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The Queen's Scarlet

by George Manville Fenn · English · Gutenberg #24813 · 449,283 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Queen's Scarlet

Author: George Manville Fenn

Illustrator: A. Monro Smith


        
Release date: March 12, 2008 [eBook #24813]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/24813

Credits: Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE QUEEN'S SCARLET ***




Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England




The Queen's Scarlet, by George Manville Fenn.

________________________________________________________________________
The 17-year old Sir Richard Frayne, Baronet, and his cousin Mark, are
both at a coach for the Army exam, after which, if successful, they
would join the Army as officers.  But Mark is seen to be a cad and liar,
and there is a fight between them, Mark being apparently dead.  Dick,
who is a good musician, goes off with his flute in its case, intending
to make his way to a city where there is an Army barracks and a Naval
port, presumably Chatham, since we are in Kent.  He had intended to
cross a river by a certain bridge, but the river was in flood, and the
bridge had been washed away.  As he is looking at this, a drowning
shepherd boy is washed by, and Dick dives in to try and rescue him,
unsuccessfully.  But Dick's servant had followed him, and seen him dive
in, assuming that Dick had committed suicide.  Furthermore the
shepherd's body is later recovered, and presumed to be Dick's, so that
it is buried at Dick's home church-yard.  Mark recovers, his sickly
father inherits Dick's estate and baronetcy, but dies, and Mark in turn
inherits.

Meanwhile Dick had joined up as a bandsman.  Another regiment marches
into the garrison town, and Dick's former servant turns up, and to his
astonishment recognises Dick.  Mark is also an officer of this second
regiment.  After various events in which Dick and Mark are both
involved, though Mark pretends not to recognise Dick, there is a
confrontation, in which Mark shoots his cousin in a hop-field, leaving
him for dead.  But some workers who are spraying the hops for aphid,
come across the body, and realise it is not quite dead.  Eventually
Dick is nursed back to health in the barracks hospital, and Mark
leaves, never to be seen again.  Dick easily recovers his estates and
the title, finding that Mark had greatly lost the value of the estate,
but with care he manages to recoup most of the loss.  He also passes the
Army exam, and joins a regiment as an officer, having a distinguished
career in the Army, as his father had done before him.

It's a fairly short book, less than nine hours to read aloud, but an
interesting one, and you will enjoy it.

________________________________________________________________________
THE QUEEN'S SCARLET, BY GEORGE MANVILLE FENN.



CHAPTER ONE.

HEAD FIRST.

Two rooks flew over the Cathedral Close, and as they neared the old
square Norman tower they cawed in a sneering way.

That was enough.  Out like magic came the jackdaws from hole and
corner--snapping, snarling, and barking birdily--to join in a hue and
cry as they formed a pack to drive away the bucolic intruders who dared
to invade the precincts sacred to daws from the beginning of
architectural time; and this task over, they returned to sit on corbel,
leaden spout, crevice, and ledge, to erect the feathers of their
powdered heads and make remarks to one another, till the chimes rang out
and the big bell boomed the hour.

"Bother Mark!" said Richard Frayne, Baronet.  "If he had ten thousand a
year, he'd spend twenty.  I can't do it, and I won't."

Richard Frayne puckered up his brow and began reading away at Lord
Wolseley's Red Book--after being interrupted by the jackdaws--trying to
master the puzzling military details, but finding it impossible while
his brain was full of his cousin's money troubles; and at last, in
despair, he pitched the little leather-covered book aside, walked to the
side-table, took his handsome flute from its case, set up a piece of
music on a stand, and began to run through a few preliminary flourishes
that were peculiarly bird-like in their trilling, when there was a tap
at the door and Jerry Brigley thrust in his head.

"Wants to see you, sir."

"Who does?" said Richard, hurriedly putting aside his flute.

Jerry held out a card.

"`Isaac Simpson, clerical and military tailor,'" read the young man.
"What does he want with me?"  Then, quickly: "Oh! of course!  I know.
Show him in."

A little, stoutish, smooth man, in shiny broadcloth and a profuse
perspiration, entered directly after, carrying a brown leather handbag
and his hat, which he took from his left finger and thumb and used to
make a most deferential bow.  There he stood, smiling and sleek, dabbing
his face with a red silk handkerchief.

"Very hot morning, sir, and your room's a bit 'igh."

"You wanted to see me?" said Richard rather distantly.

"Well, yes, sir--begging your pardon, sir.  By Mr Mark Frayne's
introduction, sir.  Said business was business, and I might venture to
call, sir.  Been Mr Mark Frayne's tailor, sir, three years come next
quarter, sir; and I've ventured to bring my new patterns with me, sir."

"My cousin should have spoken to me first, Mr Simpson," said Richard,
"and I could have saved you this trouble."

"Trouble, sir?  Oh! dear me, no, sir!  It's a pleasure to me to have the
honour.  You see, I almost knew you personally though before, sir: Mr
Mark Frayne was always talking about you and your country place.  Now, I
have here, sir," said the visitor, rattling open his patterns like a
card-trick, "some fashions that only come down by post this morning,
sir; and I said to myself, `Here's your opportunity.  You can't expect a
gentleman as has his garments from Servile Row to care about goods as
every counter-jumper in Primchilsea has seen.  Go and let him have the
first selection.'"

"Thank you, Mr Simpson," said Richard, coldly, as he thought of his
cousin and the money; "I have no reason for exchanging my tailor.
Greatly obliged to you for calling."

"No trouble, sir; no trouble--a pleasure, as one may say.  I thought I'd
bring all the patterns as I was coming.  Then shall we settle that other
little bit of business, sir, at once?  Some other time, p'raps, you may
be able to give me a line."

"What other business?" said Richard, flushing a little.

"That little affair of the money, sir."

"I have nothing to do with Mr Mark Frayne's affairs," said Richard,
warmly.

"Oh, sir, don't say that to a poor tradesman, sir!" said the tailor,
shaking his head reproachfully, as he reopened the little handbag and
drew a flat bill-case of large size from among the cards of patterns.
"Mr Mark said if I would make it a bit easy, and drew at three, six,
and nine, you would put your name to the paper, and there would be no
more trouble."

"My cousin had no right to say such a thing to you!" cried Richard.

"Oh, sir, don't say that; it's such a little amount to a gentleman!  I
have drawn it in three bills, a heighty and two fifties--hundred and
heighty!  Why, it ain't worth thinking about twice for a gentleman like
you!  Ha, ha, ha! it's like making three bites of a cherry!"

"How much?" said Richard.

"Total, hundred and eighty-three--five--six, with the stamps, sir," said
the tailor, producing three slips of blue paper.

"My cousin said he owed you only about eighty pounds!" cried Richard.

"For clothes, sir," said the tailor, with a deprecating smile.  "The
hundred was the cash advanced to oblige you, sir, as a gentleman."

"What!"

"The hundred I advanced for you two, Sir Richard."

"For us two?  My good fellow, I had none of the money."

"Oh, sir, don't say that!" cried the tailor, reproachfully.  "Of course,
I know that gents wants a little money extry sometimes, and that it's a
tradesman's dooty to help and oblige a customer if he can; and I did."

"But--but--"

"Don't, sir; please don't--you hurt me!  I respect Mr Mark Frayne very
much; but you can't know him without seeing as he's a bit too free with
his money, and I should never have dreamed of letting him have it if it
hadn't been for you, sir."

"It was not for me!" cried Richard, who was regularly roused and
indignant now.  "I have nothing whatever to do with my cousin's debts."

"Oh, sir, please don't!  I have not come for the money now, though it
would be very convenient, for wholesale houses objects to waiting.
There you are, you see!  You have only to sign the three bits of paper,
and there'll be no more trouble for you at all."

"But, look here," cried Richard, angrily, "you are insinuating that I
received part of this money!"

"Wouldn't it be better, Sir Richard, to say no more about it?" said the
tailor.  "Money is money, sir; gold's gold; and, as for silver, why it's
quicksilver, ain't it, now?  Of course, I know what young gents is, as I
said before; and I don't want to make any trouble about it."

"But listen," said Richard, trying to be quite calm and cool.  "Do I
understand you aright?"

"Oh, yes, sir; I'm right about money."

"That I shared the borrowed money?"

"Why, sir," said the man with a smile, "you don't suppose I should have
lent it to Mr Mark Frayne, whose father's only a poor parson?  Not me!"

"Then you lent it to him because you believed I was to have part?"

"I lent it to you, sir, because I knew you was a barrynet, and would
come in for your money in three or four years' time, and, of course, to
oblige you--being short."

"But--"

"For I says to myself, `There's the money a-doing nothing in the bank,
and it's obliging a gent who won't be above orderin' a few garments to
make up for you obliging him, and--'"

"Confound you! will you let me speak?" cried Richard angrily.

"Of course, sir.  Glad to hear you speak, and sorry I come at an
inconvenient time, when you were busy with your music; and--let me see--
didn't Mr Mark say something about your wanting the cash to buy a new
pianner?  Or was it an old fiddle?  I quite forget, sir; that I do."

"Will you be silent a minute?  Did my cousin say that money was for me?"

"Oh, yes, sir; or I shouldn't have--"

"Then it was a lie--an abominable lie!" cried Richard, in a rage.  "Sign
those papers and acknowledge that I had the money?  No!  So you can be
off, and tell him so."

Mr Isaac Simpson screwed up his face, bent over the table, and
carefully spread the three oblongs of blue paper out, one above the
other, holding the ends down, and smoothing them out slowly.

"Well," cried Richard, hotly, "do you hear what I say?"

"Oh, yes, Sir Richard Frayne, Baronet, I hear what you say," replied the
tailor: "but I was a-thinking, sir."

"Then go and think somewhere else."

"No, sir; I can't do that, because, you see, I'm thinking about you.
Here's 'undred and eighty-odd pound of a poor man's hard-earned money,
most part of which you owe me."

"It is false!  I don't owe you a penny."

The tailor shook his head.

"I can't afford to lose it, Sir Richard; and you can't say but what I
want to make it easy for you with them bills."

"I do not want anything made easy for me," cried the young man; "I can
pay my just debts."

"And, don't you see, sir, it wouldn't be pleasant for you if I was to
write to your parents and guardians--leastwise, as you have no parents,
your guardians--and ask them?"

"Write to them, and so will I."

"But I don't want to do such a shabby thing about a gent as I've tried
to oblige."

"I tell you I never authorised anyone to borrow money for me, sir."

"Well, Sir Richard Frayne, Baronet, there's the transaction down in a
neat handwriting in my book, and I give a cheque for it, and there's the
cheque as come back from the bank with your name on the back, as well as
Mr Mark Frayne's on the receipt."

"What?"

"As afore said, sir; and people--I mean your lawyers and guardians--'ll
believe it.  They won't be so shabby as to say you were under age when
they have lots of your money in trust."

Richard stared at the man, half-stunned.

"There, Sir Richard, don't let's make a fuss and a lot of unpleasantry
about a trumpery little amount like that, when it is all so easy for
you."

"I say I've never had the money.  Go to Mr Mark Frayne."

"But don't you see as that's as good as saying he's been a-swindlin' of
me?  And if I goes to my lawyer and lays it all before him, he'll be for
putting it in court, or p'raps worse; and it would go very hard on Mr
Mark.  I'm afraid they wouldn't treat it as if it were a debt; they
might say--"

"Silence!"

"That's what I says, sir.  His father a parson, too; and it wouldn't do
Mr Draycott no good.  Hadn't you better sign?"

"Without seeing my cousin first and making him explain?  No.  Take away
your papers at once."

"To my lawyers, sir?"

Richard hesitated.

"No," he said at last.  "I'll see my cousin, and bring him on to you."

"Ah!  Now that's talking sensible, sir.  We can settle it, of course.
Why, it would be such a mad thing to go to lawyers and make expenses,
and have a reg'lar trouble, when your name on three bits of paper would
save both of you from unpleasantry."

"Both of us?" cried Richard.

"Well, yes, sir, perhaps; for there's no knowing what people might say.
They can be tidy hard on anyone as won't pay when he can."

"That will do!" cried Richard angrily.  "I have told you that I will see
my cousin."

"Ve--ry good, Sir Richard," said the tailor, carefully doubling up his
slips of paper.  "But hadn't you better sign now, and see him after?"

"No."

"Well, sir, you know best; but if it was my case, and I hadn't had the
cash, I should sign, and then go and give my cousin the howdaciousest
hiding he ever had.  That's better than sending him to prison and before
a judge.  I wish you good-morning, sir--I suppose I ought to have said
Sir Richard Frayne.  I shall be at home all day to-morrow, sir,
a-waiting on you."



CHAPTER TWO.

IN HOT BLOOD.

"Yes, and you'll have to wait," cried Richard Frayne, as the door closed
on the man, and he listened to the departing steps as he involuntarily
crossed to the stand, picked up his flute, and rearranged the music, but
only to throw it down angrily and replace his instrument.

"The scoundrel!" he cried.  "Here, I must have this out at once."

He was no longer the quiet, dreamy-looking musician, but full of angry
energy; and in this spirit he went straight to his cousin's room,
knocked, and went in; but the place was empty.

"Seen my cousin?" he cried, as he encountered Jerry, the house servant,
valet, and factotum.

"See him smoking in the garden 'arf a hour ago, S'Richard."

Richard hurried down into the extensive grounds, and came plump upon Mr
Draycott, the well-known military tutor and coach, tramping laboriously
up and down one of the gravel paths, with his hands behind, giving a
loud puff at every second step, for he was an enormously fat man, to
whom walking was a severe trial, but a trial he persevered in from a
wholesome dread that, if he neglected proper exercise, he would grow
worse.

"Hullo, Frayne!" he cried, "I want to see you--" _puff_.

"Yes, sir?"

"Look here, I'm very much put out about you, Frayne--I am,
indeed!"--_puff_.

"What about, sir?"

"Oh, you know"--_puff_.  "Of course, I never object to my pupils
having their own hobbies; but you have been carrying your
musical"--_puff_--"whims to excess"--_puff_.

Richard coloured.

"I do not see why a soldier"--_puff_--"should not be a good musician,
though the trumpet"--_puff_--"seems more in the way than the
piano"--_puff_.  "But you ought not to have gone in debt over such a
matter"--_puff_.

"In debt, sir?"

"Yes.  Don't repeat my words!"--_puff_.  "Now, I have warned you against
it!"--_puff_.

"You did, sir; but I don't understand your allusions," said Richard,
though he suspected that he did.

"Then you ought to, sir!"--_puff_.  "Hasn't that money-lending
tailor"--_puff_--"just come from dunning you?"

"Yes, sir; but--"

"There, I know all about it.  Pay him off, and never get into such a
hobble again"--_puff_.  "Coming, my dear!"--_puff_.

Mrs Draycott, an exceedingly thin lady, was calling from the French
window of the drawing-room, and the "Heavy Coach," as his pupils
nicknamed him, went puffing off up to the house.

"Oh, I can't stand this!" said Richard to himself.  "I must have a
thorough explanation.  Mark shall speak out.  Why, Draycott believes it,
too!  That scoundrelly little tailor must have told him.  Hi!  Dillon,
seen my cousin?"

This was to a fellow-pupil, who was coming down the garden.

"Five minutes--ten minutes--ago, going across the Close.  Gone to see
the river; it's getting flooded.  What's the row?"

"Oh, nothing--nothing."

"But you look as if you were going to knock his head off."

"I am," cried Richard, over his shoulder, as he hurried off.

"That's right.  Hit hard!  Save me a lock of his hair!" shouted the
youth; and then to himself: "Serve the beast right!  What's he been
doing now?"

Richard Frayne met a couple more of the "Heavy Coach's" pupils as he
crossed the Cathedral Close, where the calm silence of the old place
ought to have quelled the angry throbbing in his veins; but it had an
opposite effect, and the cries of the jackdaws which clung about the
mouldering tower sounded like impish derisive laughter.

"Anything the matter?" said one of the pair.

"Yes; seen my cousin?"

"Yes; he's down in the ruins, seated, like Patience on a broken
monument, smoking and smiling at the river.  Don't pitch him in.  I say:
is there a row on?"

Richard Frayne did not answer, but walked away, crossed the creek
bridge, beneath which the water ran thundering as it hurried toward the
river, giving indications that there must have been a heavy rainstorm in
the hills twenty miles away, though all was sunshine there.

He hurried on along the lane, turned out of it, crossed a couple of
fields, and made his way toward a pile of ivy-clad ruins, whose base was
washed by the river, now brimful, and here and there making patches and
pools in the lower meadows further on.

These ruins were the remains of one of the great ecclesiastical
buildings dismantled in the days of Bluff King Hal, and still showed the
importance of the edifice, with its lancet windows and high walls
surrounding a green patch that was at one time an inner garden
surrounded by cloisters, of which only a few columns were left, and was
now as secluded and lonely a spot as could be found for miles.

A visitor would have paused directly to admire the beauty of the old
place, which raised up thoughts of the past, but Richard did not stay,
for to him it only raised up secular thoughts of the present, with
tailors' bills, borrowed money, forgery, and lies.

But there was no sign of Mark Frayne; and, growing moment by moment more
excited and angry, Richard hurried here and there, looking sharply
round, coming to the conclusion that either he had been misinformed or
his cousin had gone, when he caught sight of a yellow and black fragment
of flannel projecting from behind a pile of stones at the corner
farthest away from the swollen river.

"The cur!" he muttered, as he hurried forward, leaping over fallen
blocks and fragments which showed still the groinings of the old
cloisters.

"That's like you!" he cried, as he came suddenly upon Mark leaning back
in a niche, and who looked first white, then scarlet.  "What do you
mean?  Hiding, like the sneaking coward you are."

"You're an idiot!  I came here to see the flood rising."

"At this end?" cried Richard, contemptuously.  "No, you didn't.  You hid
here because you saw me coming."

"What!  Hide from you!" cried Mark, defiantly.  "I like that!  Why
should I hide from you, fiddler?"

"Because you felt what was coming out, and that I knew the miserable
cheating act of which you have been guilty."

"Here! what do you mean?" cried Mark, in a bullying tone, as he edged
up, scowling, towards him, and looked down upon the meek musician, whom
he felt he could at any moment pretty well crush.

"I mean that if poor sick Uncle James knew what I have just heard it
would break his heart."

"I don't want to hear any cant about my father," cried Mark, changing
colour a little.  "Tell me what you mean, or--"

He made a menacing gesture; but, to his surprise, Richard did not
shrink.

"I mean that that wretched man has been to me about your debts."

"About my debts?  Oh, you mean Simpson about his bill.  Well, I don't
want your help now.  I can pay him.  He must wait."

"But he will not wait.  He threatens to expose you if the matter is not
settled at once."

"Pooh! what is there to expose?  Every fellow gets in debt more or less.
Tailors have to wait.  Every fellow gets behind for his togs."

"Yes; but he does not forge his cousin's name when he wants money."

"What?" roared Mark, shaken for the moment.  "Here," he cried, seizing
Richard by the arm, after a glance round to see if they were alone,
"what does this mean?"

"It means this," cried Richard passionately, "that your creditor has
been to me this morning, and has just left me, after showing me how you
have disgraced the good old name of Frayne."

"I?  How?"

"How?" cried Richard, whose voice was husky from emotion; "by writing my
name to the cheque for the money you borrowed, telling the man it was
for me."

"Well, so it was!" cried Mark, seizing him by the other shoulder and
shaking him.  "No backing out now!"

"What?"

"You had it nearly all.  And, if it has come to this, we'll have it all
out now.  What do you mean about the cheque?"

"I mean that you forged my name.  I knew nothing of it till just now."

"I--I--did what?" cried Mark, as if astounded.

"I have told you.  Take your dirty hands off me!  It is disgrace enough,
without--"

"I--I put your name to a cheque!" roared Mark.  "Why, you infamous,
lying cad: unsay every word!  You know the money was borrowed for you,
and that you spent it on your miserable music!  Confess it before I
break every bone in your skin!"

Staggered, mentally and bodily, by his cousin's retort, Richard Frayne
gave way, and was borne back against the ruined wall of the old
sanctuary; for Mark had, by a quick action, seized him hard by the
throat and held him fast.

"Why, you must be mad!  You dare to say I did that, you infamous--
lying--"

He had gone too far, and there was a moment's pause; for, before he
could utter the next word, Richard Frayne had given himself a violent
wrench sidewise, freed himself and struck out at his assailant.

But it was a feeble blow, consequent upon his crippled position, and,
with a savage laugh, Mark turned at him again.

"I'll teach you to talk like that!  Down on your knees and swear that it
was all a hatched-up lie, or--"

Mark Frayne's words were checked again, for he had never really seen of
what his cousin was capable till now.  He knew that he took part in
athletic exercises, and he had had the gloves on with him often enough
before, and knocked him about to his heart's content.  But he had now to
learn that Richard Frayne, the white-handed lover of music, fought
better without gloves than with, while the soft-palmed hands had
knuckles as bony as his own.

"Liar!" muttered Richard between his teeth as he struck out with his
left full at Mark's mouth, sending him staggering back, but only to
recover directly and come on furiously again.

There was only another round, and it was very short.

Richard Frayne, with every nerve twitching with rage and indignation,
followed up his second blow with others, planted so truly, and with such
effect, that within a minute he was driving his adversary back step by
step, till, blind now with fury, he put all his strength and weight into
a blow which sent Mark down like a piece of wood, to lie, inert, with
his head resting against the broken, lichen-covered fragment of an arch.

"Steady!  Hold hard!" shouted a couple of voices, and the two young
fellow-pupils, who had followed, leaped down through a broken window,
from whence, hidden by the ivy, they had watched the fray.

"You second Dick Frayne," cried the first, "and I'll see to Mark."

