and she sighed again and thought of a certain scarlet woman. “What would he say if he knew that Miss Thorne openly sent letters to Mr William Forth Burge?”

“But they might be business letters,” said Rebecca.

“Miss Thorne has no right to send business letters to Mr William Forth Burge,” said Beatrice angrily. “If there are any business matters in connection with the school, the letter, if letter there be—for it would be much more in accordance with Miss Thorne’s duty if she came in all due humility—”

“Suitably dressed,” said Rebecca.

“Exactly,” assented her sister. ”—to the Vicarage and stated what was required. Or if she wrote, it should be to the vicar, when the letter would be in due course referred to us, and we should see what ought to be done.”

“Exactly so,” assented Rebecca.

“Mr William Forth Burge has been a great benefactor to the schools; but they are the Church schools, and, for my part, I do not approve of everything being referred to him.”

“I—I think you are right, Beatrice,” assented Rebecca; “but Mr William Forth Burge has, as you say, been a great benefactor to the schools.”

“Exactly; a very great benefactor, Rebecca; but that is no reason why Miss Thorne should write to him.”

“I quite agree with you there, Beatrice; and now I have something more to tell you, which I have just heard as I came up the town.”

“About the schools?”

“Well, not exactly about the schools, but about the school-cottage. I heard, on very good authority, that the Thornes have a young man staying in the house.”

“A young man!”

“Yes; he arrived there yesterday afternoon, and Mr Chute, who was my informant, looked quite scandalised.”

“We must tell Henry at once,” cried Beatrice.

“Of what use would it be?” said Rebecca viciously. “He would only be angry, and tell us it was Miss Thorne’s brother, or something of that sort.”

“It is very, very terrible,” sighed Beatrice, “Of what could Henry be thinking to admit such a girl to our quiet country district?”

Just at the same time their brother also was much exercised in his own mind on account of the letter that he had seen in Hazel’s handwriting directed to Mr Burge, and he was troubled the more on finding that she should appeal to Mr Burge instead of to him—the head of the parish, and one who had shown so great a disposition to be her friend—for even then he could not own that he desired a closer intimacy.

The Reverend Henry Lambent knit his brows and asked himself again whether this was not some temptation that had come upon him, similar to those which had attacked the holy men of old; and as he sat and thought it seemed to him that it could not be, for Hazel Thorne grew to him fairer and more attractive day by day, and, fight hard as he would against those thoughts, they grew stronger and more masterful, while he became less able to cope with them.

And all this time Mr William Forth Burge, the stout and plain and ordinary, was working away on Hazel’s behalf. He was showing the business side of his nature, and any one who had studied him now would easily have understood why it was that he had become so wealthy. For there was a straightforward promptness in all he did that impressed Percy a good deal; and when, after keeping him for some hours at his villa, wondering what was to happen next—hours that were employed in copying letters for his new friend—the said new friend announced that they were going up to London, Percy, with all the disposition to resist obeyed without a word, and followed to the station.

“Don’t seem very well off,” thought Percy, as Mr William Forth Burge took a couple of third-class tickets for London.

He read the boy’s thoughts, for he said sharply—

“Six shillings third class; eighteen shillings first class. Going this way saves one pound four.”

Percy said, “Yes, sir,” and subsided moodily into the corner of the carriage opposite to his companion, and but little was said on the journey up. Mr William Forth Burge took the boy to a quiet hotel, and wrote a letter or two, as it was too late to do any business that night. The next morning Percy was left in the coffee-room to look furtively over the sporting news in the Standard while his new friend went off to see Mr Geringer, who, on hearing his business, seemed greatly displeased at any one else meddling with the Thornes’ affairs; and though he did not refuse to go with his visitor to intercede for Percy, he put him off till the next afternoon, and Percy’s champion left his office chuckling to himself.

“Asks me to wait till next day,” he said, “so that he may go and see the state of the market for himself. Won’t do, Mr Geringer, sir. That’s not William Forth Burge’s way of doing business.” And he went straight to the firm, gave his card, and was shown in to Mr Spark, a dull, heavy man, remarkable in the business for his inertia.

Yes, of course they should prosecute Percy Thorne, if that was what the visitor wanted to know; and if the said visitor wanted to know anything else, would he be kind enough to be quick, for Mr Spark’s time was very valuable?

“Quick as you like, sir,” said Mr William Forth Burge, who showed the new side of his character. “I’ve been in trade, and I know what’s what. Now, sir, I’m the friend of the boy’s sister; father dead—mother a baby. Business is business. Prosecute the boy, and you put him in prison, and spend more money; you get none back. Forgive him, and take him on again, and, if it’s fifty pounds, I’ll pay what’s lost.”

Then followed a long argument, out of which Mr William Forth Burge came away a hundred pounds poorer, and with Percy Thorne free to begin the world again, but handicapped with a blurred character.

That evening they were back at Plumton.

“But there’s going to be no prosecution, or anything of that sort, Miss Thorne; and, till we hear of something to suit him, he shall stop at my house and do clerk’s work in my office.”

“But I feel sure you have been paying away money to extricate him from this terrible difficulty, Mr Burge,” cried Hazel.

“Well, and suppose I have,” he said, smiling; “I’ve a right to do what I like with my own money, and it’s all spent for the benefit of our schools.”

“But, Mr Burge,” cried Hazel eagerly, and speaking with the tears running down her cheeks, “how can I ever repay you?”

“Oh, I’ll send in my bill some day,” he said hastily. “But as I was going to say, Master Percy shall stay at my place for the present. I could easily place him at a butcher’s or a meat salesman’s, but that ain’t genteel enough for a boy like him. So just you wait a bit and—”

“See,” he would have said, but all this time he had been backing towards the door to avoid Hazel’s thanks, and he escaped before his final word was spoken.

“There’s something about that man I don’t quite like,” said Mrs Thorne as soon as their visitor had gone.

“Not like him, dear?” cried Hazel wonderingly.

“No, my dear; there’s a sort of underhandedness about him that isn’t nice.”

“But, my dear mother, he has been up to town on purpose to extricate Percy from a great difficulty, and, I feel sure,” said Hazel warmly, “at a great expense to himself.”

“Yes, that’s it!” exclaimed Mrs Thorne triumphantly. “And you mark my words, Hazel, if he don’t try to make us pay for it most heavily some day.”

“Oh, really, mother dear!”

“Now, don’t contradict, Hazel, because you really cannot know so well as I do about these things. Has he not taken Percy to his house?”

“Yes, dear.”

“Then you will see if he doesn’t make that boy a perfect slave and drudge, and work him till—Well, there now, how lucky! What can have brought Edward Geringer down now?”

Hazel turned pale, for at her mother’s exclamation she had turned sharply, just in time to see Mr Geringer’s back as he passed the window, and the next moment his knock was heard at the door.