Richard hardly heard what was said, for there was a sound as of surging
waters in his ears, followed by a roar of words that seemed to thunder.

For, as the last speaker went down on one knee to raise up the fallen
lad, he uttered a cry of horror, and then let the young man's head
hurriedly down, to shrink away with his hands fouled by blood.

"What is it?" cried the other, running forward; while Richard's hands
clutched at the air.  "What is it?--cut?"

"Cut!" sobbed out the other.  "A doctor!--quick!  Dick Frayne, what have
you done?  He's dead!"



CHAPTER THREE.

TWO PACES TO THE REAR.

After plunging as we did head first into the great trouble of Sir
Richard Frayne's life, I must ask my readers to let me go back, in
military parlance, "two paces to the rear," so as to enter into a few
explanations as to the position of the cousins, promising that the
interpolation shall be neither tedious nor long.

Only a short time before Richard Frayne struck that unlucky blow,
general-valet Jerry entered the room with--

"Here you are, Sir Richard, two pairs; and your shoes is getting thin in
the sole."

"Then I must have a new pair, Jerry."

"Why don't you have 'arf dozen pairs in on account, sir, like Mr Mark
do?"

"Look here, Jerry, if you worry me now, I shall throw something at you."

Jeremiah Brigley, who had just put down two pairs of newly-polished
shoes, rubbed his nose meditatively with the cuff of his striped morning
jacket, and then tapped an itching place on his head with the
clothes-brush he held in his hand, as he stared down at the owner of the
shoes--a good-looking, fair, intent lad of nearly eighteen, busy over a
contrivance which rested upon a pile of mathematical and military books
on the table of the well-furnished room overlooking the Cathedral Close
of Primchilsea busy city.

The place was fitted up as a study, and a curtain shut off a smaller
room suggestive of a bed within; while over the chimney-piece were foils
opposite single-sticks; boxing-gloves hung in pairs, bruised and
swollen, as if suffering from their last knocking about; a cavalry sabre
and a dragoon officer's helmet were on the wall opposite the window.
Books, pictures, and a statuette or two made the place attractive, and
here and there were objects which told of the occupant of that room's
particular aim.

For beneath the helmet and sabre stood a piano open, and with a piece of
music on the stand--a movement by Chopin; a violoncello leaned in its
case in one corner, a cornet-a-piston showed itself, like an arrangement
in brass macaroni packed in red velvet upon a side-table; and in front
of it lay open a small, flat flute-case, wherein were the two halves of
a silver-keyed instrument side by side, in company with what seemed to
be its young one--so exact in resemblance was the silver-mounted piccolo
made to fit into the case.

There were other signs about of the occupant's love of the sweet
science; for there were a tuning-fork, a pitch-pipe, and a metronome on
the chimney-piece, a large musical-box on the front of the book-case,
some nondescript pipes, reeds, and objects of percussion; and, to show
that other tastes were cultivated to some extent, there were, besides,
several golf-clubs, fishing-rods, a cricket-bat, and a gun-case.

But the owner of all sat intent upon the contrivance before him upon the
table, and Jerry scratched his nose now with the edge of the
clothes-brush.

"Beg pardon, S'Richard--"

"What the dickens do you want now?" cried the young man, impatiently.

"On'y wanted to 'mind you of what I said lars week, S'Richard."

"Didn't I tell you to talk to me when I wasn't busy?"

"Yes, S'Richard; but, you see, you never ain't not busy.  When you ain't
at your books, getting ready for the gov'nor, you're out with Mr Mark
Frayne, sir, or some of the other gents; and when you are at home here,
sir, you're always tunin' up, an' windin' up, or 'venting something."

"Well, there, I am, Jerry," said the young man smoothing his
perplexed-looking brow.  "Now, then, what is it?"

"Only this, S'Richard," said the man, eagerly, and he now had laced up
the shoes he had brought in and thrust them beneath the curtain.  "You
see, my father he used to say as it was a chap's dooty to try and rise
in the world."

"Yes, of course," said Richard Frayne, thoughtfully taking up a piece of
the contrivance upon which he had been at work.

"And he said, S'Richard, as you ought to be on the look-out."

"Yes.  Well?"

"Well, S'Richard, that's it; I'm on the look-out."

"What for, Jerry?"

"To better myself, S'Richard.  You see, it's all very well being here
valetin' for the young gents and you, S'Richard; and I s'pose, as far as
character goes, there ain't a better coach nowhere than master, as they
says passes more young gents than anyone."

"No; Mr Draycott is a very clever scholar, Jerry," said the young man,
looking as if he wished the servant would go.  "Well?"

"Well, sir, that's all very well for a character for a noo place, but a
chap don't want to be cleanin' boots all his life when they ain't
shoes."

"No, Jerry; that would be rather a monotonous career.  But what do you
want me to do?"

"Well, S'Richard, it's making very bold like; but I can't help liking
you, sir, and 'fore long you'll be passing and getting appointed to your
regiment; and as I've got a great taste for soljering myself, I thought
I'd ask you to take me with you."

"You--you want to be a soldier, Jerry?"

"Yes, sir.  Why not?" said the man, drawing himself up, and brushing the
tuft of hair over the top of his forehead, so that it stood up fiercely,
and gave his whole head some resemblance to the conventional naming
shell of military ornamentation.  "Of course, I couldn't think of a
military eddication and going to a coach, S'Richard, and passing; but
lots of chaps have risen from the ranks."

"Yes, I suppose so," said the young man, who looked more bored and
fidgety; "but I don't think I ought to promise to take you, Jerry.  I
don't know that I shall pass and get my commission."

"Oh, yes, you will, sir."

"Of course, I should like to have you with me, Jerry, because you
understand me so well."

"I do, S'Richard; and I allus feel proud o' doin' for you.  I often
watches you when you goes out, and I says to myself, `Look at him!  I
cut him, and brushed him, and shaved him'--not as there's much to shave
yet, sir."

"No, Jerry," said the young man, passing his hand over his upper lip and
chin; "it's rather a work of supererogation at present."

"A what, sir?"

"Work of supererogation, Jerry."

"Exactly, S'Richard; that's just what it is.  But don't you get out of
heart, sir.  I was smooth as you once, and now if I goes two days you
might grate ginger with me!"

"Well, we will see," said the young man; "but if you want to--to--"

"Better myself, S'Richard; that's it!"

"Don't let another opportunity go."

"Oh, yes, I shall, S'Richard!  You said you'd like to have me, and
that's enough for me!  I'd wait for you, sir, if I had to stop till you
was a hundred!  But, beg pardon, S'Richard, is that there to make a
patent mouse-trap?"

"Which?" said the young man angrily.

"That there thing as you're making, S'Richard."

"Pooh! what nonsense!  Jerry, you are not musical."

"Well, sir, I ain't a moosician, as you may say, but I was a dab at the
Jew's-harp once, and I've got a very tidy flootina 'cordion now; only I
ain't no time to practise."

"No, Jerry," said the young man, thoughtfully, as he laid out his little
pieces of mechanism on the table; "this is an attempt to invent a means
of producing musical sounds by percussion."

"With p'cussion-caps, sir?"

"No, no! by blows."

"Oh, I see, S'Richard."

"I have often thought that more might be done, Jerry, in the way of
obtaining musical notes."

"Of course, S'Richard."

"You see," said the young man, dreamily, "we produce them by vibration."

"Yes, S'Richard, and whistling, and fiddling, and blowing trombones."

"Exactly; that is all connected with vibration."

"Oh, is it, sir?  I s'pose you're right; but then there's pyanners, sir,
and orgins, sir, street and otherwise!"

"Exactly, Jerry," said the young student drily.  "There, I'm busy now;
I'll remember what you said, and, if I can have you with me, I will."

"Thank you kindly, S'Richard.  Don't you be afraid as I won't do my
dooty by you!"

"I won't, Jerry.  Then that's all, isn't it?"

"Well, S'Richard, not quite all; there's your cousin, sir--Mr Mark,
sir."

"Well, what about him?"

"Only this, S'Richard: if you'd speak to him, and tell him as servants
ain't doormats, I should be greatly obliged."

"What do you mean?"

"Only this, S'Richard, as it's getting beyond bearing!  I don't want to
go complaining to Mr Draycott, sir, but there is bounds to everything!
Havin' all kinds of hard words chucked at you--`fools' and `idgits' and
`jackasses'--and when it comes to boots and hair-brushes, I says as it's
rough enough; but when it's a soda-water bottle and a plate, I can't
stand it, and I won't!"

"What had you been doing to annoy my cousin?"

"Nothin', S'Richard.  I just work for him same as I do for my other
gentlemen, or for you, sir; and you never threw a bad word at me in your
life--let alone boots!"

"Did the things hit you, Jerry?"

"No, S'Richard, I can't say as they hit me; but they hurt me, all the
same.  Servants has feelings same as gents has."

"I'm very sorry, Jerry.  Mr Frayne is a little irritable sometimes."

"If you made it often, S'Richard, you wouldn't be very far out."

"Well, often then.  His studies worry him, I suppose."

Jerry made a peculiar grimace.

"And he has had a little trouble once or twice with Mr Draycott."

"Yes, S'Richard, he ayve."

"There, I'll speak to him, Jerry.  He doesn't mean anything by it, for
he's a good fellow at heart; and when he feels that he has hurt your
feelings I daresay it will mean an apology, and--perhaps something
else."

"Thankye, S'Richard, thankye," said the man.  "I know'd you'd say
something o' that sort, but don't you speak to him.  It wouldn't do no
good.  He wouldn't 'pologise to such as me; and as to a tip--not him!
There, S'Richard, it's all right now.  It did me good to say all that
out to a real gentleman, and--pst!--Any more orders, S'Richard?"

"Eh?" said Richard, wondering at the man's manner.  "No, thank you;
that's all.  What's the matter?"

"Pst!  S'Richard," whispered the man hurriedly.  "Talk of the
No-we-never-mentions-him, and you see his--"

The door opened with a crash, and made the pictures swing upon the wall,
while Jerry drew on one side to let the fresh-comer enter the room.



CHAPTER FOUR.

MARK IN A HOLE.

"Hullo, thick-head! loafing again."

It was a dark, olive-complexioned young fellow, of Sir Richard's age,
who swung into the opening noisily, cigarette in mouth.

"Not loafing, Mr Frayne, sir," said the man in an injured tone, as he
fixed his eyes on the rather handsome student who had entered the room,
and took in at a glance his white flannels and yellow-striped blazer,
from the breast-pocket of which a thick gold chain was hanging.  "Beg
pardon, sir; you'll be losing your watch-chain's out o' buttonhole."

"Well, what business is it of yours, idiot?  If I lose it, you might
find it.  Perquisites--eh, Jerry?"

"There, S'Richard," said the man, flushing.  "Now, ain't that as good as
sayin' I'd steal a watch?  I'd take my oath I never--"

"That will do, Jerry," said Sir Richard, sternly.  "You needn't wait.--
Why can't you leave the fellow alone, Mark?"

"Why can't you act like a gentleman, and not be always making friends
with the servants?" retorted the young fellow addressed.  "So that's it,
is it?  The confounded sneak comes tattling to you, does he?"

"No!" cried Sir Richard, rather gruffly; "but he did complain of your
forgetting yourself and throwing things at him."

"Oh, did he?" cried Mark Frayne, catching up the nearest thing, which
was the model his cousin had been making, and hurling it at the
offender, but without effect, for Jeremiah Brigley already had the door
open and darted out; the panel receiving the model instead of his head.

Sir Richard Frayne sprang to his feet to save his model, but too late;
it fell, shivered, to the carpet, and the new-comer burst into a roar of
laughter.

"I don't see anything to grin at," said his cousin, indignantly.

"Not you!" said the other, letting himself down on to the keyboard of
the piano with a loud musical crash, and laughing heartily all the time.
"Why don't you get on with your work?  Anyone would think you were in
training for a cat-gut scraper at a low theatre instead of for an
officer and a gentleman."

"Mark, old chap," said Sir Richard, good-humouredly, as, with rather a
rueful look, he picked up his broken model, "every man to his taste.  I
like music; you like dogs."

"Yes; and they make a precious sight better music than ever you do.
Soldier!  Pooh!  You haven't the heart of a cockroach in you.  Thank
goodness, you'll soon have to do your exam.  That'll open your eyes, and
I shall be glad of it.  If I were you, I'd try for an engagement in a
band somewhere, for you'll never get a commission."

"Perhaps not," said Sir Richard, quietly.  "But what's the matter with
you, old chap?  Been having a row with Draycott?"

"Draycott's a bumptious, pedantic old fool.  Fancies he knows
everything.  A brute!"

"Take a couple of pills, Mark; your liver's out of order."

"Put an angel's liver out of order to be here!  I won't put up with much
more of it, and so I'll tell him.  I shall dress as I like, and do as I
like, even if I haven't got a handle to my name.  Sir Richard, indeed!--
a pattern for me to follow!  Next time the fat old idiot say's that to
me, I'll throw the books at his head."

"Oh, that's it, is it?"

"Yes; that's it, is it!" cried Mark Frayne in an angry tone.  "I tell
you I'm sick of it!"

"Nonsense!  What had you been doing?" said Richard, fighting down a
feeling of resentment, and looking smilingly at his cousin.

"What's that to you?" growled Mark.

"Not much; but I wanted to help the lame dog over the stile."

"Look here," cried Mark, fiercely; "none of that.  If you want to insult
me, say so right out, and then I shall know what you mean.  None of your
covert allusions."

Richard Frayne laughed outright, and his cousin took a step forward
menacingly.

"Why, what has come to you?" cried the former.  "Don't be so peppery.  I
want to help you, if I can."

"Do you?" cried Mark, eagerly.  "There, I'm sorry I spoke so sharply.
That brute Simpson has been writing to Draycott."

"Simpson, the tailor?  What has he got to write about?"

Mark Frayne scowled, and gave a kick out with his leg, but did not
answer.

"Have you been running a bill with him?"

Mark nodded.

"Then why don't you pay it?"

"Why don't I pay it?" snarled Mark.  "Am I a baronet with plenty of
money?"

"No; but you have as good an allowance as I.  You ought to be able to
pay your tailor's bill."

"'Tisn't a bill for clothes," said Mark, sulkily, and he picked up a
book, opened it, and threw it impatiently across the room, making his
cousin wince a little.

"What then?  Surely you haven't been such a fool as to borrow money of
him?"

"Yes, I have been such a fool as to borrow money of him," cried Mark,
savagely.  "I couldn't help being short; he offered it to me, and, of
course, I took it.  So would you."

"No, I shouldn't," said Richard, quietly.  "He did write to offer me
money once--when I first came, and I refused it, and haven't been in his
shop since."

"But then we're not all such good young men as you are, Dick," sneered
Mark.  "I did take it, and the brute has been running up interest and
renewing, as he calls it, and gammoning me into ordering fresh clothes.
He made this beastly jacket, and all sorts of things that don't fit; and
now, because I'm not ready to pay his swindling bill and the wretched
paper, he has been threatening, and ended by writing to old Draycott."

"Pay him then, and have done with him."

"Will you help me?"

"Of course, if I can."

"If you can!  Why, you can, if you like."

"I don't know about that," said the other, good-humouredly; "I've been
spending a good deal of money in music things lately."

"Bosh! you can get me out of the hole, if you like."

"How much do you owe him?"

Mark threw the end of his cigarette with all his force into the
fireplace, and ground his teeth for a few moments before muttering
between them--

"Eighty-four pounds, or so!"

"What?"

"Eighty-four pounds," snarled Mark.  "Do you want me to shout it for
everyone to know?"

"But how could you get into his debt to that extent?"

"Didn't I tell you, stupid?  Half of it was lent, and I gave him an
I.O.U., and he has been piling it up somehow.  I don't know what he has
done.  He was civil and smooth as butter till he had me tight, and now
he's showing his teeth."

"But he would not have written to Draycott unless you had been
disagreeable to him."

"Oh! wouldn't he?  He threatened to a year ago, when it wasn't so much.
It was when he found out I'd been getting some togs from London.  I
expect he pumped it out of that idiot Jerry Brigley.  But I'm not going
to sit here exposing my affairs.  Will you help me to get out of the
hole?"

Richard Frayne was silent for a time, and then he said quietly--

"I can't, Mark."

"What?  Why, you said you would."

"Yes, but I thought it meant lending you four or five pounds.  I have no
more till my quarter comes round."

"Till your quarter comes round," sneered Mark; "anyone would think he
had his wages then.  Here, no nonsense, Dick; you said you would help
me."

"I did, but I can't."

Mark made an angry gesture, but he mastered himself and turned to his
cousin.

"Look here, it doesn't mean money.  Simpson knows that you'll have
Quailmere some day, and he said he wouldn't mind waiting if he had good
security.  It only means putting your name to a bit of paper."

"Did Simpson suggest that?" said Richard.

"Of course he did, and it means making an end to the trouble.  I shall
only have to go on paying the interest."

"Till Mr Simpson chooses to come down upon me and make me pay," said
Richard, with a laugh full of annoyance.

"No, he won't; he said he wouldn't.  It's such a little sum, too--
nothing to you!  Here, come on with me at once, and let's settle it."

Richard Frayne sat back in his chair, looking straight before him,
unconscious of the fact that his cousin was watching him narrowly, and
who now went on with forced gaiety--

"Wish I hadn't been such a fool as to keep it to myself.  Here it has
been worrying my very life out for months, and made me as irritable as a
wasp.  You are a good fellow, Dick!  But, honour bright, I didn't like
to ask you."

Richard remained silent.

"There, don't think about it any more.  Come on."

"But it wants thinking about, Mark."

"What nonsense!  You don't know how easy these things are."

"I've often heard," said Richard, drily.

"Yes, of course you have," said Mark, with a feeble laugh.  "There, put
me out of my misery, old chap.  Sudden death, you know.  Come on."

"No," said Richard, quietly.  "I promised my poor father that I would
never put my name to paper in that way, and I never will."

"What?"

"You heard, Mark."

"Do you mean to tell me that, after what you have said, you will not
help me out of this bit of trouble?"

"No, I do not mean to tell you that.  I want to help you."

"Then, come on."

"Yes, come on to Mr Draycott, and let's ask him what is to be done."

Mark Frayne leaped up from where he had rested in a sitting position
upon the keyboard of the piano, giving his hands a bang down on either
side, and producing fresh jangling discords, which seemed to fit with
the harsh, mocking laugh he uttered.

"Good boy!" he cried.  "What an excellent son!  That old cock-o'-wax,
the Admirable Crichton, was nowhere.  You'd have beaten him into fits,
Dick.  Go on, say something else; it does me good; only be gentle.  I
couldn't bear to be made such a saint as you are all at once."

"Of course, I know it will be very painful for you," continued Richard,
gravely; "but it is the only thing you can do, and Draycott has over and
over again said to me, `If ever you find yourself in any trouble,
Frayne, forget that we are tutor and pupil, and come to me as a
friend.'"

"You miserable sneak!" growled Mark, in a hard, husky voice.

"No, I'm not; I'm your cousin, and I want to help you, Mark," said
Richard.  "I spend so much time at the music that I know very little
about these money matters; but I do know that this fellow Simpson has
been working to get you under his thumb, and running up an account twice
as much as you justly owe him."

"Go on," said Mark, "preach away!  I won't quarrel with you; because,
prig as you are, Dick, I don't believe you will refuse to help me.  Look
here, it's only signing your name.  Will you do it?"

"I'll give you all I've got, and undertake to let you have
three-quarters of my next allowance from the lawyers.  I can't do any
more than that."

"Once more," said Mark, huskily, "will you help me?"

"I have told you," was the reply, "I'll lend you all I can scrape
together, or go with you straight to Mr Draycott."

"Once more," said Mark, with an ugly, vicious look in his eyes, "will
you come in to old Simpson's and sign?"

Richard Frayne sat looking firmly at his cousin, but made no reply.

"All right," said Mark, with a laugh; "then the game's up!  I shall make
a bolt of it, and go to sea.  No: every cad does that.  I'll take my
dearly beloved, sanctified cousin for a model, and be very good and
saving.  I won't waste all old Draycott's military teaching; it would be
a pity!"

"What do you mean?" cried Richard.

"To go over to Ratcham and take the shilling.  Perhaps I shall rise from
the ranks."

"Go and think about what I've said, and come back when you get cool.  I
won't go out all day, and--"

_Bang_, _rattle_, and a crash!

Mark Frayne had gone out and closed the door with so much violence that
the dragoon officer's helmet was shaken from the peg upon which it hung,
and fell, bringing with it the cavalry sabre.

Richard sprang from his chair to pick them up, a frown gathering upon
his face as he saw that an ugly dint had been made in the helmet which
resisted all his efforts to force it out.

Then he stood gazing down at it and the sabre, which he had raised and
carefully laid upon the table beneath where it had hung.

It was a fancy, he knew.  He told himself that it was a silly piece of
superstition; but, all the same, a strange feeling troubled him; and it
seemed as if the fall of these old mementoes of the gallant officer, his
dead father, was a kind of portent of trouble to come--trouble and
disaster that would be brought about by his cousin.



CHAPTER FIVE.

RIGHT FORWARD.

The dreamy sensation of unreality passed away for the moment, and
Richard Frayne flung himself upon his knees beside his cousin, to raise
his head, after hurriedly taking out and folding a handkerchief to form
a bandage; while, after eagerly watching him for a few moments, one of
the two pupils turned and dashed off as hard as he could run in the
direction of the town.

But the bandage was too short; and, after looking wildly up at his
companion, Richard tore off his necktie, made a pad of the handkerchief,
and bound it firmly to the back of his cousin's head, conscious, as he
did so, of the fact that the bone was dented in by its contact with the
stone.

"Go for help!" cried Richard, huskily.

"No, no; I can't leave you now," said the other, who stood there, white
and trembling.  "Andrews has gone for a doctor.  Somebody else is sure
to come.  Oh, Frayne! what have you done?"

The lad looked up at him wildly, but he could not speak.  The strange
sensation of everything being unreal came over him again, and, in a
dreamy way, he saw the coming of his aunt and uncle to ask him the same
question; while Mark was lying, pale and cold, lifeless in his room.
There was the rushing, murmuring sound of the river from close at hand,
and the deep tones of the great Cathedral bell striking the hour; but to
Richard's excited imagination it was tolling for his cousin's death, and
thought succeeded thought now in horrible sequence.

He had in his passion killed Mark Frayne.  It was in fair fight; but
would people believe all this?  They had quarrelled, and about that
money trouble.  Would people believe his version, or take the side of
the dead?

Then a black cloud of misery and despair seemed to close him in, and he
knelt there as it stunned--unable to think, unable to move.  He could
only gaze down at the pale, rigid features before him, drawing back
involuntarily at last as he awoke to the fact that his companion had
been down to the river to fill his hat with water, with which he began
to bathe Mark Frayne's face.

Then came a buzz of voices as boys and men approached.  Two or three
people began at once to ask questions, which Richard Frayne could not
answer, while his companion's replies were confused and wild.

"Yes, he's dead enough," said someone, coarsely, and the words seemed to
echo through Richard's brain.

Then there was hurried talk about carrying him back to the town, calls
for a gate or a shutter, and the little crowd constantly on the
increase, till the pressure grew suffocating.

At last someone shouted--

"Here he is!" and Richard was conscious of a tall figure in black
forcing its way through the crowd, scolding and ordering the people to
keep back.

"How did this happen?" someone said, sharply; and Richard gazed up at
the speaker, but made no reply, only stared with dilated eyes as a rapid
examination was made and the rough bandage replaced.

Then, in a dreamy way, Richard Frayne saw that his cousin was lifted on
to a gate, and a ragged kind of procession was formed, as the men who
had raised the bars on to their shoulders stepped off together under the
doctor's direction; while he seemed to be, as the nearest relative,
playing the part of chief mourner.

That march back appeared endless.  People joined in, others stood in
front of house and shop; and the buzzing of voices increased till,
panting and flurried, the great heavy figure of Mr Draycott was seen
approaching without his hat.

"Much hurt?"

"Can't say yet, for certain," rang ominously in Richard's ears.  "Fear
the worst!  I want Mr Shrubsole to be fetched!"

"I'll go, sir; I'll go!" came from a couple of boys; and then Richard
felt Mr Draycott's heavy hand upon his shoulder as they still went on.

"A terrible business, Frayne; a terrible business!" he said; and for the
rest of the distance to the gate of the carriage drive these words kept
on repeating themselves to the beat of feet and the buzz and angry
excitement, as one of the policemen who had hurried up refused to let
the crowd follow to the hall-door.

Then, still in the dreamy, confused way as of one half-stunned, Richard
Frayne paced up and down the dining-room, hearing from time to time what
was going on, for he had been sent out of his cousin's room by the
doctor.  Here he was conscious of the fact that his fellow-pupils all
kept aloof, grouping together and talking in low tones.  They were
discussing the affray, he knew, and a word here and there told him that
the causes of the encounter were well to the fore.

Twice over he heard something which made him draw near, but his approach
was followed by a dead silence, and the blood flushed to his temples;
but that was no time for angry remonstrance, and he shrank away.

"They don't know!" he muttered, as he resumed his weary walk up and down
till Andrews, who acted the part of scout, entered the room to
communicate what he had gathered on the stairs.

Richard went to him, but the lad avoided his eyes and turned to his
companions, to whom he whispered a few words, and then went out again to
get more news.

This went on over and over again, with the feeling growing on Richard
that he was to be "sent to Coventry," the two who had witnessed the
encounter having evidently heard a great deal that passed between the
cousins and communicated the words that had fallen at the time.

All this was maddening, but it was overborne by the one dread thought--
Suppose Mark really were dead, what should he do?

The leaden minutes went slowly on, and somehow he gathered that the two
doctors had been performing a crucial operation and one of them had
gone; and, unable to bear the suspense longer, Richard turned to go and
ask for himself, when the door was opened and Jerry appeared, to raise
his hand and beckon to him to come out.

Richard obeyed the sign, and hurried into the hall in the midst of a
profound silence.

"How is he?" whispered the lad, excitedly; and the man shook his head.

"Don't ask me, sir," he cried.  "Master wants to see you in the study."

Richard uttered a low, piteous sigh, and everything seemed to swing
round him, while an intense desire came to rash wildly out of the house
and hurry away anywhere--to woods, or out on some vast plain, where he
would be alone to think, if it were possible, and get rid of the violent
throbbing in his brain.

"Oh, I shall go mad!" he muttered.

At that moment Jerry threw open the study door, and, trying to nerve
himself for the encounter, Richard entered, to find the great tutor
standing, with his hands behind him, before the fireless grate.

"How is he, Mr Draycott?  Pray, pray speak!" cried Richard.

"I sent for you to tell you, Frayne," said the tutor, in a low, deep
voice.  "Sinking fast!"

"Dying?" cried Richard, wildly.  "No, no, sir; don't say that!"

"The doctors have done all they can, Frayne.  He is perfectly
insensible, and they say he will pass away before many hours are gone."

Richard groaned, and clapped his hands to his head, pressing them there
as if to clear his brain.

"More help!" he said suddenly.

"I have telegraphed for our greatest specialist."

"Ah!"

"And to the poor fellow's father at Cannes.  A terrible business,
Frayne--a terrible business!"

"Yes; but he must not die--he must not die!"

Mr Draycott was silent for a few minutes.  There was much he wanted to
say, but the words seemed loth to come.

"We must be prepared for the worst, Frayne," he said at last.  "This is
a dreadful shock."

"Yes--yes!" groaned Richard.

"And I have something very hard to say to you."

"You cannot say anything, sir, that will make me feel worse than I do."

Mr Draycott shook his head.

"It must come, Frayne," he said at last; "so we may as well get the
matter over.  Things look very black against you."

"Black, sir?"

"Yes.  Sinjohn and Andrews both saw how strange you looked when you
passed them, and they followed, being agreed that something was wrong.
It was observed too, by others."

"I was angry, sir--in a rage."

"Yes," said the tutor sternly.  "They saw you encounter your cousin, and
they heard nearly every word he said."

"And what I said, sir?"

"No.  They tell me you spoke to him in a low voice, as if you were
begging him not to do something, and they gathered that it was about
keeping a trouble quiet."

"No, no, sir!" cried Richard wildly.

"That is how it impressed them, and they say that, when your cousin
refused what you wanted, you attacked him."

"No, sir!  We fought; but I acted in self-defence."

"Indeed!" said his tutor, coldly.  "They heard words, too, about debt--a
heavy sum--and forging--matters that should not be even known amongst
the gentlemen studying here.  I find, too, Frayne, that you have been
mixed up with money matters."

"It is not true, sir."

"Your cousin declared you were.  He was heard to say so, and if the
worst comes to the worst, Frayne, his words will be believed."

"Do you mean if he dies, sir?" gasped Richard.

"I do, Frayne.  I have had a letter from that Mr Simpson, and I find
that he came to you this morning to be paid, and that sharp words passed
between you in your room.  This is all very bad, Frayne, and, confused
though it is, it goes against you.  The police--"

"What?" cried Richard.

"Were for arresting you at once."

"Arresting me?  What for?" cried the young man, indignantly.

"For a murderous assault upon your cousin; but I would not hear of it
now.  I said that you would be here if it was found necessary to proceed
against you."

"Oh, but this is madness, sir!" cried Richard, excitedly.  "They could
not do that!"

The tutor shook his head.

"We must look troubles in the face, Frayne," he said.  "If matters come
to the worst, there must be an inquest, and, whatever you may say, your
fellow-pupils' words will have weight."

Richard literally staggered, and gazed wildly at the heavy face of his
tutor, who went on slowly--

"It is a terrible business, Frayne, and a fearful blow for me.  I cannot
blame myself.  I always treat those who study with me as gentlemen, and
if the poor fellow upstairs does sink, the consequences must be crushing
for you."

"Never mind me, sir; let's think of my cousin.  He must get better!
There, I can think more clearly now.  It is as if my head does not feel
so shut up and strange.  I won't try to defend myself, sir; but Andrews
and Sinjohn are wrong.  I am innocent."

"But you struck your cousin down."

"Yes, sir; I was nearly mad with passion."

"Ah!" sighed the tutor.

"But it was in fair fighting, sir!"

"I am afraid, Frayne, it is manslaughter; and now let us bring this
painful interview to a close.  You will have the goodness to go up to
your room, and to stay there until I ask you to come down.  Stop!  I
think it would be better for you to have legal advice.  This is all so
new to me!"

"I'm going to my room--to stay there, sir--but don't do anything about
me till we hear what the great doctor says; it may not be so bad.  Can I
see my cousin now?"

"No.  The doctor's orders are that no one but the nurse is to enter his
room.  There, let us end this painful interview."

"I am innocent, sir, indeed!" it was upon Richard's lips to say; but the
stern, doubting look on the tutor's face checked him, and he went slowly
up to his room, utterly crushed as he sank into a chair, conscious the
next moment that the curtain which separated it from his bedchamber was
pushed aside, and Jerry appeared.

"Been a-waiting, sir.  They're a-saying, sir, that you tried to kill Mr
Mark Frayne because he was going to tell on you about some money
troubles.  It ain't true, is it, sir?"

"True!" cried Richard, flushing indignantly.

"I knowed it wasn't!" said Jerry, triumphantly.  "You couldn't ha' done
such a thing, S'Richard; but I wouldn't ha' believed as you could hit so
hard."

"Go now, please."

"Yes, sir, just a-going; but don't you take on, sir.  P'raps he'll get
better; but, if he don't--well, sir, he's your cousin, but--"

"That will do; now go."

Jerry gave his mouth a slap, and hurried from the room.



CHAPTER SIX.

DOWN IN THE DEPTHS.

Half-mad with despair and misery, one thought constantly returned with
terrible persistence to Richard Frayne as he tramped up and down his
prison--for so it now seemed, though neither locks nor bars stayed his
way to freedom.  The pleasant, handsomely-furnished room was the same as
it had been only a few hours before, with musical instruments and
treasured hobbies that he had collected together; and yet not the same,
for it was the cell in which he was confined by the order of the man
whose word had always been to him as a law, and in which he felt as
firmly shut in as if he had given his parole of honour not to leave it
until told to descend.

The thirst for news was again rising.  Mark, they had informed him, was
lying insensible, slowly sinking into eternity, and he could not go to
his side, fall upon his knees, and tell him that he would sooner have
suffered death than this should have happened.  And there, crushing him
down, as his eyes were constantly turned upon that helmet, while he
tramped the room or sank upon one of the chairs, was the thought, with
its maddening persistency, that it was better that his parents had not
lived to see their son's position--the shame and despair which were now
his lot--always that thought; for he recalled the days of sorrow, a
couple of years back, when the gallant officer, whose name had been a
power in India, was snatched away, and the loving wife and mother
followed him within a month.

Light-hearted, of an affectionate nature, and always on the warmest
terms of intimacy with his fellow-pupils, his position now seemed to him
doubly hard in his loneliness, for not one had come near him to take him
by the hand.  The words raved out in the quarrel had run through them
and hardened all against him.  They could have sympathised with him in
the terrible result of the encounter; but the dishonourable, criminal
act which his cousin's charge had fixed upon him soured all, and they
readily obeyed the principal's wish that he should be left to himself.

There were times when it seemed impossible to him that the charge he had
made should so have recoiled and fixed itself upon him; but, by a
strange perverseness, thus it was, and, saving by the servant, hardly a
friendly word had been spoken.

"Am I going mad?" he muttered, as he tramped up and down, holding his
throbbing head.  "It seems more than I can bear!"

It was evening now, a glorious summer evening; with the mellow sunshine
lighting up the lake-like meadows, for the river was far out of bounds
and spreading still; but Richard Frayne saw nothing through the black
cloud which seemed to shut him in.  Then all at once, sending an
electric thrill through him, there was a sharp tap at the door, and he
turned to meet the visitor.

Only Jerry, who came in bearing a napkin-covered tray, holding it
resting upon the edge as he cleared a space upon the table.

"Well?" cried Richard, hoarsely.

"Your dinner, sir, that I was to bring up."

"How is he?  How is he?" panted Richard.

The man looked at him sadly, shook his head, and went on clearing a
place for the tray.

"Why don't you speak?" cried Richard, fiercely.  "Not--not--?"

He could not finish.

"No, sir; and the big doctor hasn't got here yet.  There you are, sir.
Now do sit down and eat a bit; you must want something!"

"Take it away!"

"No, no, sir; do, please, try!"

"Take it away, I tell you!"

Jerry stood looking at him piteously, rubbing his hands one over the
other as if he were washing them.

"I know it goes agin' you, sir, of course; but you ought, sir; indeed,
you ought!"

"Tell me," cried Richard, "who is with him?"

"The doctor, sir, and the nurse; and master's always going up and down.
I met him only just now that upset and white it gave me quite a turn.
He shook his head at me.  `A terrible business, Brigley, very!' he says;
`a terrible business!  I wouldn't have had it happen for a thousand
pounds!'"

"There, go away now, Jerry!  Pray, pray, don't stop!  Take all that
down!"

"No, sir; I can't do that!" said the man.  "It was master's orders, and
you must really try to eat."

Richard sank into a chair and covered his face with his hands, but only
sprang up the next minute upon feeling his shoulder touched, and saw the
man leaning over him.

"Can't I do nothing for you, S'Richard?" whispered Jerry.  "I'd do
anything for you, sir; indeed, I would."

"Go to my cousin's room and wait till you can get some news.  Jerry, if
it comes to the worst, I shall go mad."

The man looked at him compassionately, and then went out on tiptoe, to
return after an interval to thrust in his head, which he gave a mournful
shake, and then withdrew.

The evening passed and the night was gliding on, with Richard still
pacing the room from time to time, when Jerry once more came to the
door, glided in, closed it, and hurriedly whispered--

"The doctor's down from London, sir, and he's still in Mr Mark's room."

"What does he say?" cried Richard, wildly.

"Can't tell yet, sir; but as soon as ever I hear I'll come back."

Jerry crept away, and the prisoner sat down once more to think.  He felt
that he would soon know now--that he would shortly have to face the
awful truth--and a chilling feeling of despair came upon him with
redoubled violence; while, as he sat there, he gave up all hope.  There
was the future to face, and now a great change seemed to come over him,
as if it were the energy begotten of despair.

There was the worst to face, with the inquest, the examination, and the
possibility of the wrong construction still being placed upon his acts.
Everything had gone against him, everything would continue to go against
him, and he told himself that it was impossible to face it.  His word
seemed to go for nothing; and, yielding to the horror of his position,
he sat there in the darkest part of his room, wishing earnestly that he
could exchange places with the unhappy lad lying yonder between life and
death.

Suddenly he started, for, sounding solemn and strange in the midnight
air, the bell of the Cathedral boomed out the hour, the long-drawn
strokes of the hammer seeming as if they would never come to an end;
while, when the last stroke fell, it was succeeded in the silence of the
night by a dull, quivering vibration that slowly died away.

And there, with overstrained nerves, Richard Frayne sat, waiting still
for the coming of the news.  He must have that, he told himself, before
he could act; but still it did not come.

Twice over he went to the door, with the intention of opening it to
listen, but he shrank away.

No.  He felt that he was a prisoner, and he could not lay a hand upon
the lock.  He would wait until the man came.

But it was half-past one before the door was opened and Jerry stole in
on tiptoe.

"Think I wasn't a-coming, sir?" he said, sadly.

"The news!--the news!" gasped Richard.

Jerry was silent, as he stood gazing wistfully at the inquirer.

"Can't you see that I am dying to hear?" cried the lad imploringly.

"Yes, sir," came in a broken voice; "but I've got that to tell you
that'll break your 'art as well, sir."

"Then it is the worst?" groaned Richard.

"Yes, sir: master told me.  He rang for me to tell me as soon as the
doctor had gone to the hotel.  I let him out, sir.  Yes, sir, master
rung for me to tell me; and, of course, he meant it so that I might come
up and tell you.  `Brigley,' he says, `the doctor gives us no hope at
all.  There was a piece of bone pressing on the brain, he says, and this
the doctors removed; but the shock was too much for the poor fellow, and
he won't last the night.'"

Richard sat back in his chair, rigid, as if cut in stone, and Jerry went
on--

"Don't look like that, sir; don't, please!  You wanted me to tell you.
It was my dooty, sir; and now, sir, you know the worst, do take a bit of
advice, sir.  Even if you don't undress, go and lie down, and have a
good sleep till morning.  There, sir, I must, too.  I'll bring you a cup
of tea about six, sir.  Good-night, sir."

"Good-night," said Richard, quietly.

"Ah, that's better," said Jerry to himself.  "Now he knows the worst,
he's easier like.  What's o'clock?"

He drew a big-faced watch from his pocket by its steel chain.

"Harpus one; not much time for my snooze.  I'll just go and make up
cook's fire, put the kettle over, and have a nap there.  It's no use to
go to bed now."

Jerry did as he had promised to himself, and finally sank back in a kind
of Windsor chair, dropping off to sleep the next instant, and, by force
of habit, waking just at the time he had arranged in his mind.

"Ten minutes to six," he muttered, smiling.  "I've got a head like a
'larum.  Just upon the boil, too," he added, addressing the kettle, as
he changed it from the trivet on to the glowing coals.

The clocks were striking six as he went softly upstairs with a little
tray, and, turning the handle, entered Richard Frayne's room, where one
of the windows was open; and all looked bright and cheery in the early
morning sunshine as he set the tray down upon the table beside the
larger one, which showed that some bread had been broken off, but the
rest of the contents were untouched.

"It's a shame to wake him," thought Jerry; "cup o' tea's a fine thing
when you're tired out, but a good long sleep's a deal better.  Poor
chap, I won't disturb him, but I'll take the tea in and put it on a
chair by his bedside.  He shall see as I didn't forget him in trouble.
On'y to think him a real gent with a handle to his name and lots of
money to come in for when he's one-and-twenty.  Right as a trivet
yes'day morning and now in such a hobble as this, just like any common
chap as goes and kills his mate.  They can't hang him, but I s'pose
they'll give it to him pretty hot, poor chap!  Juries is such beasts,
they'd take 'n give it to him hard because he's a real gent, and make as
though keeping up the glorious constitootion and freedom and liberty of
the subject to everybody alike.  Well, I s'pose it's right, but I'd let
him off in a minute if I was the judge.--Come on!"

This was to the tea, whose fragrance he sniffed as he neared the waiter,
and went softly to the archway where the curtain shut off the bedroom.

"Poor boy!--for he is nothing but a boy--I am sorry for him, and no
mistake.  Well, ups and downs in life we see, and you can't escape
troubles, even if you're a Prince o' Wales."

Jerry softly drew the curtain aside and peered through without a sound;
and as he let the heavy drapery fall, he uttered an ejaculation, put the
tray on the washstand, and swung the heavy curtains right along the
brass pole, making the rings give quite a clash, as the morning sun
shone through, showing that the bed had not been disturbed.

In an instant the man's eyes were searching about the room, and he saw
that a suit of clothes lay where they had been tossed upon a chair,
while a wardrobe door was open.

He darted to that, made a hasty examination, and muttered--

"Brown velveteens!  No, it ain't.  Here they are.  It's his dark tweeds,
and--no--yes: dark stockings."

He continued his examination in the bedroom, but could make out nothing
else.

"Only gone for a walk before anyone's up, poor chap!  Hadn't the heart
to go to bed.  More hadn't I at the time.  He ain't taken nothing.  He
can't have--he wouldn't have--I don't know though--I--oh, he couldn't
have--Let's see--"

He hurried downstairs and went to the front door, then to the
dining-room, drawing-room, and study, as well as the room set apart for
the pupils; but the windows were closed, and he went slowly upstairs
again to pause by the staircase window.

"A man might step out here on to the balcony and shut it down again, and
easily drop.  But no: he can't have done that."

With his mind bent upon getting some clue as to the young man's actions,
Jerry turned back to his room and once more looked round.

"No," he said thoughtfully, "he couldn't do that; it would be cowardly,
and he's got too much pluck.  He'd have taken some things, too and he
hasn't done that."

As Jerry spoke his eyes were turning everywhere in search of a clue; but
he saw nothing till they fell upon the tray, toward which he sprang with
a cry, for he had now caught sight of a piece of paper folded like a
note and bearing his name.

He tore it open, and read only these words:--

"Good-bye, Jerry.  You were the only one to stand by me to the last.
Take my gold fox-head pin for yourself.  I cannot face it all.  I feel
half-mad."



CHAPTER SEVEN.

JERRY SEES THE WORST.

"Off his nut!" gasped Jerry, excitedly.  "Who wants his fox-pin?  I
wants him.  Couldn't stand it!--half-dotty!"

He looked wildly round, and then his eyes lit upon the glittering waters
of the swollen river spreading far and near, and he once more uttered a
cry.

"The river!" he exclaimed.  "It's that!" and, rushing out of the room,
he leaped headlong down the stairs, making for the pantry, where he
caught up his hat.

The next minute he was running along the main road, instinctively
feeling that this was the way anyone would take who wished to reach the
river.

He did not meet a soul for the first few hundred yards, and then came
suddenly, at a turn, upon a farmer's man, in long smock-frock, driving a
flock of sheep, and looking as if he had come far along the dusty road,
perhaps travelling since daylight.

"Meet a young gent in dark-grey soot and brown billycock hat?" panted
Jerry.

"Ay!  Two mile along the road."

"Which way was he going?"

"Simmed to be making for lower lane; but it's all under water, and he'll
have to go round."

"All under water!" muttered Jerry, as he ran on rapidly.  "Two miles--
and me sitting sleeping there like a pig.  That's it--that's what he
meant!  What did he say?--`Couldn't face it?'  If I could only get there
in time!  He must have been cracked!  He must have been mad!  He's gone
to drown hisself and get out of his misery, just like the
high-sperretted gent he is.  I know: gents don't think like we do.  It's
the Latin and Greek makes 'em classic and honourable, and they'd sooner
die than get a bad name.  It's all right, I suppose; but it seems
stoopid to me, when you know you ain't done nothing wrong."

"Now, let me see," thought Jerry.  "I say he's come this road, because
he wouldn't go and chuck hisself in the river up by the ruins, because
he'd have had enough o' them; so he's come down here this way, and he's
found it ain't so easy as he thought; for you can't get to the water for
far enough, if you want a good deep place.  Chap can't go and drown
hisself in fields where it's only six inches deep, without he goes and
lies down in a ditch.  Gent couldn't do that.  Be like dying
dog-fashion!  I know what he's gone to do: he's made for Brailey Bridge,
where he could go over into a deep hole at once.  Only wish I was
alongside of him; I'd say something as would bring him to his senses."

And as Jerry trotted on, he passed turning after turning leading to
fords or down by the river, for the simple reason that, during the
night, the waters had come swirling down at such a rate that the whole
of the river meadows were widely flooded; but it meant his getting more
rapidly to Brailey Bridge, a couple of miles from the town, for he was
forced into avoiding the winding low road, which followed the curves and
doublings back of the river, and making short cuts, which brought him at
last, breathless and panting, in sight of something which made him stare
and, for the moment, forget his mission.

For, as he trotted on, he obtained a glimpse of the rushing, foaming
river tearing away, pretty well now beneath its banks, which were high
at the spot where the bridge, an antique wooden structure, had spanned
it with its clumsy piles.  The great double wedge-shaped pier of oak
timbers, rotten and blackened with age, and which had supported the
roadway as it divided the river in two, was gone, and the remains of the
bridge were gradually being torn away.

Jerry drew his breath hard, and his throat felt dry, as he ran nearer,
descending the slope towards where the road ended suddenly, and thinking
of how the spot he approached was exactly such an one as would tempt a
half-maddened person to run right on, make one desperate plunge into the
muddy flood, and then and there be swept away.

He paused at last, standing in a dangerous place, at the very edge of
the broken bridge, gazing down into the hurrying waters, which hissed
and gurgled beneath him, lapping at the slimy piles which remained; and,
hot and dripping with perspiration as he was, he shivered, and felt as
if icy hands were touching him as he wiped his brow.

"It's too horrid! too horrid!" he groaned, in the full belief that he
was standing right on the place from which Richard Frayne had taken a
desperate plunge.  "Why, a score of his chums had better have died than
him!  I didn't ought never to ha' left him last night, seeing what a
state he was in.  You might ha' saved his life, Jerry, and done more
good than you'll ever do blacking boots and brushing clothes, if yer
lives to a hundred and ten."

He looked wildly to the right, and saw that the pollard willows were
rising just out of the water, like heads with the hair standing on end.
There were great patches of fresh hay floating swiftly down, and, closer
at hand, something white rolling over and over, and he shuddered; but it
was only the carcase of a drowned sheep, one of several more which had
probably been surrounded in some meadow and swept away.  Directly after,
lowing dismally, and swimming hard to save itself, a bullock came down
rapidly, with its muzzle and a narrow line of backbone alone showing
above the surface.

But Jerry knew well enough that no boat could live in the rushing water
which swirled along; and, unless the poor beast could swim into some
eddy and manage to get ashore, its fate was sealed.

The man's eyes followed the animal as it passed by the broken bridge and
was swept on more rapidly downward as soon as it was below.

"I came too late--I came too late!" groaned Jerry, as he still watched
the bullock, his eyes at the same time noting how the river had passed
over the bank on the other side and spread along meadows, and how it was
threatening to lap over the road which ran upon his side away down to
the mill, where the weir crossed the river and the eel-bucks stood in a
row between the piles.

"Yes, I've come too late, and I shall see that poor brute sink directly.
Shall I go on down by the mill?"

He shook his head.  The bullock was going faster than he could have
walked, and, if anyone had plunged into the river from where he stood,
he must have been swept miles away in his journey onward to the sea.

"And we shall never find him!" he muttered.  "Gone! gone!"

He was going to say "Gone!" again--for the third time--but a hoarse
utterance escaped his lips instead, and he made a sudden movement to
climb over the rail and let himself down into the narrow cross-road
which ran to the mill.

But, as he grasped the open fence, all power of action left him, and he
stood, as if paralysed, staring at that which had caught his eye.

There, far away toward the mill, dwarfed by distance, but clearly seen
in the bright morning air, a figure had started up, run for a few yards
along the bank, and suddenly plunged in the flooded river.  Jerry saw
the splashed water glitter in the sunshine and then, indistinctly, a
head reappear and remain in sight for some few minutes as its owner
floated or swam.  Then a curve of the river hid it from his sight, and
he recovered his power of action again.  Climbing the rail, he scrambled
down the side of the raised roadway, reached the bank, and started
running.

It was a mile to the mill, and in how many minutes Jerry covered the
distance he never knew, but he pulled up short in the mill-yard, to find
that he could go no farther; for the waters were well out beyond, and
went swinging round a curve at a terrific rate, the river being narrowed
here by the piers, buttresses, and piles upon which the mill-buildings
had been reared.  The tops of the pier-piles showed in two places, but
that was all, and, though he climbed up the ladder leading to a whitened
door in the side of the building, he could see nothing but the waste of
hurrying water gleaming in the sunshine, and felt that the building was
quivering from the pressure of the flood.

Jerry clung to the handle of the door at the top of the steps, and the
flour came off white upon his Oxford mixture coat as he turned dizzy and
sick in his hurry and despair, for he knew that the figure he had seen
must be that of Richard Frayne, and he had come too late!

"He must have seen me," groaned Jerry; "and just as he was a-hesitating
he thought I'd come to drag him back, and he went in.  Nothing couldn't
save him, and I seem to have drove him to his end."

In his own mind he wanted no endorsement of the correctness of his idea.
He had been sure that Richard had taken this route when he started from
the house; he had seen him; and it was all over.

But the endorsement came, for just then, heard above the rushing of the
river along the back-water and beneath the mill, where the huge
revolving wheel worked, came a loud "Ahoy!"

Turning quickly, Jerry saw, from his coign of vantage, the white figure
of the miller coming quickly down the road, waving his arms as if he had
once owned a wind-mill instead of a water-mill, and was imitating the
action of the sails.

"Hoi! come down from there," bawled the big, bluff fellow, as he came
within hearing.  "'Tain't safe!  I made all my people clear out last
night, and 'spected to see it gone by mornin'.  Oh, it's you, Mister
Brigley.  Looking for your young gent?"

"Yes!  Seen him?" cried Jerry wildly.

"Ay, bit ago, when I were down before.  He'd come down to see if the
mill was safe, I s'pose."

"But--it was--our young gent?"

"I say, don't look so scared," cried the miller, good-humouredly.  "I
didn't mean to frighten you; but I shouldn't be a bit surprised if the
old place comes toppling down; and it will, if the water rises much
more.  You're safe enough here."

"But, tell me," panted Jerry, who did not want telling, "it was our
young gent?"

"Ay, him as come fishing with the others, and sat out on the weir
yonder, tootling on that little pipe of his?  Here! what's the matter
with you, man?"

"A boat! a boat!" gasped Jerry.

"A boat! what for?  Mine's got a plank out of it, and, if it hadn't, you
couldn't use it now."

"But he's gone down!  I see him jump in!"

"What!" yelled the miller, seizing Jerry excitedly by the collar.
"Nonsense!  He's gone back by now."

"I--I was on the bridge."

"There ain't no bridge!" growled the miller: "swep' away."

"But I was over yonder--saw him jump in."

"You did?"

"Yes, and came here fast as I could."

The miller turned to look down the rushing river, and took off his white
felt hat, drew out a red cotton handkerchief, and began to mop his wet
brow.

"Then Heaven have mercy on him, poor lad! for he'll never get to shore
alive."

"But he could swim," said Jerry, feebly.

"Swim?  Who's to swim in water like that?  Never!  I saw a whole drove
of sheep go down this morning, and a half a dozen bullocks.  The river's
too much for them as can swim."

"But--but--"

"But--but, man.  Ah! what was he doing to jump in?"

"Haven't you heard?" groaned Jerry, speaking to the miller, and staring
wildly down stream the while.  "He got into dreadful trouble yesterday.
Killed his cousin!"

"What?"

"Come down here to end hisself, I s'pose!"

"Then he's done it, poor lad!" said the miller, solemnly.

"But couldn't we do nothing?  Couldn't we try and help him?" whined
Jerry, piteously.

"No, my lad, not with the water rooshing down like this; it's beyond
human work, and--Hi! run--run!"

He caught at Jerry again, and the two men started to run for a few
yards, then turned to look back, as, after several warning cracks, the
whole of the great white timber-built mill literally crumbled down over
its undermined foundations and disappeared in the surging waters.

"I knowed it!" panted the miller.  "Poor old place!  I've spent many a
happy year there.  Well, I come in time to save your life, squire."

"And I come to try and save his, but not in time," groaned Jerry.  "Oh,
my poor dear lad!" he continued, as he leaned his arm against a tree and
bent his head upon it to weep aloud, "you were the master, and I'm only
a servant, but I'd ha' most give my life to ha' saved yours, that I
would.  Yes!" he cried, fiercely, now in a wild, hysterical voice; "it
would ha' been better if you, too, hadn't come in time!"



CHAPTER EIGHT.

ANOTHER TURN OF THE WHEEL.

As if heartily ashamed of his weakness, Jerry suddenly straightened
himself up, and turned angrily upon the miller.

"Don't you never go and say you saw me making such a fool of myself!" he
cried.

The man shook his head.

"Think it's any good to go up to the town for a boat?"

"If you want to drown yourself," was the reply.  "I wouldn't trust
myself in no boat till the water goes down.  I shouldn't mind the rowing
down; but you'd never know where you'd got to, and be capsized on a
willow stump, or against some hedge, before you had gone a mile."

"But we might find him," said Jerry, looking piteous once more.

"Ay, you might find him, my lad.  There's no knowing."

"But you think we should not?"

"Sure of it!"

Jerry turned away without a word, leaving the miller staring blankly at
the spot where the old place had stood, and hurried back toward the
town.

"Past seven!" he muttered, "and all those boots and shoes waiting.
Breakfast'll have to be late."

It sounded strange, but it was quite natural for him to mix up his daily
work with this business; and upon reaching the house, as if feeling
satisfied that there was no more to be done, he hurried about over his
valeting, beginning with Mr Draycott, but found that he was not in his
room.

The tutor came, though, five minutes later, and, meeting his man,
exclaimed with animation:

"Better news, Brigley."

"No, sir," said Jerry, shaking his head.  "Worse--much worse!"

"How dare you, sir?" cried the tutor, irritable from a sleepless night.
"I tell you the news is better, and we have hopes."

"And I tell you, sir, that the news is worse."

Mr Draycott stared at his man, and began to frown.  Strange suspicions
attacked him as he saw that Jerry looked rough and unkempt.  His hair
was not brushed; he had evidently not washed that morning, and his
Oxford mixture coat was marked by flour.

"By the way, sir," said the tutor, angrily, "where have you been?  I
rang twice, to send you to the doctor's, but the bell was not answered.
Were you not up?"

"Not up, sir?  Oh, yes; I was up and out long enough ago!"

"Out?"

"Yes, sir," said Jerry, speaking very sturdily and solemnly; and he
related all that he had seen, with the result that the tutor sank into
the nearest chair, looking ghastly, and with his lips moving, but not
uttering a sound.

Jerry stood looking down at him sadly, and at the end of a few minutes
he filled a glass from a waterbottle and handed the water to his master,
who swallowed it hurriedly.

"This is too dreadful," said the latter, huskily; "too dreadful!  But
are you sure, my man--are you sure?"

"Yes, sir, sure enough!" replied Jerry, with a hoarse sob.  "The miller
saw him just before."

"A terrible business--a terrible business!  I thought we were beginning
to see daylight again; but--poor weak rash boy!--this is ten times
worse!"

"Yes, sir--a hundred times!" said Jerry, with a groan; and master and
man gazed in each other's eyes for some time in silence, till Mr
Draycott gave a start.

"I am so stunned and helpless with this trouble upon trouble," he cried
huskily, "that I can hardly think--I can hardly believe it true.  Tell
me what you have done.  You gave notice to the police, of course?"

"The police, sir?" said Jerry, with a vacant look.  "No; I never thought
of that!"

"And you have not given the alarm--sent people down the river in boats?"

Jerry shook his head in a weary, helpless way.

"Quick, then; do something, man!" cried Mr Draycott, wildly.  "Run to
the station and tell the inspector; they will take steps at once."

"I--I thought you would want to hush it up, sir."

"Hush it up, man!" cried the tutor, angrily.  "You are crazy!"

"Yes, sir, pretty nigh," said Jerry, pitifully.  "My head feels as if it
won't go; and I don't know what I'm saying half my time."

"I beg your pardon, Brigley," cried the tutor.  "I spoke too hastily.  I
quite understand your feelings; but steps must be taken instantly.  The
truth must be known--the cruel truth!" he added, with a groan.  "Yes;
what is it?"

There was a tap at the chamber door, and Jerry went to open it.

"Please tell master that the London doctor has come in from the hotel
and wants to see him directly."

"Ah, yes," said the tutor, who had heard every word; "I thought he would
come early.  Go on to the station, Brigley; tell them poor Sir Richard
must be found.  I'll go down to see the doctor."

Each departed upon his mission, and half an hour after the London
surgeon took his departure, confirming his colleague's opinion that a
great change for the better had taken place in Mark Frayne.

"Youth, my dear sir--youth!  He has rallied wonderfully, and I feel that
we may hope."

"But you will stop for the day?" said Mr Draycott, anxiously.

"There is not the slightest need, my dear sir.  My colleague yonder
will, unless something very unforeseen happens, pull him through."

"But if anything unforeseen does happen?" said Mr Draycott, nervously.

"Then telegraph to me, and I will come down at once.  But I don't think
you need fear, Mr Draycott, and I congratulate you upon the happy turn
things have taken.  Good-morning.  I shall hurry off to catch an early
train."

"Congratulate me upon the happy turn things have taken!" groaned the
tutor, wiping his moist face.  "Poor boy! poor boy!  I ought to have
seen him again.  It was more than the high-spirited lad could bear."

"Yes, sir; that's it."

"You back, Brigley?  Was I thinking aloud?"

"Yes, sir; and I heard every word."

"But the police?"

"They were off at once, sir.  They're going to hire a big boat and try
and find him; but the inspector shook his head.  He says he thinks it
means being washed away to sea."

That was a sad day at the tutor's, Richard Frayne's yellow-pupils going
to and fro in the silent house talking of the cousins, and canvassing
Richard Frayne's act from different points of view.

The news soon spread, too, in the town; for the setting-off of the
police with a couple of stout boatmen and the drags was enough to set
the place in a ferment.

There were plenty there, too, ready to talk of the position, as
everything leaked out by degrees, and formed an exciting topic to add to
that of the previous day, during which some hundreds had flocked down to
the ruins to see the spot where the two pupils had fought and one had
been killed--so it was firmly believed.  Now the journeys were in the
other direction--down the flooded river--but here the remains of the
bridge and the spot where the mill had stood were the only things which
rewarded their enterprise; for the police-boat had been swept down for
miles, and it was not till dark that the men returned by rail to report
that they could do nothing in the fierce, rushing waters till the flood
was at an end.

That evening, to Jerry's great disgust, a crowd of idlers gathered on
the opposite side of the road to stare at the tutor's house, where the
blinds were drawn down, as if they secured great satisfaction in gaping
and whispering one to the other.

"Oh!" he muttered, "if I could only have my way!"

Mr Shrubsole, the second doctor, undertook to stay at the house that
night, in case of any relapse on the part of Mark, and to the tutor's
great satisfaction, for he had fallen into a nervous state, wandering
about the place and giving the pupils a fresh theme of conversation to
occupy the dreary, slow-dragging time.

Jerry caught the inspector as he came out of Mr Draycott's study, and
signalled him into the pantry.

"Then you did nothing?" he said.

"Yes, we did," said the inspector, grimly; "we saved our lives, which
was about all we could do.  I only went for the name of the thing, Mr
Brigley--thankye, I'll say port.  Of course, I went--ah! very nice full
glass or wine.  People's so ready to say, `Where are the police?' that,
if we hadn't gone, they'd ha' been ready to think the poor young gent
was hanging on by the branch of a tree and we wouldn't go and save him.
But I put it to you--well, thankye, Mr Brigley, I won't say no; didn't
know you kept such a port as that."

"It won't be long before the water goes down?"

"No.  Not it.  Goes down, you know, as quickly as it goes up; but don't
you expect too much, sir."

"You think you won't find him?"

"Yes; that's it," said the inspector.  "Why, look at the way the water
was rushing along!  Of course, he may be picked up right away down where
the tide rises--Limesmouth or Dunkney--or about there; but I say it's
very doubtful."

"Ah!" sighed Jerry.

"Poor young chap!  The times I've stopped outside listening to him on
the flute, or blowing that cornet, or scraping away at the fiddle.
Wonderful power of music in those fingers of his and lips."

"And now all still, and stiff, and cold!" groaned Jerry.

"Hold up, man--hold up!" said the inspector, kindly.  "Life is short,
you know; but we never expected this--did we?"

Jerry shook his head.

"And so the other young gent's getting better, is he?"

Jerry nodded.

"Yes, the doctor told me.  I thought we'd got a big interesting case on
there.  Sensible?"

Jerry shook his head.

"Ah!  That's what the doctor said, and that he might not be really
sensible for weeks.  Narrow squeak for him, eh?"

"Yes."

"Fancy!  That poor young chap nearly killing him!"

"And serve him right!" shouted out Jerry, angrily.  "Mr Frayne must
have made him so mad he couldn't bear himself, and he hit out hard.  It
was only an accident, after all."

"But we should have been in it, Mr Brigley, even if he got off; and
there would have been the inquest, too.  Things have been a bit quiet
here lately."

"Well, you'll have your inquest, after all," said Jerry, bitterly.

"Humph!  Not so sure, sir.  But it's a very, very sad business, Mr
Brigley, and I must be going now.  Thank you.  Quite refreshing, sir!
Good-night; and wish you well out of the trouble."

"Wish us well out of the trouble!" growled Jerry, bitterly.  "As if
there ever would be any way out of it.  On'y to think--him upstairs
getting better, and his people telegraphing to say they'll come over at
once, and his cousin lying there out in the cold river, who knows how
deep?  It only wanted this to make me wish--"

Jerry did not finish his sentence, but took a letter out of his pocket,
read it through, and uttered a derisive laugh.

"Yes; it only wanted this to help make me happy.  Well, it wasn't so
very much, but it's gone; and serve me right for being such a fool!"

Just then a bell rang, and he went to answer it.

"The doctor says we need not sit up, Brigley," said his master, sadly.
"You are tired.  I shall want you no more to-night.  The nurse will get
anything the doctor requires."

"Beg pardon, sir," said Jerry.  "Mr Frayne, sir?--now?"

"Sleeping, I believe, Brigley.  Good-night!"

"No; a bad night!" said Jerry.  "Poor S'Richard!  I'd give anything to
see him again!"



CHAPTER NINE.

DEAD--AND BURIED.

By the next morning the flood was subsiding rapidly, and at night the
muddy meadows began to show that the river was sinking back into its
bed.

All that evening boats were out, and people watched in expectation of
that which they felt would soon be found.

Twenty-four hours more elapsed, and sheep, caught in hedgerows by the
wool, were dragged through the mud and slime.

Lower down the river an ox or two were found, while news came of other
carcases, miles away, stranded in bends where gravel and mud had
half-buried them.

But there was a good deal of water still in the river, and a threatening
of another rise.

At Mr Draycott's Mark Frayne still lay insensible, but he seemed to
sleep calmly enough, and was beginning to take the food given to him,
while the doctors both agreed that there was no fear of a relapse; the
only trouble was--What would the young man's mental state be when he
recovered from his long stupor?

Day after day glided by.  Mr and Mrs Frayne reached the house, Mark's
father evidently painfully ill of the complaint which had taken him from
his bleak Devonshire vicarage to the warmer climate and change of the
South of France and the Riviera.

The news had been a very great shock, and the doctor looked at him
anxiously as he went to his son's room, so weak that he had to be
assisted by Jerry and the weeping mother.

They accepted Mr Draycott's hospitality and stayed, eager to be near
their son, while longing to hear tidings of the discovery of their
nephew--tidings that did not come.

Jerry stole away more than once to try and make out the exact place
where he had seen Richard plunge in, and returned, shaking his head, for
it was impossible.

Day by day he grew more morose, for fragments of the chatter reached
him--petty talk, which blackened the young baronet's fame; while, worst
stab of all, he read in the little local paper, where, in a long article
concerning the trouble of "our respected townsman, Mr Draycott," it was
said that the principal in the terrible tragedy had been guilty of that
rash act to avoid the punishment likely to befall him consequent upon
the assault he had committed and his connection with a monetary scandal.

"And if I go and punch the head of him as wrote that, they'll have me up
before the magistrates," said Jerry; "and they call this a free land!"

Three weeks had passed, and Mark Frayne was beginning to show signs of
returning consciousness, when, towards evening, the police inspector
came to the house to ask to see Mr Draycott.

"He's in, I s'pose, Mr Brigley?" said the official, looking very
serious and important.

"Oh, yes; he's in," said Jerry, excitedly; "but--tell me--have you found
him?"

"Just got a wire, Mr Brigley, from Chedleigh, fifty mile away, sir!"

Jerry caught at one of the hall chairs, and made it scroop on the stone
floor.

The news was correct enough, and the next day an inquest was held upon
the cruelly disfigured body which had been discovered, stripped by the
action of the flood, and buried in sand and stones.

Jerry was there to give his evidence, along with that of others; and,
looking haggard and suffering from mental anxiety, Mr Draycott was
there to give his.  The medical man who had been called told of his
examination, and, as there seemed to be no doubt as to the identity, a
verdict was readily returned.  Two days later there was a funeral at
Richard Frayne's native place, and the unfortunate lad was laid to his
rest--aged eighteen, people read upon his breastplate--just about the
same time that Mark Frayne was lying upon his back, gazing at the open
window, through which there came the pleasant odour of new-made hay, and
wondering why he was there in bed, while a woman in white cap and apron
was sitting reading.

"I say," he whispered at last; and the nurse started up, smiling.

"Yes?" she said, coming to his bedside.

"Who are you?"

"The nurse.  Don't speak, please.  You have been ill."

"Oh!" said Mark, "have I?  Don't go away!"

"Only for a minute, to send word for somebody to come."

She stepped softly out into the corridor, just as the two pupils who had
witnessed the encounter were coming upstairs.

"Would you mind telling Mrs Frayne that he is quite sensible now?"

"What!  Mark Frayne?" cried Sinjohn.  "Yes; all right."

The two young men turned and went together to deliver the news.

"Then he is really getting well," said Andrews, in a whisper.  "Why,
Sin, if he does, he'll be Sir Mark Frayne!"

"Not while his father lives," said the other.  "But only think!--poor
old Dick buried to-day!  I wish we could have gone."

"Yes," said Andrews, bitterly.  "Poor old Dick!"

"We shall never hear his flute agin!"



CHAPTER TEN.

INTO THE SWIFT WATERS.

"Oh!  I wouldn't have done that!"

Of course you would not.  No sane lad would ever be led away by his
imagination to be guilty of any folly whatever.  No one with a
well-balanced brain would, for a moment, ever dream of being guilty of
an act that would cause him repentance for years.  In other words, we
are all of us so thoroughly perfect that we go straight on through life,
laughing at temptations, triumphing over our weakness, and so manly and
confident in our own strength of mind that we continue our life's
journey, never slipping, never stumbling, but bounding along to its
highest point, where we pitch our caps in the air, flap our arms for
want of wings, stretch out our throats, open our beaks, and cry
"Cock-a-doodle-doo!" which, being translated from the gallinaceous
tongue into plain English, means--"Look at me!  Here I am!  Did you ever
see such a fine fellow in your life?  I don't believe there was ever my
equal born into the world!"

There was a comic philosopher born in the West, and his name was Artemus
Ward; and every now and then, after a verbal flourish of this kind, he
used to conclude by saying--

"This is wrote sarcastic."

So are these remarks concerning Richard Frayne's act, when, agonised by
the horror of his position, and rankling mentally at being believed
contemptible enough to have obtained the money, monkey-fashion, by using
his cousin as catspaw, he had gradually become so out of balance that he
was ready for any reckless act.

A few words from the proper quarter would have set him right; a kindly
bit or two of sympathy from his fellow-students would have helped him;
but everyone but the servant held rigidly aloof, and when the dark,
blank night-time came, and the long hours of agony culminated in a
feeling of utter, hopeless despair, he sat alone there in his room,
ready to dash at anything which would, even if temporarily, relieve him
from the terrible strain.

At last he forced himself into thinking as calmly as he could, setting
himself to consider all that he had to face.

Mark was dying fast.  The doctors had said it, and in a few hours he
would stand in the eyes of the world as, if not his murderer, the cause
of his death.  Next there must be that terrible public examination and
the verdict--manslaughter; it could be no other, he told himself.  Then
there would be a magisterial examination, ending in his being committed
for trial.  After this, a long, weary waiting--possibly on bail--and
then the trial.

He arranged all of it in his own mind, perfectly satisfied that his view
was too correct, and never once stopping to think that people would
calmly investigate every circumstance of the trouble, and, while making
every allowance, sift out the pearl truth from the sand and bitter ashes
in which it was hidden.  In his then frame of mind, he could only think
the very worst of everything; for always before him was that terrible
scene in which he was bound to take part.  He felt that he could nerve
himself to stand before coroner, magistrate, even judge, if matters went
so far; but he could not face the sweet-faced, sorrowing mother and the
weak invalid father, who must be now hastening back to their dying son
as fast as trains could bear them.

Condemn, pity, ridicule, which you will; but the fact remains.  A kind
of panic had attacked Richard Frayne, and he prepared for the folly he
was about to commit.  There were the two courses open--a frank, manly
meeting of the consequences, whatever they might be, or the act of a
coward.

The hours passed, and his mind was fully made up.  And now everything he
did was in a quiet, decisive fashion, with as much method in his madness
as ever the great poet endowed his Danish hero.

He changed his clothes, putting on the quiet dark tweed suit Jerry
missed, and went back into his room, to stand there in the gloom,
looking round and vainly trying to make out the various objects there,
every one being loved like some old friend.

But he could not look the farewell, and began slowly to go round the
room, laying his hand upon each in turn--his favourite books and
pictures, his piano, the violin, the cornet, and the big 'cello in its
case where it stood in the corner--all such dear old friends, and it was
good-bye for ever!

And as he went on, his hand at last touched the little, long morocco
case lying upon the side-table.

He clutched it hard, and something like a sob struggled to his lips; for
that case contained, in company with the little piccolo, the flute that
was once the property of the brave old soldier whose helmet hung dented
there with its drooping black horse-hair plume.

Richard's thoughts went back into the past, and he recalled the evenings
when he as a little child was enraptured listening to some operatic
selection brilliantly played, while his mother sat accompanying upon the
piano.  Then he recollected the first lessons given him by his father
upon that very flute, and years after the plaudits he listened to with
burning cheeks after he had played one of his father's favourite pieces
with such skill and execution that these words followed:

"Keep the flute, Dick, my boy, for my sake; it is yours."

And now he was bidding it farewell for ever--there in the darkness of
that lonely night, whose silence was broken from time to time by the
chiming and booming of the great Cathedral clock, which once more, to
his disordered imagination, seemed associated with a solemn procession
to the tomb.

Richard Frayne's breast swelled and his hands trembled as his fingers
clung round that little morocco case.  Then, as a weak sob once more
struggled for utterance, his breast swelled suddenly more and more, till
there was a long, hard lump down the left side beneath the
closely-buttoned jacket.

For, quick as lightning, the little case had been transferred to his
breast-pocket.  It was his father's.  He could not part from that.

The rest of the favourite objects lying around were quickly touched; and
then, there, in the middle of the room, the lad stood, feeling old and
careworn, opposite two relics which he felt would be honourably removed
from where they hung and sent away.

He could not see them--and yet he could, inwardly, in his mind's eye--
the gilded metal helmet and the sabre.

Then, as if performing some solemn act, the lad took a couple of steps
towards the wall, gently and reverently lifted down the helmet, pressed
his lips to the front, and put it back, to take down the sword and hold
the blade and scabbard to his breast as he kissed the hilt.

Saddened visions came trooping before his closed eyes in that darkness--
of himself: a man, a soldier, as his father had been, an officer leading
men against the enemies of his country; and at that, in his despair, he
uttered a low, piteous sigh, and hung the sword in its place.

He drew back then, uttering a sound like a moan, and opened his eyes
with a start; for a pale, bluish light was slowly filling the room--a
light that seemed ghastly to him and unreal.

But it was the dawn of another day, the most eventful of his life, and
he knew it was time to act.

There was one more thing to be done, and his action in this was
accompanied by a shudder.

But he was quite firm and determined now, for his mind was fully made
up.  He had that to do first, and he would do it.

He was already at the door, hat in hand, when he recalled another little
thing, and, turning quickly back to the table, he sat down and wrote the
few lines to Jerry, folded them, and laid them near the loaf, from which
earlier in the night he had broken off a few fragments to allay the
gnawing hunger he had felt.

Now that was all, and, turning to the door once more, he paused for a
final look round at the shadowy room, where the only thing which stood
out clearly was the helmet, and this, seen in profile, seemed to assume
a stern and threatening aspect.

The next minute he was outside in the dark passage, listening; and then,
as all was still, he walked, firmly and quietly, to the other end of the
mansion, to stop by his cousin's door.

Here the chill of death seemed to strike upon him.  No light stole
through crack or keyhole--all was darkness and silence--and he sank upon
his knees, to remain motionless for a few minutes, and then rise firmer
of purpose than ever.

It was later than he thought, for his various preparations had taken
time; and the soft glow of morning lit up the east staircase window as
he slowly raised it, stepped out on to the leads, closed it again, and
then, climbing over the balcony rails, lowered himself down till he
could hang for a moment or two from the bottom of one of the iron bars,
swing himself to and fro by his wrists, and then, with a backward
spring, drop lightly on to the turf beneath.

In another minute--unseen, unheard--he had passed out of the gate and
was walking through the town, making for the lower road and the swollen
river.

Here he rapidly awoke to the fact that the waters were out far more
widely than he had ever seen them before; and again and again, as he
made for the path that ran along by the river toward the bridge, he was
driven back, the flood turning the different lanes he tried into huge
ditches or canals.

He tried every turning so as to reach the bridge as soon as possible,
but it was always the same; and finally, after consuming a good deal of
time, he made his way round by the road, following it on till it bore
away to his right, crossing the river by the old two-spanned wooden
bridge and then winding onward among the sunny vales and hills of Kent.

As he walked on swiftly, now in the bright sunshine, it was with his
head lowered and a curious feeling of guilt troubling him.  He told
himself that he ought to have left the place sooner, and he shivered at
the thought of being seen by someone who, knowing all the circumstances,
would catch him by the arm and insist upon his going back.

But, at heart, he knew that the words would be in vain.  Back he would
never go, and, strong and active, he felt that he could easily free
himself from the detaining clutch, and then--there was the river.

Richard had some recollection of passing or being passed by a man with
sheep; but he was coming in the opposite direction, and this did not
seem an enemy to fear, as he shouted from beyond the flock, and above
the patter of their hoofs, a cheery "Good-morning."

Richard smiled bitterly to himself as he hurried on.  Good-morning!  If
that happy, careless fellow had known!

At last, with his heart beating fast, and with the rushing sound of the
river ever on the increase, he turned the curve which led to the wooden
bridge, and, with his eyes fixed upon the dusty road, increased his
pace, till he was suddenly brought up short, just as he was about to
step down into the foaming, roaring flood.

Richard Frayne stood there aghast, staring at the gulf before him, and
then at the ragged piles on the other side, from which the hard
light-coloured road ran on and on between hedges, rising higher and
higher above unflooded meadows--the road leading to safety and rest,
away from the terrible troubles which had driven him to this wildly
reckless act.

For Jerry Brigley was as wrong as he was right--right in his surmise
that Richard would seek the bridge, which crossed the river at its
deepest part, but wrong in imagining that it was for so horrible a deed.

No: it was the way to safety--to places where he was unknown.  There was
an idea fixed in his mind, and it was to carry out this idea that he had
sought the bridge--to find it gone, and escape in that direction gone as
well!

Still, he could swim vigorously as a young seal; but he shrank from so
desperate a venture, for the swirling flood told him too plainly that it
would be extremely doubtful whether the strongest swimmer who ventured
there would ever reach the other side.  If he did, it would be miles
below.  And as he looked, it was to see the carcase of a horse, a great
willow-tree (torn out by the roots), and a broken gate float by.

What should he do?

There was a ferry two miles beyond the mill, but he felt that no boat
would take him across.

There was the old stone bridge, too, at Raynes Corner, six miles down
the road.  Well, he must cross there, for it was not likely that the
sturdy piers could have suffered even from such a flood as this.

That would do.  He would get over the river there; but he must avoid the
road, where he might meet the police or people going into the town, who
knew him by sight as one of Mr Draycott's pupils.

Fortunately he knew the country well, and he could go along the high
bank below the bridge as far as the mill, get into the field path at the
back, and pass through the woods, and on and on as near the river as he
could wherever the waters were not out.

Climbing over the rails by the side of the raised road, he dropped down
and hurried down to the mill, to find to his dismay that beyond it the
fields were covered and that a great deal of the woodland was under
water, too.  As for the path at the side of the mill, it was only dry
for some twenty yards, and then ended in a dark-looking lake.

It was impossible to go by there, and he turned back toward the bridge,
glancing up at the back of the mill as he reached it to see if he was
observed.

But not a soul was stirring, for the simple reason that it had been
closed just before; and he sighed as he thought of the pleasant days he
had spent there, seated upon the weir, gazing down at the bar-sided
perch playing about and shrimp-seeking in the weeds of the piles, and at
the great fat barbel wallowing in the gravelly holes where the stream
ran swiftest.

Happy days gone for ever, he thought, as he stepped out once more on the
bank path, towards whose surface the tide was rapidly climbing up.  He
was making for the bridge once more, when his ears were thrilled by a
faint, hoarse cry; and, as he looked in its direction, it was to see a
white face, level with the muddy water, gliding rapidly down behind the
saturated fleecy coat of a drowned sheep, which was evidently keeping
the unfortunate up.

It was a boy, by the smooth face--probably a shepherd lad, swept in
while endeavouring to preserve his charge--only Richard did not think of
that.  His own troubles were forgotten, his best instincts aroused, in
the desire to save the drowning lad.

He saw at a glance how short a distance the helpless boy was from the
bank, and that an eddy was setting him in so near that, if he went close
down to the rushing water, he might be able to reach out and seize the
fleece of the sheep as they passed.

In a few seconds Richard was down, knee-deep in water, holding on with
his left hand to the reedy growth of the bank and reaching out to snatch
at the sheep.

Vain attempt.

The dead animal did not come within five yards, but, after curving in,
literally shot out again towards the middle of the river and was borne
down, the boy uttering a despairing wail as he saw his help fade away.

At the same moment Richard Frayne felt the mud giving beneath his feet,
and he had hard work to struggle out on to firm land.  And then there
was another despairing cry for help, so faint and yet so penetrating to
the cowardly fugitive's heart that he turned, forgot everything but the
fact that a brother was dying before his eyes, and took one brave plunge
into the swollen river, to pass under into the thunderous darkness,
feeling as if he had suddenly been grasped by a giant who was bearing
him down.



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

A GOOD SERVANT AND BAD MASTER.

It was a good thirty yards from where Richard Frayne dived in, and when
a strange bewildering sense of suffocation was beginning to make itself
his master.  He had tried again and again to rise, but the water pressed
him down and forced him to the bottom.  At last, with one desperate
kick, he drove himself upward and saw the daylight once again as he
struck out vigorously, following the natural instinct to reach the bank.

But as the water cleared from his eyes, his mental vision cleared as
well, and, looking sharply over his shoulder, he caught sight of the
white face once more, glistening on a level with the water not five
yards away, and a hand rose above the surface and fell with a splash.

Recollecting now why he had plunged in, Richard made a quick stroke or
two, turned on his side, and swam with all his strength after the
drowning boy, about whom the water was swirling round in giddy
whirlpools, each of which seemed to be animated by the desire to drag
him beneath.

The mill was already far behind, and they were gliding rapidly downward
and round one of the curves of the winding river, the stream bearing
them so closely in towards the left that Richard had but to raise a hand
to snatch at the boughs of a submerged tree and drag himself out to
temporary safety; and as in a misty way he realised this, but made no
effort to catch the bough, he saw the sheep whirled round and then shot
off almost at right angles from the tree towards the opposite bank,
while the boy's face had disappeared.

The next moment the fierce current caused by the flood striking upon the
clump of trees firmly rooted in the bank caught Richard Frayne in turn,
and he felt himself swept right off in the same direction, and so
swiftly that it was as if in a few minutes he would be swept high and
dry up among the bushes visible on the other side.

Nerved by this, he swam on vigorously in pursuit of the carcase of the
sheep, in the faint hope that the boy might be still retaining his hold;
but though he kept himself in the right direction and was gliding
rapidly on, he did not lessen the distance between him and the patch of
wool in the slightest degree.  Once he fancied that he saw the surface
stir between them, as if a struggle was going on; but he could not be
sure, and then the distance increased, but only for a few moments.
Then, to his surprise, that distance was lessened; for the fierce stream
swirled round again as if rebounding from the riverside, and the current
set back to that from which he had come.

Not four yards between them now; and, making a few frantic efforts, the
lad forced himself through the water in his effort to lessen the
distance and grasp the sheep, when suddenly the surface was parted; a
bare arm and hand appeared clutching at the air, then another just level
with the surface, and before he could avoid it, he was clutched in the
death-grip of the drowning boy and borne under, the current seeming to
roll them over, down into the darkness of the thick water which roared
and thundered in his ears.

Richard's first impulse was to struggle free, his next to force himself
to the surface; but both efforts were in vain.  He was as firmly bound
as if he had been chained, and a horrible feeling of despair attacked
him as he felt that he was losing consciousness fast, that all was over,
and the end at hand.  Then, as his senses were leaving him, there was a
gleam of daylight for an instant as he and his companion were rolled
over by the current.  The darkness deepened, and there was a violent
shock, the tearing and rending of boughs, and light once more.

For a few minutes Richard could do nothing but cling instinctively to
the twiggy bough up which he had struggled till his face was a little
above the surface, his hands a few inches higher still, and his body
dragged out level with the water; while it seemed to him that the
unfortunate boy he had tried to save was tugging violently at his waist
to drag him from his hold, bending and shaking the bough till it swayed
to and fro like a spring.

For some little time his clinging was instinctive, every fibre in his
body naturally resisting the savage jerks to tear him from his hold; but
by degrees he recovered sufficiently to realise his position, and his
heart gave a great leap as he found for certain that, though something
which felt like a ragged garment was wound about his legs, he was once
more free, and that his drowning companion's grasp had been torn away
when the furious current swept them into the tree.

Of its force he kept on gaining fresh consciousness as the tugging
continued and the tree yielded and sprung back, and with this
consciousness something of the horror of his position passed away.  It
was the strong current he had to deal with alone.

And now, as he drew his breath freely, but one thought filled him--the
natural desire of self-preservation.  What could he do? for it would be
impossible to hang on long like that.

He looked up stream, but he could see naught but water, and the flood
was out widely on both sides.  But the regular bank of the river must be
beneath him, and the only chance seemed to be to climb up into the
ragged top of the willow to whose pendent boughs he clung: a poor kind
of refuge, but safety till the water sank.

The bough was of no great size, but about a couple of yards away there
was one far larger, and, waiting for a few minutes longer, till the
heavy beating of his heart subsided and he could breathe more easily, he
gradually lowered himself toward the greater bough by relinquishing his
hold upon its fellow to which he clung.

It was a horrible sensation, though, for it seemed to give the water
greater power to drag and snatch at him, and for some little time he
dared not quit his hold.  But at last he ventured with one hand, got a
firm grip of a moderate bough, and before he could loosen his grasp with
the other he felt a violent shock: it was torn away, and he was swept
over the submerged twigs, having hard work to get a fresh hold.

Then the water passed over him, for quite a wave had descended the river
at that moment, whose impetus, and the jerk given to the tree, was too
much for its stability.  Already undermined by the furious rush of the
flood, that new leverage at the end of the longest bough was enough, and
its top came slowly down overhead, while the bough to which the lad
clung slowly sank.

Once more the instinct of self-preservation helped, and, quitting his
hold, he allowed himself to be carried downward by the current as the
top boughs splashed up the water not a yard behind.

How long his new struggle lasted he could not tell; all he knew was that
he was being borne along the furious river at racing speed, having hard
work to keep his head above water and avoid the various objects which
cumbered the stream.  But he swam bravely from time to time, gazing
wildly at the trees he passed standing deeply in the tide as he was
borne from side to side, till at last, with his senses beginning to
fail, and the water rising higher and higher above his chin, a dim
sensation of its being time to relax his efforts dawned upon him, in
company with a strange drowsiness, just as he felt a heavy, sickening
shock, which had the effect of making coruscations of light flash before
his eyes; then he flung out his arms wildly, roused to renewed action
for a few moments by the blow, and lastly all was blank.



CHAPTER TWELVE.

A HARD FIGHT.

Richard Frayne opened his eyes, to gaze about him dreamily for some
little time before he could grasp what had happened and where he was.
Then a throbbing in his head and a sensation of smarting assailed him,
but he did not stir, for his legs were cramped; and _wash, wash, wash_,
the waters were sweeping along nearly to his chest.

At last, with a bound, full consciousness returned, and he realised that
he was lying wedged in amongst a pile of broken woodwork, evidently a
great shed or barn which had been swept down the river till its progress
had been checked by a clump of elm-trees, and the force of the water had
rent it up and piled the broken posts and rafters, driving them, and
pressing them by its weight into a chaotic mass, over and through which
the torrent rushed.

The drowning lad had been driven heavily by the force of the stream
right upon this wreck, head and shoulders above the surface, and, though
the water had torn and dragged at him afterwards, it was only to wedge
him in more firmly, so that it was some time before he could free his
legs from where they were, fast between two beams, the heavy pressure of
the water forcing them ever down toward where it rushed furiously
through the timbers.  But at last he managed to climb higher and rest,
panting, upon the sloping mass of woodwork, with the water streaming
from him and the hot sunshine beginning to send a glow into his benumbed
limbs.

He was so far down the river now that the country round beyond the
flooded meadows looked strange; but he soon grasped the fact that he was
on the far side of the river at the edge of a wood, among whose trees
the stream was hissing as it ran, and that about a hundred yards away
the land rose in a sunny coppice, edged by tall timber trees, whose
continuity was suggestive of a road.

It was pleasant and warm there, and he lay for some time without feeling
the slightest disposition to stir, till a creaking and cracking sound
startled him into action, suggestive as it was of the breaking up of the
pile of timber.  And now, in an agony of fear, Richard rose to his knees
and looked wildly round for a way of escape.

On three sides there was the rushing flood; on the fourth the water,
broken into hundreds of little torrents, tearing among the trees.

What should he do?

His brain was active enough now, and, to a great extent, his strength
had returned; but he hesitated to move, till another sharp crack told
him that the wreck was really breaking up; and, with the wood quivering
beneath his feet, he sprang from rafter to beam till he reached one of
the trees which held the barn anchored, and was beginning to climb up,
when the wood before him tempted him to try if he could not pass from
tree to tree, clinging to them in turn till he could reach the slope,
where he would be safe.

The risk was terrible, for, as he held on to a tree-trunk and lowered
himself down into the water, it bore him off his feet; and, had he not
clung with all his might, he would have been whirled away and dashed
against the one beyond.

But, working himself round, he stood, with his breath catching, pressed
hard against the tree, and tried to think of what to do next and whether
he had not better climb back upon the pile of wood.

That question was soon decided, for a loud crackling sound came from the
place he had so lately left, and, to his horror, he saw the wreck
crumble away and begin to sink steadily beneath the surface, long
rafters raising their ends in the air and then diving down out of sight,
while several shot by him, one of which he seized and held on to, in
spite of the heavy drag of the water seeming to try and snatch it away.

The brain acts rapidly sometimes in moments of emergency, and Richard
Frayne had seen in that rafter which he seized the life-rail which would
help him to safety; for to have attempted to wade from place to place he
found would be madness, and his only chance would have been to let
himself go with the current--driven from tree to tree--while he strove
to move diagonally, getting farther towards dry land and safety at each
attempt.  But he had no faith in this; and, feeling that a third battle
with the river must be fatal, he clung to the great rafter which was to
be his narrow road to safety.

He glanced once at the spot where the pile of wood had been, and
shuddered; then, calling up all the energy which remained--feeling, as
he did, that at any time the tree against which he was held might give
way--he wound his legs round it, gripping hard, and tried to pass the
rafter along till its end rested against the next stem, about nine feet
away.

But every time he tried the piece was dragged down by the rushing water
foaming between the trunks, and twice over he nearly lost it, while once
he was within an ace of going with it through the wood.

He saved it, though, and held on, panting, beaten as he was by the
enormous power of the water, which acted on the end as if it were the
lever with which the poor puny human being was to be dislodged.

For a few minutes he was in despair, for he felt that it was impossible
to get the square piece of quartering resting from tree to tree, and
that he might as well give it up and try to climb.

Then the way to succeed came like a flash, and he wondered that he had
not thought of it before.  It was to hold the rafter as firmly as he
could, and, instead of thrusting it sideways across the stream, to push
it straight upwards, guiding it so that the water only pressed upon its
end.

This he tried, and passed it backwards--holding it tightly beneath his
arm--farther and farther, till there was only another yard.  Then, he
felt the long end begin to move: the stream had caught it, and in a few
seconds it was swept down, he forcing it outward the while and feeling
it checked by the tree he wished to reach.  Then there was a short
struggle, and he had fixed his end between his chest and the tree to
which his legs clung, and there was a rail for him to cling to as he
tried to pass on.

He did not pause now.  The rafter was pressed tightly against the trees,
but it looked terribly unsafe, bending ominously in the middle.  But it
seemed to be his only chance, and, seizing it firmly, he began to work
himself along, his legs being swept away directly, and the force of the
current so great that he could hardly stir.

He succeeded, though, for the distance was short, and in a couple of
minutes was pressed against the second tree, holding on again with his
legs, and working the other end of the rafter free for it to be swept
downward, and once more nearly snatched from his grasp.

This time he managed better, working it under his left arm, end to the
current, keeping it as straight as possible, and guiding it so that he
had less difficulty when the point began to sway round and, in turn, was
swept against the next tree, while he passed the near end over his head
and dropped it between him and the trunk.

The passing along it, too, he managed more easily, though he shuddered
as he felt how it bent when he reached the middle, and hurried so as to
get to the next tree to rest.

The third stage was easier still, and he crept on in this way from tree
to tree, six, eight, and ten feet at a time, till, to his great delight,
he found the water waist instead of breast-high.  Ten minutes later it
was not more than half-way up this height, and in another five he left
the rafter still pressed against two trunks, and waded through the
rushing stream, holding on by bough after bough, till he stood
triumphantly upon dry land.  Then after walking a few yards to an open
patch by a pit where the sun shone warmly, he dropped upon his knees in
hot, loose, yellow sand, and crouched there till his breath came
regularly and he could look more calmly round.

The place was in the wood, shut in by a few trees and great patches of
golden-blossomed furze.  The sun came down warmly, birds twittered in
the boughs, and a couple of rabbits showed their white cottony tails for
a moment or two as they plunged down into their burrows, while above
all, in a low, deep, roaring bass, there was the heavy thunder of the
river as it swept sand, gravel, trees, and everything it could tear from
its flooded banks, toward the sea.

Richard Frayne felt that he must be miles away from Primchilsea, and
that he was in as lonely a country place as he could have selected; and
now for the first time the discomforts of his personal condition began
to make themselves felt, as there was no more serious call upon his
brain.

His hat had gone when he first plunged into the river, but he did not
seem to have lost anything else, for his jacket was buttoned tightly
over the little case; but the hot sunshine now, paradoxical as it may
sound, began to make him feel chilly--of course, from the great
evaporation going on.

Taking off his garments, then, one by one, he wrung and spread them on
the hot sand, emptying his boots and serving them the same, when, after
wringing out his socks and placing them to dry, a good idea occurred to
him, and he filled his boots with the hottest, dryest sand he could
find.

His next course was to roll in the same, which felt grateful indeed to
his benumbed and chilled limbs, the skin being blue with the cold; and
the next minute he was lying down in a sunny hollow and dragging the
sand over him till he was covered to the neck, a little loosening of the
dry fluent stuff making it trickle down over his free arm.  There he
was, luxuriating in the sunny warmth, with a feeling of drowsiness
gradually creeping over him, till all was blank once more, exhausted
nature bearing him into a pleasant, restful oblivion, from which he did
not awaken till all overhead was starlight.  The consequence was that he
dropped asleep again--a heavy, dreamless rest of so reposeful a nature
that the troubles of the last forty-eight hours died away, and he did
nothing but sleep--sleep on with all his might.



CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

THE GOAL.

"_Chare! chare! chare_!"

A harsh, ear-piercing note, sounding as if a scythe-blade were being
held against a rapidly-revolving grindstone, and then the sound died
away.

Then, again, from a distance, then from farther off, and once more from
close at hand.

The next minute there was a fluttering amongst the dense clumps of
hazel, a glint of velvety black, and another of pure white, and directly
after a goodsized bird hopped into sight, showing a big,
closely-feathered warm grey, speckly head, a pair of keen, inquiring
blue eyes, below which were two boldly-marked jetty moustaches.

There was a repetition of the harsh cries, as if the bird-scout were
shouting to companions what he had found.  These cries were answered
from different directions, and another bird flew out of the wood and
clung to a stout, upright hazel: one leg full-stretch, the other doubled
close, and the claws hidden in the warm grey fluffy breast feathers; and
as it closed its pinions and hung peering about there, it revealed, in
addition to its beautiful patches of white and black, the turquoise
barred blue markings upon its wings.

Then another came, and another; all noisy, and eager to investigate the
novel phenomenon newly discovered by the sand-pit in the wood.

The sun shone brightly upon millions of glittering gems, most of which
adorned the leaves of the hazels, the ferns, and the spines and blossoms
of the gold and tawny furze; but others had formed upon certain peculiar
patches of cloth, a singularly-shaped piece of checked flannel, and a
square of something white.  But these passed as nothing to the lively
party of jays, seeing that there were two wonderful objects standing
alone, side by side, full of sand, while an oval whitish something lay
half-buried close by.

Then one of the jays uttered a shriek of terror, for the oval whitish
something was suddenly lit up by the opening of a couple of lids which
lay bare a pair of dazzled eyes, and these winked, and the lids quivered
before they were closed again.

"_Chare! chare! chare_!" in a wild chorus of scare dying rapidly away
made Richard Frayne spring up, realise his position, and, after shaking
off the sand, rapidly scramble on his things, which--save a little dewy
moisture still left unimbibed by the sun--were dry and warm.

As he dressed he felt his pockets, where everything was right, even to
his pocket comb, and in a few minutes he was dressed all but his boots,
which, after they had been emptied of the sand, were as dry as the rest;
and there he stood, all but his hat, ready for a fresh start.

Not quite; for he thought of the absent bath, and then shuddered and
listened for the roar of the river, now softened down into a murmur.

The idea of going to some muddy pool to wash was too repellent, and,
making his way, rested and refreshed, out of the sand-pit, he stood
thinking, not hesitating, for his mind had been made up before he left
Mr Draycott's.

And as he stood there in the glorious morning sunshine, anyone who knew
him would have noted that a change had come during these last days.  His
face looked old and thin, and there was an air of determination about
his compressed lips which had not been there before.

The next minute, after marking the direction of the sun, he was tramping
through the wood in search of the first lane.  This would, sooner or
later, lead him into others, and they, perhaps, into the main road, the
one which he could follow east to the goal he sought.

How far he was from Primchilsea he could not tell, and he did not feel
as if he wished to know.  All that belonged to the past: his life now
was in the future--a future which he meant to carve out for himself,
forgetful of Burns's aphorism about the best-laid plans of mice and men.
He forced himself now, with more or less success, as he tramped on, to
forget the past and think only of the present; but another shudder ran
through him as there rose before him the face of the drowning lad, with
its wild, appealing stare, and his brow wrinkled as he asked himself
whether he had really done everything possible to save another's life.

There could be only one answer to this, and he walked on, feeling
saddened, as he knew only too well that the poor fellow, in his helpless
state, must have sunk to rise no more.

Then, in spite of his efforts, the thoughts of the past would obtrude
themselves--of his cousin, of the scene at Mr Draycott's when it was
found that he was missing.  Lastly he thought of Jerry, and a faint,
saddened kind of smile crossed his face as he knew how troubled the man
would be; for he felt that Jerry liked him, and he was sad as he told
himself that he would never see him more.

By this time he had tramped a couple of miles, having reached a shady
lane, and now a gleam of sunshine on ahead showed him that for which he
was looking--a little stream.

This crossed the road, but the water was muddy and foul, for it
communicated with the river, and the flood had ascended it like a tide;
but a quarter of a mile farther on he came across the stream again,
trickling now among watercress by the side of the road, and here it was
bright, pure, and sparkling, offering him, in one spot, a splendid basin
in which to bathe face and hands, from which task he rose up refreshed,
and trudged on, thinking of trying at the first village he reached for a
hat or cap.

An hour had passed before the opportunity offered, and then, next door
to a little inn, he found a regular village shop, where pretty well
everything could be purchased.

A woman served him, and looked at him curiously; for it did not happen
every morning for a good-looking, quiet youth in tweeds to enter, as
soon as she was down, to buy himself a flannel cricketing cap, because
he had lost his own, and then, upon paying for it and reaching the
doorway, turn round and buy a small yesterday's cottage loaf and a piece
of cheese, which he tied up in his handkerchief, said "Good-morning,"
and walked off, well watched by the inquisitive shopkeeper till he was
out of sight.

"Now I never made a bet in my life," she said, as she turned away to
prepare her breakfast, "and I don't know how it's done; but I'd lay a
penny that that young man met robbers on the road who stole his hat, and
that he is going to seek his fortune just as we read about in books."

She never knew how nearly she was right, and Richard did not give her a
second thought as he walked steadily on till well out of sight of the
village, when he began to relieve the painful gnawing sensation of
hunger, from which he suffered, by breaking off pieces of his loaf.

Then came a little bit of satisfaction; for, passing a farmhouse in a
lonely spot, he saw a big heavy-looking woman carrying a couple of pails
full of frothy new milk to the door, and, following her, he soon had his
desire for a pint of the warm sweet fluid satisfied.

Nerved now for his task, he started off afresh, walking vigorously and
well, keeping as near as he could due east, and passing village after
village, and then a town, and at last seating himself among the ferns
upon a shady bank to dine on bread and cheese and a draught of water
from a trickling spring.

There was no pleasure in the eating; it was from stern necessity, and he
ate with a determination to carry out the plan he had in view--to give
himself support for the task which lay ahead and kept him with rugged
brow, dreamy and thoughtful, as he tramped along till night, when he
entered a large village, and, after a search, found a tiny inn, where he
was accommodated with supper and a bed.

The next day passed in much the same way, with the past seeming to
belong to a far-off time, and the future looming up cold and cheerless,
but more and more real as the hours went by.  He had calculated that he
would reach his destination that evening; but, journeying as he did,
asking guidance of none, he missed his way, and walked back many miles
along a lower lane which ran parallel to the one by which he had come.
Consequently, he had to sleep another night upon the road.

"It does not matter," he said to himself in a stern, hopeless way; and,
with the past farther back than ever, he started early the next morning,
tramping through the chalky dust slowly now, for he did not want to get
to his destination yet; and, as he walked, he noted the farms and cherry
orchards he passed upon the road, but in a dull, uninterested manner,
and, bending his head low, he tramped on again.

The fear of being followed and taken back had quite gone.  No one knew
him, and his aspect was not one which would take the notice of the
police whom he met from time to time.

"They don't know that I killed my cousin," he said bitterly; but he
pulled himself up short--That belonged to the past!

It was early in the afternoon that he crossed the stone bridge and went
steadily on through the streets of the dingy town, with signs here and
there of the maritime character of the place, and others which
interested him more, though in a saddened way.  From time to time he
caught sight of specks of the Queen's scarlet, which resolved themselves
into military jackets, cut across by pipe-clayed belts.  Then there was
the blue of an artilleryman, with its yellow braid; more scarlet, that
of an engineer; and soon after the blackish-green of a rifleman.

For Richard Frayne, son of a distinguished officer, was tramping through
a garrison town towards the great dingy barracks, and his future was
rapidly taking form and shape.



CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

THE LADS IN RED.

If Richard Frayne had stopped to look back, his career would have been
very different; but he had fully and stubbornly made up his mind, and he
looked forward as he walked on and on through the apparently endless
streets of what he found to be a trio of towns; and as he approached the
great barracks he was conscious of the shrieking of fifes and the roll
of drums, which suddenly ceased as a crowd of rough-looking boys and
people came along a side-lane, down which, and rapidly approaching, was
the shining and glittering of a long line of bayonets, while in front
came the gleam of brass instruments.

As the head of the regiment marching into the town reached the main
street, _boom_--_boom_--_boom_--came the heavy thunder of the big drum;
and then, in full burst of the brass instruments, the first bars of the
grand March from _Tannhauser_, sending the first thrill of pleasure he
had felt for days through Richard's breast, as he naturally fell into
step and marched along side by side with the men.

But the thrill soon passed off, and as he tramped on he could not help
thinking, in a low-spirited way, that the men looked dusty and fagged.
The chalky white powder clung to their blue trousers and scarlet
coatees; their shakoes, too, were whitened, and their hot faces were
grimed and coated with perspiration and dust.

In spite of the music, there was something wanting; and in a few minutes
Richard Frayne slackened his pace, so that the regiment went on past
him, and he followed more slowly, for there was nothing attractive about
the men.

But he had not come down there spurred on by any boyish admiration for
the army.  His was a set purpose, and, after letting the marching
regiment disappear, with a peculiar sensation of sadness affecting him
as he stole a glance--he could hardly bear to look--at the officers, he
turned off along one of the side-streets and passed through the great
gates of one of the barracks.  Here he could see a round-faced, fat man,
whose clothes looked ridiculously tight, hurrying to and fro before a
double line of men in flannel jackets, and at whom he seemed to be
barking loudly.

He was a peculiar-looking man for a soldier, suggesting, as he did at a
distance, an animated pincushion, one huge pin being apparently stuck
right through his chest, though a second glance revealed the fact that
it was only a cane with a gilt head passed, skewer fashion, in front of
his elbows and behind his back.

Then a few evolutions were gone through, and Richard Frayne thought the
men looked a melancholy set of dummies, more like plasterers than
soldiers, till at the loudly-shouted word "Dis--miss!" they trotted off
readily enough.

Just then a couple of sergeants marched a squad of twelve or fourteen
shabby-looking young fellows into the barrack yard, the whole party
wearing the ribbons of the recruit, and toward this group, as it they
were an attraction, the fat drill-sergeant and some half-dozen more from
different parts of the yard walked slowly up.

Richard's pulses beat fast as he stood looking on, conscious the while
that a tall, keen-looking non-commissioned officer who passed him was
watching him curiously.

Then followed a little loud talking and laughing, and the party of
recruits were marched across the yard and disappeared, leaving the group
of sergeants chatting together, till one of them seemed to have said
something to his companions, who, as if by one consent, turned to stare
at Richard Frayne.

"Now for it," muttered the lad, and, drawing a deep breath, he pulled
himself together, feeling as if he were going to execution, and walked
straight toward them, feeling the blood come and go from his cheeks.

The men stood fast, looking at him in a half-amused, good-tempered way,
as if he was not the first by many a one who had approached them in that
fashion, and the keen-faced man said in quick, decisive tones the words
which ended one of the boy's difficulties--

"Well, my lad, want to 'list?"

Only those few hours ago and people touched their hats to him and said,
"Sir Richard;" now it was, "Well, my lad, want to 'list?"  But he
answered promptly--

"Yes; I want to enlist."

"Hah!" ejaculated the sergeant, looking him over keenly, and grasping
him by the arm as if he were a horse for sale.  "How old are you?"

"Turned seventeen."

"Hah!  Yes," said the sergeant, with a keen look; "old story, eh?  Run
away from home?"

Richard's face turned scarlet.

"That'll do, my lad; don't tell any crackers about it.  See these chaps
just brought in?"

"Yes."

"Well, there isn't one who doesn't stand two or three inches higher than
you, and is as many more round the chest.  Men are plentiful now of the
right sort.  Why, you'd look as thin as a rake in our clothes."

"But I'm young, and I shall grow," said Richard, hurriedly.

"Then go home and grow bigger and wiser, my lad; and if you still want
to join the service, come and ask for me, Sergeant Price, 205th
Fusiliers, and I'll talk to you."

"Only he might be at the Cape," said another of the sergeants, smiling.

"Or in India," said another; and there was a general laugh, which
irritated the would-be recruit, and, feeling completely stunned by his
reception, after taking it for granted that all he had to do was to hold
out his hand when a shilling would be placed therein: after that he was
a soldier.

Giving a sharp, comprehensive glance round, he turned upon his heels and
walked away towards the entrance, feeling ready to go back indignantly,
for there was a roar of laughter apparently at his expense.

"Am I such a contemptible-looking boy?" he thought; and then he felt
better: for there was evidently someone following him, and the laughter
was not at his expense, but at that of the man coming in his direction,
for someone cried--

"Wait a bit, Lambert!"

"Yes; steady there, Dan'l!"

"Hi! you sir, don't you stand anything.  He eats and drinks more than is
good for him already."

"I say, Brummy, take him to the King's Head, and we'll join you."

"Dan'l and Lambert," thought Richard.  "Why, it's the fat sergeant
coming after me; they're laughing at him!"

But he did not turn his head to see, only went steadily on towards the
gate, with his pulses beating rapidly once more, for the hope rose now
that this man had repented and was, perhaps, going to enlist him, after
all.  Telling himself that it would be better to seem careless and
independent, he kept on to the gate, passed out, and heard the steps
still behind him, but so close now that he noticed a rather thick
breathing.  Then he started as if thrilled by an electric touch, for
there came in sharp tones--

"Hold hard, my lad!" and then, in military fashion, "Halt!  Right about
face!"

Richard obeyed the order on the instant, and in such thorough soldierly
style that the fat sergeant stared.

"Humph!  Volunteers!" he muttered: and then, coming close up, he looked
pleasantly in the lad's face, and clapped him on the shoulder.  "So you
wanted to 'list, did you?" he said.

"Yes.  Will you have me?"

"No, my lad," said the sergeant, smiling.  "I only wanted a word with
you before you go into the town.  I don't want to pump you.  We can see
plain enough.  We often get young customers like you."

"I didn't know I was too young," said Richard, hoarsely.

"Nobody said you were, my lad; but you're not our sort.  We want a
rougher breed than you."

"Very well," said Richard.

"No, it isn't, my lad.  You take a bit of good advice: be off back
home--sharp!  Don't stop in the town here, or you'll get picked up.
There's a lot outside ready to be down upon you, and they'll humbug and
promise everything till they've sucked every shilling you've got out of
you and made you sell your watch."

Richard's hand went sharply to his chain, and the sergeant laughed.

"I know what it is: bit of a row at home, and you've cut off to 'list;
and, if you could have had your way, you'd have done what you'd have
given anything to undo in a month."

There was something so frank and honest in the plump, good-humoured face
before him that Richard's hand went out directly.

"Shake hands?  Of course," said the sergeant, grasping the lad's.
"White hand!--Ring on it!" he cried, laughing, "There! go back home."

Richard snatched his hand back, colouring deeply, like a girl.

"Thank you!" he said.  "You mean well, sergeant; but you don't know
all."

"And don't want to.  There, don't stop in the town; get off at once."

"I'm going to have some dinner," said Richard.  "Come and have something
with me."

"Had mine, my lad," said the sergeant, laughing.  "What's the use of me
giving you good advice if you don't take it.  There, good-bye, my lad.
Banks was quite right."

He nodded, faced round, and marched away, leaving Richard Frayne gazing
at the black future before him as he muttered--

"Beaten!  Why did I fight my way out of the flood?"

His next thought made him shudder: for a river was below there in the
town, and he had crossed a bridge, beneath which the deep water flowed
fast to where there was oblivion and rest.

He spoke mentally once more:

"Why not?"

As Richard Frayne gazed after the fat sergeant he failed to see the
ridiculously fat back in the tight jacket for somehow he was looking
inside at the man's heart.

"But he does not know--he does not know," muttered the lad, as he turned
now and walked back toward the town street, down which he hurried with
the intention of finding a quiet place where he could have a meal, and
turned at last into a coffee-house, where he ordered tea and
bread-and-butter, drinking the former with avidity, for he was
feverishly thirsty, but the first mouthful of food seemed as if it would
choke him, and he took no more.

Half an hour later he had another cup of tea, for his thirst seemed
greater, and after that he went and wandered about the town, finding
most rest in the shade of the great ruined Castle Keep, where the
jackdaws sailed round, and cawed at him as if they were old friends from
Primchilsea who recognised him and called out to their companions that
he was below.

"What should he do," he thought; "what should he do?"  For his plan had
been completely checked, and in the most unexpected way.

He was sick at heart and faint in body, but his spirit was not crushed.
He had laid his hand to the plough, and if a hundred good-tempered
well-meaning fat sergeants came or gave their advice he could not look
back.  No; he must sleep at Ratcham that night, and make for Quitnesbury
in the morning.  There was a cavalry depot there; and if he failed
again, he could go on to Ranstone.

"There must be regiments where they would take me," he muttered, as he
walked back toward the town in the pleasant sunny evening; and, as if
attracted by the place, he made his way again towards the barracks,
thinking of the fat sergeant, and in his utter loneliness feeling a
yearning to meet him again for a friendly chat, if it were possible.

"What did they call him--Lambert?" thought Richard.  "Absurd!  That was
only banter on the part of his companions.  I wonder whether I shall
ever see him again!"



CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

IN PIPE-CLAYDOM.

There was still none of the pageant and display of a military life
visible to Richard as he re-entered the great gateway, before which a
sentry in white flannel jacket and forage cap was marching to and fro
with a bayonet in his hand, ready to give a glance at the lad and then
turn upon his heels and march away.

The lad walked forward as if he had business there, and went on,
wondering what the stout sergeant's name was, but not liking to stop and
ask.  Then on straight across the great dreary barrack yard, surrounded
on all sides by bare-looking buildings, full of open windows, at one of
which he saw a pair of folded arms and the top of a closely-cropped
head, the owner thereof being evidently asleep.  At another window there
was a pair of boot-soles, and at another a man, in shirt and trousers,
seated sidewise upon the sill, with his knees drawn up so as to form a
reading-desk, upon which a paper was spread, which the man, with his
hands behind his head, was perusing.

A little farther on there was a cat asleep, and just above it a canary
in a cage twittering away as if in friendly discourse with the animal
below.  But for the most part the windows of the great barracks were
unoccupied, and the place looked deserted and desolate in the extreme.

Richard walked on, thinking of what he was not long before, and of his
present position through one turn of fortune's wheel.  What was to
happen next, now that he had been disappointed and his project had come
to naught?

Right on before him there was another gateway, across which, in the soft
summer evening light, a second sentry in white flannel jacket passed,
with the light gleaming upon his triangular bayonet.

One moment he thought of turning back; the next he had rejected this,
and advanced.  He had taken his course, and he must go on.

The second sentry looked harder at him as he passed an open doorway from
out of which came a puff of hot bad tobacco smoke; but the man seemed to
pay no further heed as he went on and now found himself at what was
evidently the front of the barracks, and directly afterward a burst of
music fell upon his ears.

It sounded very welcome, and, walking in the direction, he passed a
couple of large open windows, from whence came the clatter of silver
upon china and the buzz of voices accompanied by sundry odours of an
agreeable nature, which reminded him of the fact that he had eaten
nothing since his hurried breakfast.

"The mess-room," he said to himself.

The officers were dining; and the band was playing selections during
that function.

Richard passed on, thinking, and with his spirits going down like the
mercury in a weather-glass before a storm.

In a short time he, in all probability, would have been an officer
attached to some regiment, while now he was a fugitive and a vagabond on
the face of the earth.

"Not even fit to be a private," he said to himself; and then, attracted
by the music, he turned and walked back, to stop between the two
windows, listening, and with the smell of the dinner making him forget
his troubles in baser thoughts as his mouth began to water.

Then the chink of glasses began to mingle with the buzz of voices.

"Taking wine," muttered the listener; and he wondered whether it was
Hock.

_Pop_!

"Champagne or Moselle," he muttered; and the report of a second cork
taking flight from the bottle followed, and then a third, while the
music went on.

There was a row of iron railings in front of the windows, and Richard
turned his back and rested it against them; for he was tired, and it was
pleasant to listen to the music and feel himself close to a party of
gentlemen just for a few minutes before he went back into the town to
find out some place where he could get a meal and bed.

All at once, after a loud passage, the band wound up with a series of
chords, leaving the principal flute-player sustaining one long note and
then dropping to the octave below, from which he started upon a series
of runs, paused, and commenced a solo full of florid passages
introductory to a delicious melody--one of those plaintive airs which,
once heard, cling evermore to the memory.

Dick was weary, faint, and in low spirits.  The events of the past days
seemed to fit themselves to the strain, till his brow wrinkled up, then
grew full of knots, and he angrily muttered the word "Muff!"  A few
moments later he ejaculated "Duffer!" and then twisted himself suddenly
round to look up at the open window from which, mingled with the loud
conversation and rattle of plates, the music came.

"Oh, it's murder!" muttered the lad.  "The fellow ought to be kicked!"
and, as he listened, his hand went involuntarily into his breast-pocket,
pressed the button in the side of the morocco flute-case, and extracted
the little silver-keyed piccolo from where it reposed in purple velvet
beside the two pieces of his flute.

And all the while the solo was continued, the player slurring over
passages, omitting a whole bar, and seeming to be increasing his pace so
as to take the final roulades at a break-neck gallop, and get through,
somehow, without further accident.

But he did not; for, as he reached the beginning of a brilliant
arpeggio, at the top of which there was a trill and a leap down of an
octave and a half, the wind in the bellows of this human organ suddenly
gave out, a few wildly chaotic notes elicited a roar of laughter from
the table accompanied by derisive applause.  This stopped as if by
magic; for, suddenly, from out there by the railing, a few long
thrilling shakes were heard, deliciously sweet and pure, followed by the
arpeggio.  The effect was as if liquid music was falling from the summer
sky; and then the player ran back to the earlier part of the air, and,
amidst perfect silence from within, on and on it ran, thrilling its
hearers with appealing, impassioned tones, breathed by one who had
forgotten where he was--everything but the fact that the glorious theme
he loved had been cruelly murdered, and that he was bringing it back to
life; for it was one of his favourite airs.

In the utter silence a window was softly opened somewhere higher up,
then another and another, towards which the liquid, bird-like notes rose
in plaintive, long-drawn appeals, to come trickling down again in runs--
rising, falling, rising, falling, with a purity and strength which
seemed impossible as coming from that tiny instrument.  Finally this
softened, grew lower and lower, till the last notes regularly died away
in the distance.  And then, and then only, in the midst of a roar of
applause, Dick stood, piccolo in hand, as if he had been just woke up
from a musical dream by a flannel-jacketed private, bearing a drawn
bayonet, who said, savagely--

"Come out!  You've no business here!"

"No, no, sentry; leave him alone!" said a loud voice; and Richard looked
up, to see that the windows were full of officers, whose scarlet
mess-vests, with their rows of tiny buttons, shone in the evening light.
Higher up there were ladies looking down; and then the musician glanced
sharply round and began to thrust his piccolo back into his
breast-pocket.

"Hold hard, there!" cried the same voice, and Richard looked quickly up,
to meet the dark eyes of a big, handsome, youngish man, who, napkin in
hand, towered above the others, but turned sharply round, and Richard
heard him say--

"May we have him in, sir?"

"Oh, yes!" came back in a quick, commanding voice, and the officer
looked out again.

"Here!" he cried, "we want you to come in and play."

"I--I beg your pardon--I--I--"

Dick got no further, for an officer's servant was at his elbow, looking
at him rather superciliously as he said--

"This way!"



CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

"YOU MEANT IT, THEN?"

For one moment Richard flinched, and thought of making a run for it; the
next he was following the man.

"Why not?" he muttered.  "I may as well, if they want me to.  Why not
play for my living now?"

The next minute, with the feeling of shrinking gone, he was standing in
the mess-room, in one corner of which, partially hidden by a screen and
some palms, was the band, while close to him, leaning back in his chair,
was a fine, florid-looking, grey officer, evidently the colonel or major
of the regiment, while the rest of the officers had resumed their
places, and the dinner was going on.

"Well, sir," said the elderly, florid officer, with assumed sternness,
as he fixed the lad with his keen grey eyes, "what have you to say for
yourself?  How are you come here and interrupt the most brilliant player
in my band?"

There was a roar of laughter from all present, and Richard was conscious
of a sharp face belonging to a bandsman peering between the palm-leaves.

"I beg your pardon, sir," said the lad, frankly, "but I stopped to hear
the music; the air was very familiar, and I had my instrument in my
pocket, and--well, sir, that's all."

"Oh!" said the old officer, scanning him sharply; "then you are not a
street musician?"

"I, sir?  Oh, no," cried Richard--"that is, I don't know; I suppose I
shall be."

"Humph!  Well, you played that piece from the _Trovatore_ capitally.
The gentlemen here would like to hear something else--er--I should, too.
Know any other airs?"

"A few, sir."

"Mind playing?"

"Not to so appreciative an audience," came to the lad's lips; but he
only said, "Oh, no, sir."

"Go on, then.  Here, Johnson, give the musician a glass of wine.  By the
way, Lacey, you were going to tell us a story about something."

The big, good-looking officer smiled, shook his head, and wrinkled up
his forehead in a perplexed way as he looked up at the ceiling.

"The flute-player blew it all out of his head, sir," said a rather
fierce-looking man who took the foot of the table, and there was another
laugh.

At that moment the band at the end of the great mess-room recommenced
playing, but there were cries of "No! no!" headed by the officer at the
head.

But the band heard nothing but their own instruments, and Richard stood
looking on, feeling faint and more weary than ever, and paying no heed
to the glass of champagne the servant had placed upon a side-table near
him, for he had been busy fitting together his flute.

"Go and tell them to leave off," said the old officer, and one of the
servants hurried to the corner and checked the players, who could now be
seen whispering together.

"Now, Mr Wandering Minstrel," said the officer at the foot, "we are all
attention."

Dick's brow knit a little.  "Mr Wandering Minstrel," in such a tone,
jarred upon him, and a peculiar trembling came over him as he felt that
he had forgotten everything.  The table, with its plate and glass,
looked misty, too, and there was a singing in his ears as his fingers
played nervously with the keys of the instrument.

"Now, sir, if you please," said the old officer, and Richard gave a
start, raised the flute to his lips, and blew a few feeble notes as he
vainly tried to collect himself--conscious, too, now that the bandsmen
were craning forward to listen.

Then he dimly saw that bent heads were being turned at the table, and
that he was being eyed curiously, till, in a fit of desperation, he
pressed the flute to his lips and blew again, if anything, more feebly;
but the sound of the notes seemed to send a thrill through his nerves,
and the next came deep, rich-toned, and pure, as he ran through a
prelude, from which he imperceptibly glided into a sweet old Irish
melody.  He played it with such earnestness and feeling that his hearers
were electrified, and the applause came again loudly, amidst which he
dashed off into a series of variations, bright, sad, martial, and
wailing, till, as he played, the room swam round him, the terrible scene
in the river rose, followed by that with his cousin, and then he seemed
to be hearing the thundering of the water once more in his ears--

He was on the floor, gazing up in the face of a stranger, who was upon
his knee, while other faces kept on appearing, as it were, out of a
mist.

"Faintness, I should say," said the officer who knelt by him.  "Give me
that glass of wine.  Here, my lad, try and drink some of this."

As if in a dream, the lad involuntarily swallowed the wine, and then, in
a sharp, snatchy way, cried--

"What is it?  What is the matter?  What are you doing?"

"Have you been ill?" said the gentleman by him.

"Ill?  No!" said Richard, huskily.  "I don't understand."

"What have you eaten to-day?"

"Nothing--yes: a bit of bread."

"And yesterday?"

Richard was silent for a few moments, trying to collect himself.  Then
he recalled the past.  "I don't know," he said.

"Well, Doctor?"

"Faint from excitement and want of food, sir," said the doctor.  "Shall
I prescribe here?"

"Do I ever fight against your wishes?" said the old officer.

"Then come and sit down over here, my lad," said the doctor, quietly;
and he helped his wondering patient to a table close to where the
bandsmen were seated.

"Here, one of you," he said, sharply, "fetch a plate of that soup, and
some bread;" and, as the dinner went on, the doctor stayed and saw that
the patient took the medicine, which he followed with half a glass more
wine.

"You will not feel it now," he said, kindly.  "Here, Wilkins, keep an
eye upon him, will you, while I go back to the table?  He is not to
leave until I have seen him again."

"Very good, sir," said a pale little man in spectacles, who was
evidently the leader of the band; and when the doctor went to his place,
leaving his patient seated at the side-table, feeling as if he were in a
dream, Wilkins carried out his orders with military precision; for,
every time a piece was played, he conducted in regular musical fashion,
flourishing a little ebony baton, and turning over the leaves of the
book before him on the stand, but never once glancing at the notes, his
eyes, glimmering through his glasses, being fixed upon the lad, to whom
the scene appeared more dreamlike than ever, and his head grew confused,
with familiar airs buzzing in one ear and the loud conversation in the
other.

And this went on till the last piece upon the band programme of the
evening had been finished amid thin clouds of smoke.  Then the men began
to place their instruments in their cases and green baize bags, after
the different brass crooks had been drained and blown through, while a
boy gathered together the music; and Richard started out of his dream,
feeling better, and knowing that he must go.

At that moment he became conscious that the bandmaster was standing
stiffly close by, still keeping an eye upon him, and removing his
military cap, revealing a shiny billiard-ball-like head, which he began
to polish softly with a silk handkerchief.

Richard, in his nervous state, felt worried and annoyed by this
persistent gaze; but he bore it till he could bear it no longer, for the
man stared as if he were some street beggar he had to watch for fear of
his meddling with the plate.

"I beg your pardon--" began the lad; but he was interrupted by steps
behind him, and the doctor cried--

"Well, sir--better?"

Richard started up and faced round, to find that the keen eyes of the
colonel were also fixed upon him, looking as if their owner was waiting
to hear what he said.

"Yes, sir; I'm better now," said the lad, hurriedly.  "I am sorry to
have been so much trouble."

"Who are you?--what's your name?" said the colonel, sharply.

"Smithson--Dick Smithson, sir," said the lad, feeling the blood come
hotly into his cheeks as he spoke; and his face grew hotter, for he
could see at a glance that he was not believed.

"What brought you here?" continued the colonel.

"I came to enlist, sir," said Dick, quickly.

"And the sergeant would not have you because you were too boyish, eh?"

"Yes, sir."

"Quite right, too!  Where do you come from?"

There was no reply, and the colonel frowned.

"Where are you going to-night?"

Dick shook his head, and the colonel frowned again.

"Well, I have no right to inquire, I suppose, but you are not fit to go
on tramp again to-night, my lad," continued the colonel, kindly; "and
you had better mind where you go to sleep.  Those instruments of yours
are good, are they not?"

"Oh, yes," said Dick, eagerly; "they are both of the best make."

"And you have practised a great deal?"

"Oh, yes, sir--a great deal."

"Doesn't it seem strange to you, then, that a decentish-looking young
fellow, who can play well, should be regularly on tramp and coming to
enlist?"

"Yes, sir, very."

"Well, he had better stay here to-night--eh, Doctor?"

"Most advisable," said the keen-looking surgeon.

"Wilkins, you had better take charge of your fellow-musician," said the
colonel.

"Yes, sir," came in rather an offended tone, which the colonel noticed.

"He had better go with the bandsmen, perhaps; he would be more
comfortable.--Look here, sir, I shall make inquiries about you.  Come to
enlist, eh?  Wouldn't care to join our band, I suppose?"

"Yes, sir!" cried Dick, eagerly.

"Beg pardon, sir, we are quite full," said the bandmaster, importantly.

"Of what, Mr Wilkins?" said the colonel, sternly.  "Incompetents?  I am
not much of a judge, sir, but I know enough music to be able to say that
ours is one of the worst bands in the army.  I shall have inquiries made
about this Richard or Dick Smithson, and, if the results are favourable,
he had better stay.  See that he is looked after for the night!"

The colonel sauntered off; followed by the doctor, and Dick stood gazing
after him, wondering whether they would find out who he was and whence
he came, when the bandmaster said in an ill-used tone of voice--

"Here, you had better come with me!" and he led the way to the portion
of the barracks which formed the bandsmen's quarters, where Dick passed
the night.

"Eh?  No!  Why, it is!  Well, I'm blessed!"

The fat sergeant's ejaculations when, one morning, Dick Smithson, the
new recruit to the band, hurried up to take his place with the awkward
squad and learn a sufficiency of the drill to carry himself correctly
and march with the men.

"How in the world did you manage it, my lad?  Here, I know: you were the
chap who played in the mess.  Well, how are you?  There, fall in!" cried
the sergeant, suddenly altering his tone and manner.  "We'll have a talk
by-and-by."

For the next hour or two Dick was going through the customary
instruction, and being barked at with the rest, ordered here and there,
made to perform the balance-step, and put through his facings generally.
The sergeant bullied him in the time-worn style, and stared at him as
if he had never seen him before, till the recruits were drawn up in
line, hot, weary and worried; for, though the stout sergeant was not
very active, he did not spare himself, much less the fresh, raw lads he
was drilling into shape.

Then, after some exceedingly severe strictures, he turned suddenly to
Dick.

"Here you, Number Fourteen; you've been through all this?"

"Yes, sir."

"Hah!  Taught by some clumsy worn-out duffer who belonged to the old
school!  You've a lot to learn, my lad, but you needn't stop with this
rough lot; you can drill with one of the regular squads."

Some of the men turned to look sourly at the new recruit, and were
yelled at by the sergeant.

"Eyes front!" he roared.  "Keep your heads up there!  I'm speaking to
Number Four from the left, not to you!  Steady there!  Right face!
Dis--miss!"

The rank was broken, and, as the tired squad hurried off to the
barrack-room, the sergeant drew his cane from under his arm, and called
to Dick, the stern, rigid look giving place to a pleasant, cheery smile
as he shook hands.

"You meant it, then?" he said.

"Yes, I meant it," replied Dick, smiling back.

"Well, I'm glad to see you, my lad.  Don't you take no notice of what I
said before those louts.  You're all right; you'll have to go through
the course, but I can soon report you as being pretty perfect.  You
could hold your own now with most of the fellows in the band."

"I think I can soon get on," said Dick, who felt glad of a friendly
word.

"Of course you can.  You well-educated chaps know your right leg from
your left; lots of these fellows never seem to.  You'll be all right
there in the band."

He nodded and walked away, while Dick was soon after obeying the dinner
call, and forcing himself to bear his grievance, as he sat down to
partake of the roughly-cooked coarse beef and potatoes which formed the
day's rations, and wondered how long it would be before he grew hardened
to his new life and able to forget the many little refinements and
luxuries to which he had been accustomed.



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

QUAVERING AMONG CROTCHETS.

"It is very horrid in some things," thought Dick Smithson as he would
think of his position at night in the comparative silence of his narrow
bed--comparative silence, for each of his brother bandsmen had a habit
of performing nocturnes on nasal instruments in a way not pleasing to a
weary, sleepless person--"very horrid."

For so many things jarred: the want of privacy, the common ways of his
companions, the roughness of the food, and the annoyances--petty
annoyances--he had to submit to from the little bandmaster.

But Dick did not repent.  He was Dick now--Dick Smithson--even to
himself; and after the first few days, far from repenting the wild step
he had taken, he rejoiced in the calm rest which seemed to have come
over him.  There was no one to accuse him of dishonourableness, to
remind him of the death of his cousin, no relations to meet who would
reproach him for all that he had done.

There was ease at night, so little time for thought.  The military
routine kept him busy; and as he had embraced this life, he worked like
a slave to master his duties, and the time rapidly glided by.

There was always a smile for him whenever he met the big sergeant, while
the others he had encountered that first day were ready with a friendly
nod.

There was a band practice one afternoon, and Dick took his place with
the rest, listening to the men, who, whatever their instrument, began to
run through difficult bits regardless of their neighbours; but there was
only one person present whom this chaos of wild sounds affected--to wit,
the recruit, who listened with an intense longing to ram his fingers in
his ears, as one man began to cut and slash out notes from the trombone
in the key of G; while another practised difficult runs in E flat upon
the clarionet, another ran through a strain in F upon the cornet, and
the hautbois-performer, the bassoon, the contra-bass, and the
keyed-trumpet toiled away in major, minor, flat, sharp, or in whatever
key his music might be set.

The bewildering, maddening row--it deserved no other term--went on till
the bandmaster, looking mildly important in his spectacles, entered the
room, walked up to his stand--across which a baton had been laid--gave a
sharp tap, and there was instant silence, broken, however, by sundry
dull pops, as men drew the crooks out of their brass instruments, and
drained away the condensed breath.

"We'll try that march from _Forst_ again," said the bandmaster; and the
men began to turn over the leaves of their music, while others adjusted
the cards ready upon their brass instruments.

Dick stood by the regular flute-player, who, rather grudgingly, made
room at his tall stand; and then, as the bandmaster called attention
with a fresh tap of the baton and opened the score, the flautist said:

"Beg pardon, Mr Wilkins, sir; here's the recruit.  Is he to stand with
me?"

Dick waited, curious to hear what followed, and incensed at what did;
for, when the bandmaster entered, he had glanced sharply at the now
bandsman, and then passed on.

"Eh! what recruit?" said the little leader, looking up and giving a
start as he made believe to see Dick for the first time.  "Oh, that
young man?  Well, perhaps he had better stand by you, and then he may
pick up what he can.  This is a difficult piece."

"I know Gounod's work pretty well, sir," said Dick, quietly.

"Oh, do you!" said the bandmaster, with a little jerky laugh, like that
of a spiteful woman.  "Now, then; what's your name, sir?"

"Smithson," said Dick, feeling as if he would like to kick the
mean-spirited little cad.

"Oh, Smithson, eh?--son of the great Smith!"

He looked round, twinkling, for a laugh to follow what he meant for a
joke; and the obsequious bandsmen uttered a sniggering kind of concreted
grin, followed instantly by a loud-toned sonorous _Phoomp_! from the
huge bell-mouth of the contra-bass.

"What do you mean by that, Banks?" cried the bandmaster, as soon as
there was silence, for the men had burst into a loud and general roar.

"Beg pardon, sir; I was listening, sir," said the offender.  "It was
only one of those deep notes I was doubtful about."

"Then don't you let it occur again, sir!  It was an excuse for a marked
show of disrespect, and I won't have it!  Here is the colonel
complaining about the inefficiency of our band, and people are saying
that the 310th is far better--which is a lie, a ridiculous lie--but I
want to know how our band is to become efficient if there is not more
discipline maintained?"

"Beg pardon, sir?"

"Silence, sir!  Attend to what I say!  I have long noted a want of
attention among the men--a mutinous spirit--and I won't allow it!  While
I'm bandmaster, I'll be treated with proper respect; and, mark this, our
band shall be efficient, and the members shall practise till they are!"

He tapped the music-stand sharply, raised his baton, and then went on
talking.

"Here, you!" he cried.  "Smithson, didn't you say?"

"Yes, sir."

"What did you say?"

"Smithson, sir."

"How dare you!" yelled the bandmaster, scarlet now with passion, for the
men burst out laughing again.  "Don't you try to crack your miserable,
contemptible jokes on me, sir!"

"That was no joke, sir," said Dick.

"No, sir, it was not!" said the bandmaster, sharply.  "You'll find jokes
dangerous things to crack here, sir!"

There was a murmur of acquiescence, and the little man smiled approval.

"Thought you were alluding to my name, sir," said Dick, apologetically.

"Indeed, sir?" said the bandmaster, sarcastically.  "Not such an
attractive name that I would care to allude to it."

"Oh, you meant about the music of _Faust_, sir?" said Dick, pronouncing
the name of the opera as a German would--something like _Fowst_.

"The music of what?" said the bandmaster, screwing up his face as if the
sound were unpleasant to his ears.

"Gounod's opera, sir, I said.  I know it pretty well."

"Dear me! you seem to know everything `pretty well;' perhaps you know
how to conduct `pretty well,' and would like to take my stick and lead?"

Dick looked down at the music, but made no reply, though the bandmaster
waited for a few moments.

"Then I suppose I may go on.  Of course, the colonel has a right to
interfere, though I was not aware that he was a musician; and I think I
have had some little experience in musical matters, and if I had proper
material I could produce as good results as any man in the service; but,
hampered as I am by incompetents, and interfered with in matters of
which I ought to be the best judge, I don't know what can be expected,
I'm sure.--The March from _Forst_."

There was a sharp tapping of the baton, and Dick drew back to go and sit
down, when the spectacles glistened in his direction again.

"Keep your place, sir," shouted the little tyrant.  "You can, as you are
here, try the flute part.  Be careful!"

Dick felt a singing in his ears, and his fellow-flautist scowled.

Then there was a flourish of the leader's stick in the air, and the
brass instruments set off in the familiar march, every man blowing his
loudest, and keeping very fair, well-marked time, to the end of the
strain, to be followed by the _piano_ movement, in which the flutes took
the lead, with hautbois and clarionet, of course properly supported by
the bass.

There was a peculiar jarring in Dick's ears before the second bar was
played; and, before they were half-way through eight, the conductor's
stick was tapping the music-stand fiercely.

"Stop! stop! stop!" he yelled.  "My good fellow, this won't do; you're
flat--horribly flat!"

Richard stood with his eyes fixed upon his music, expecting to see his
companion alter the tuning-slide of his flute; but the man waited, with
a supercilious smile upon his face, and the leader went on--

"Do you hear, you Smithson?  That's horribly flat.  Now, then, blow A."

Dick raised his instrument and blew a pure, clear note in perfect tune.

"Not that one; harder; your upper A."

A note an octave higher rang out pure and clear.

"That's better!  Now begin again: the soft movement, please."

Mr Wilkins waved his wand, and a fresh start was made, but it was more
melancholy than the first.  It sounded as if the women gathered in the
marketplace to welcome the return of the German warriors had set up a
howl of misery, which was ended by the crack of the conductor's stick.

"Stop! stop! stop!" he yelled.  "You are blowing out of tune, sir!  This
is horrible! we cannot have a row like cats in the band!"

This was a legitimate occasion for mirth, so the men laughed, and Mr
Wilkins looked pleased and the spectacles twinkled.

"Now, again; and be careful, sir, if you are to play with us.  Now,
then!"

Down came the baton, two bars were played, and the result was so much
worse that the bandmaster banged his music-stand frantically.

"Stand back, sir!" he yelled.  "This is ridiculous!  What does the
colonel mean?  What do you mean, sir, by pretending you know the music?
What?  What's that you say?"

"I said `I beg pardon,' sir," began Dick.

"Beg pardon!  Why, you are an impostor, sir; and if you are to stop
here, I shall resign!--What?"

"I only wanted to say, sir," continued Dick, quietly, "that this last
time I didn't blow a note."

"Well, of all the impudence!  Then, pray, sir, what was the meaning of
that hideous discord?"

"I don't know, sir.  I presume that someone's instrument is not in
tune."

"Someone's instrument not in tune!" cried the bandmaster.  "Here, Jones,
Morris, Bigham, run through half a dozen bars."

He waved his wand, and the three musicians blew together without the
bass and tenor instruments, with a worse effect than ever, and the
listening brasses burst out into a fresh roar of laughter; while Dick
had hard work, in his triumph, to suppress a smile.

"Then it's you, Jones!"

"No, sir," said the flute-player.  "I'm all right!"

"You can't be!" cried the other two men, indignantly.

"He's playing in the wrong key," said the first.

"That I ain't!" cried the flute-player.  "I'm all right, I tell you!  It
was the new chap."

"How could it be the new chap when he was _not_ blowing, idiot?" cried
the bandmaster, angrily, trying hard to hedge and preserve his character
for consistency.  "Here, you Smithson, run through those few bars with
the others.  No; not you, Jones."

The flautist sulkily lowered his flute, while the theme was now played
as a trio with admirable effect.

"Humph! not bad--not bad at all," said Wilkins, as a murmur of
satisfaction arose from the men.

Meanwhile, the flautist was turning over his flute and glancing from it
to the beautiful instrument Dick held.

"Now," cried the leader, "run through that again, Jones--or, no, with
the clarionet."

He beat time and the two instruments sounded; but, at the end of the
first bar, the clarionet-player took the reed from his lips.

"'Tain't good enough, sir!" he said.

"Good enough!" cried Wilkins, angrily; "it's disgraceful!"

"Yer never thought it disgraceful till this new chap come," cried the
discomfited flute-player.  "Who's to play proper on a thing like this?
Look at his!"

"Hold your tongue, stoopid!" whispered the nearest man.  "You'll be
getting yourself in a row."

"Look at his flute!" cried Wilkins.  "Why, he'd get more music out of a
tin whistle than you would out of his.  Here, you Smithson, see what you
can do with that flute.  Now, my lads, once again."

Dick took Jones's flute unwillingly for more than one reason.  He felt
that he was making an enemy of the man; but there was no time for
hesitation, and, as they struck up, he played his part admirably upon
the strange instrument, and then stood waiting.

"Give him his flute," said Wilkins, shortly.  "Don't you go abusing our
band instruments again, young man, or you'll be finding yourself sent
back to the ranks.  Now, please, we're losing time."

And so the practice went on Dick, feeling that he was making enemies all
round till, about an hour after, when he was in the long-room, and half
a dozen of the bandsmen came in together, looked at him, then at one
another, and one of them said--

"I'm glad you've joined."

"We've been thinking it over, and we're going to see if we can't work up
some better music now.  Never you mind about Wilkins; his bark's worse
than his bite."

"And he likes to show off," said another.  "Wants people to think what a
clever one he is.  We'll have some quiet practices together, if you
like."

"I shall be very glad," said Dick eagerly.

"That's right, and you can give us a few hints.  Wilkins turned nasty
through that snubbing he got over yonder, at the mess-room, but he'll
soon come round.  I'm sorry, though, about old Jones."

"So am I," cried Dick; "I quite felt for him this afternoon."

"Yes, he never ought to have been put to music.  I hope he won't turn
nasty," said the first speaker, "for he's got a temper of his own.  But,
there, you needn't mind him."

"No," thought Dick, "I need not mind him; but I don't like making
enemies, all the same."



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

DICK FINDS A PUPIL.

"No one would know me now," said the recruit to himself one morning as
he glanced at his face in a piece of looking-glass, for the military
barber had been operating upon his head, and had--as the _Punch_ man
said in the hot weather in allusion to his hair--"cut it to the bone."

For the first time Richard Frayne dressed in his tightly-fitting, stiff
uniform.

"Hallo, Flutey!" said one of the men; "I was looking for you.  Got 'em
on, then?"

"Yes," said Dick, smiling.  "Do they fit?"

"Oh, yes, pretty tidy.  Feel all right?"

"No; I don't think I can get my hand up level with my mouth, and the
tunic feels as if it would split up the back, and the buttons go flying,
the first time I move."

"Oh, that'll be all right.  Sure to feel a bit stiff at first.  I say,
he has padded you out well in the chest and over the shoulders."

"Yes, far too much."

"Not a bit of it.  Makes you look broader-chested and
square-shouldered--more of the man.  But, here, Lieutenant Lacey wants
you up at his quarters.  Sent that chuckle-headed Joe Todd, his servant,
to fetch you directly."

"What does he want?" cried Dick, aghast with the idea that something had
been found out.

"Go and ask him."

"But I must change first."

"Nonsense!  Go as you are.  You've got to wear the red now," added the
man, with a grin.

Dick went down into the barrack yard, to find the lieutenant's servant
waiting, and followed him, with the peculiar tremor increasing, and a
cold, dank perspiration breaking out about his temples and in the palms
of his hands.

A few minutes after he was ushered into the handsomely-furnished rooms
which formed the lieutenant's quarters; and he felt a pang shoot through
him for the moment as the piano in one corner, and some music and a
flute upon the table, recalled his own rooms at Draycott's.

But his thoughts were back directly to his troubles, and he felt a kind
of momentary relief on finding that there was no one in the
sitting-room.

"I'll go and tell him you're here," said the man who had fetched him,
and he lifted a curtain, caught his foot against a fold, stumbled, and
drove his head with a crash against the panel of the door beyond.  Then,
as the curtain fell behind him, Dick heard, in smothered tones:--

"I had you out of the ranks, Joe Todd, for my servant; I don't want a
battering-ram."

"Beg pardon, sir.  Haxident."

"Accident!  That's the third time you have done it within a week.  Torn
the curtain?"

"No, sir; don't think so.  Hurt my head."

"I don't believe it, Joe.  A wooden door could not hurt your head!  You
may have cracked the panel!"

"No, sir; all right, sir."

"Then take those clothes and brush them again.  The trousers have
mud-splashes as high as the knees.  And take those boots, too; I can't
wear them like that."

The man came out of the inner room with a portion of his master's
uniform under his arm and a pair of boots, swinging by the tags, one of
which badly-cleaned articles he dropped in trying to open the outer
door, the handle of which Dick turned for him, so that he could pass
out.

As Dick closed the door he was conscious of a rustling behind him, and
he turned smartly, to find himself face to face with the great
lieutenant, gorgeous now in shawl-pattern smoking-trousers and purple
velvet lounging-coat.

"Now for it!" he thought.

"And you might have been an officer," said the lieutenant, shaking his
head at Dick sadly, while all the blood in the lad's body seemed to run
to his heart.

"I--I beg your pardon, sir," faltered Dick, as he began to think that he
would have to get away again, and then recalled the fact that he could
not without being looked upon as a deserter.

"I said `And you might have been an officer.'"

"Yes," said Dick bitterly, and turning and speaking as he felt that he
was driven to bay.

"I'm glad you feel it," said the lieutenant, letting himself sink down
into a lounge.

"I do, sir--bitterly," replied Dick.

"If I were not as patient as a lamb, I should have kicked him out of the
place a year ago.  Of course, it didn't matter before you, but it might
have been the colonel or the major; and, though there is a way out
through my bedroom, that blundering ass must bring my boots and clothes
through my sitting-room!"

Dick felt as if he had been respited after condemnation, and began to
breathe freely.

"You heard him run his head against the door, of course?"

"Yes, sir."

"But it wouldn't break; everything else does.  He'll ruin me before he
has done.--I have sent for you, Smithson," said the lieutenant, "because
I want you to give me some lessons on the flute."

"Oh, with pleasure, sir," began Dick.  "I--I beg your pardon, sir.  Of
course, if you wish it."

"I hope it will be with pleasure, Smithson," said the lieutenant,
smiling; "but I'm afraid it will not be; for, between ourselves, I am
very dull over music."

"I used to think I was, sir," said Dick; "but I worked hard till I could
play a bit."

"A bit!" said the lieutenant, smiling.  "Ah, well, I won't flatter you.
I should like you to come often and play with me--duets and pieces.  The
fact is, Smithson, I want to perform something in--in--in public one
evening--a duet.  I have been thinking that I might play the first part
and you the second.  What do you think?"

"I think the same as you do, sir," said Dick.  "When would you like to
begin?"

"Well, the fact is, Smithson, I am rather pressed for time."

"I will come in at any hour you appoint, sir--that is, if there is no
band practice."

"Oh, the colonel will speak to Wilkins about that, Smithson; but you do
not understand me.  I have plenty of time, but I am pressed--anxious to
play a duet or two as soon as possible."

"I understand, sir," said Dick, scanning the handsome face and athletic
mould of the young officer, as the feeling grew upon him that the former
was what some people would call rather mild; "but I am no teacher, would
you like Mr Wilkins to give you some lessons?"

"No, Smithson," said the lieutenant; "that I really should not.  I want
you, and I want you to treat all this as confidential."

"But it is sure to be known, sir."

"That you are giving me lessons, yes; but not the style of lesson.  When
could you begin?"

Dick glanced at the flute.

"Would you like a lesson now, sir?"

"Yes, exactly; but you have no instrument."

"But you have, sir; and I could help you better without."

"I'm afraid not, Smithson.  You see, I should want to hear the air
played at the same time."

"I could run that through as an accompaniment on the piano."

"You could?" cried the lieutenant, staring.

"Well enough, perhaps, for that, sir."

"Then, let's begin at once."

"Have you selected an air, sir?"

"Well--er--yes," faltered the great fellow.  "I have--er--chosen two--
duets.  Here they are."

He handed the music, and Dick took it up, glancing at each piece in
turn; while the young officer looked warm and uncomfortable, watching
his visitor uneasily.

"`Flow on, thou Shining River;' `Oh, Happy, Happy Fair!'" read Dick.
"Both beautiful melodies;" and, taking the former, he crossed to the
piano and ran through the melody, and then the accompaniment, with
plenty of expression; while the lieutenant sat upon his chair with his
eyes glistening from excitement.

"Now this piece," he cried; and Dick ran through the second.

"Why, Smithson," cried the lieutenant, "you are a wonderful musician!
I--I'm afraid that you will be ready to laugh at me."

"Oh, no, sir.  Now, then--I suppose your flute is of the right pitch?"

"I--er--think so."

"Try, sir."

Dick struck the chord of the key in which the piece was set, and the
young officer blew a note of a most uncertain sound.

"Fully a quarter of a tone out, sir," said Dick, thoroughly in earnest
now over his task.  "Shall I alter the slide, sir?"

"If you please."

Dick altered the slide again and again till his pupil blew the note in
perfect accord, and then they began, with the air played slowly out of
time--a most feeble performance--right to the end of the strain, when
the lieutenant lowered his flute, and looked at his master with a rather
pitiful, but comically perplexed, expression.

"Horribly bad, isn't it?" he said.

"Well, it might be a good deal better, sir."

"Yes, of course.  Will you be good enough to run through it?"

"No, sir; I think it would be better not.  I want to encourage you--not
discourage; of course, I could play it more perfectly, but then I have
practised for years."

"Yes; I suppose so."

"But I can make you play that twice as well in a week."

"Do you think so?" cried the lieutenant, eagerly.

"I'm sure of it, sir.  Now, again, please.  I'll play each note on the
piano, and I want you to blow that note firmly and with a full breath.
Never mind about time, blow each note as if it were a minim, giving a
breath to each."

It was a complete change of position, the officer diligently obeying his
subordinate, and working hard, if with no brilliant effect, till quite a
couple of hours had passed, when he laid down his flute.

"I shall never do it."

Dick smiled.

"You shall do it, sir," he cried.  "I'll make you."

"You will, Smithson?  Ah! if you only can!  When will you come again?  I
want to play it so very badly."

"To-morrow, sir," said Dick; and he went back toward his quarters,
wondering why the lieutenant wanted to play those two old-fashioned
airs.

"Surely he does not want to serenade someone."

Dick laughed quite cheerily as he thought of the lieutenant's handsome
face, and the idea tickled him for the moment; but the next moment he
sighed and felt angry with himself for his mirthful display, and forgot
the lieutenant's lessons till the next day.



CHAPTER NINETEEN.

THE NIGHT OF THE SERENADE.

Those lessons given to the lieutenant were the plus to the minus of Dick
Smithson's existence, for the young officer grew daily more friendly and
confidential.  He chatted about his brother-officers and the dinner
parties to which he was invited, rapidly forgetting the gap between them
in their military status so long as they were alone, and insisted upon
paying liberally for each lesson as it was given.

This Dick felt at first disposed to resent, but the lieutenant looked at
him with so much surprise that he ended by taking his professional fee,
and no more was ever said upon that point.

One day there was a scented note upon the table; another day, in a
bashful, girlish way, which accorded strangely with the young officer's
great, manly aspect, there was a hint let fall; and before long Dick
smiled to himself as he felt certain that he had been right in his guess
as to the purpose for which the lessons were being taken.

Then came a morning when Dick walked across the barrack yard, thinking
of how thoroughly he had obliterated himself from the memory of all who
knew him, and the past from his own.  But, as he approached the
lieutenant's quarters, he drove these thoughts away and ascended the
stairs, to stop on the landing, for he could hear a voice talking
loudly.

"Company!" thought Dick, and he was about to turn back, but the voice
rose higher, and he became aware of the fact that there was what an
Irishman would call "a one-sided quarrel" going on.  As he came close to
the door this became more evident, for he could hear the lieutenant,
striding about the room, storming angrily.

"Joe Todd seems to have fetched himself hot water this morning," said
Dick to himself, for Lacey was calling his servant by every name
suggestive of stupidity that he could think of, but all in the most
calmly, dignified manner.

"I beg your pardon, Smithson," he said, as the man left the room.  "I
ought not to go on like that, but the fellow really is beyond bearing.
I can't trust him to do a single thing.  He either forgets or does it
wrong.  He burns my wet boots; he folds my clothes so that they are
always in creases; he leaves the stopper out of my scent; upsets the
scented bear's grease over my dress-clothes; and--and--Oh, I can't think
of half the mischief he has done!  Oh, dear me! there never was a man
worried as I am.--Now, about this duet, Smithson.  Do you think we can
manage?--the fact is, I want it for a serenade on Friday night."

"If you will only play it as well, sir, as you did at the last lesson,
it will be all right," said Dick, smiling to himself.

"Think so?  I'm afraid I must seem very stupid to you, Smithson--such a
musician as you are.  Really, you are a mystery to me."

Dick made no reply.

"There, I beg your pardon, Smithson; it's just as if I were trying to
pump you about your past, and I assure you I did not mean to.  It would
be so ungentlemanly."

"Lieutenant Lacey is always gentlemanly to me," said Dick, quietly.

"Well, so are you to me, Smithson.  Really, I begin to look upon you as
quite a friend."

"It is very kind of you, sir."

"Well, it's your way, Smithson.  Never had lessons in music before
without the fellow I took them of trying to make all the money he could
out of me, bothering me to buy pieces of music, or instruments, or
something.  Well, let's begin.  But one moment, Smithson; you really are
keeping this a profound secret

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