CHAPTER LIII.—PANSY.

Pansy and her grandfather, Eben Morris, were the persons whose arrival at the _Masons’ Arms_ had interrupted Tuppit and his brother. Even had Wrentham’s attention been disengaged, the light in the room was too dim for him to recognise the girl before he was dragged out to the balcony.

Pansy had left home in a woeful state of mental perplexity; ashamed of her conduct to Caleb, anxious to hide from every one and to suppress in herself the silly fancies which had induced it. On alighting from the train at Liverpool Street, she was as much frightened by suddenly encountering Coutts Hadleigh as if he had been the Evil One himself.

‘Whither away, my forest nymph?’ he said with a smile in which there was nothing more than the careless freedom he would have taken with any pretty maid of the servant rank. ‘What brings you to Babylon?’

‘I am going to visit a sick friend,’ she answered, turning away her face.

‘And when will you be back? We cannot afford to lose you from Ringsford.’

‘I do not know—but I am in a hurry, sir;’ and she attempted to pass.

‘Stop a minute; you don’t know your way about the city. Where does your friend live?’

‘I know the way quite well, thank you, sir,’ she replied nervously, without giving the address.

‘Oh, that’s all right, then. I thought I might save you some time and trouble by putting you on the right track.’

That was the whole of their conversation, and without looking at him, she hastened to Gracechurch Street, where she obtained an omnibus which carried her to the Green. Making her way through a narrow lane of small houses in various stages of dilapidation, and through crowds of ragged, gamboling children whose ages ranged from two to ten years, she came to a comparatively open space. There was a wheelwright’s yard with samples of his trade—fragments of wheels, whole wheels, three or four broken-down carts of tradesmen—strewn about. The wheelwright had some idea of beautifying this oasis in the crowded district; for on the window-sills of his wooden house there were chrysanthemums in bloom, and the bare twigs of a rose-tree trained against the wall, suggested that in summer there might be pleasing perfumes and sights even in the midst of squalor.

Opposite was a blacksmith’s shop, and nestling underneath the side of it, a cobbler’s stall, where the occupant was busy singing a music-hall song as he stitched and hammered. Passing between the wheelwright’s and the smith’s places, she came to a square plot of ground—about an acre in extent—which was divided into patches for the use of the dwellers in the surrounding cottages. These were of one story, red-tiled, with whitewashed walls, and with many indications of attempts to cultivate flowers. It was like dropping out of the town into an old country village; and indeed this was a relic of the ancient village of Camberwell.

Pansy found that her grandfather’s illness had been much exaggerated by the neighbour who had reported it, or that he had made a sudden recovery, for when she arrived he was dressed and shuffling about his little room, making preparations to start on what he called his ‘business round,’ whilst in a squeaky voice he kept on mumbling his favourite phrase: ‘Oh, I am so happy!’ This agreeable announcement he made on all occasions whether well or sick, and at times it formed as grim a satire on the common lot as if a death’s-head sang a comic song.

He was a little man, and his shoulders being bent and contracted, his stature was not much more than that of a dwarf. Although his body was thin, his face was ruddy, set in a horseshoe of ragged gray hair. His features were large—the chin particularly prominent—the brow such as would have suggested intellect, but the dull faded eyes had little speculation in them. Neither features nor eyes had the least expression of laughter, whilst he was proclaiming himself in the highest glee. The absurd phrase sounded more like a whine than a cry of exultation.

He had been a greengrocer for over forty years, and in that capacity had daily made the round of the district to supply customers; but his wife had been the real manager of the business. This good woman, with shrewd foresight, insured their joint lives for the modest annuity of thirty pounds, to be paid to the survivor. On her demise the old man, then unfitted for hard work, was thus provided for. But he could not get over the habit of going his daily ‘business round;’ the only houses at which he now called, however, were the various taverns and ale-houses on his route, and he always found in several of them some cruel wags who were ready to give him ‘two pen’orth’ of beer or gin in return for the sad exhibition of an old man in his dotage talking nonsense and squeaking out snatches of ballads.

No persuasion could induce him to change his mode of life; and it was probably as an obstinate protest against the persuasion that he adopted his grotesque refrain of ‘Oh, I am so happy!’ Even on the first day of Pansy’s arrival he insisted on going out as usual, and she was obliged to be content with the promise that he would return early. He was later than usual, however, and Pansy, resolute to rescue him from this pitiable course, decided that she would in future meet him before he had completed his round and entice him home. The first attempt was successful; the second landed her with him in the _Masons’ Arms_—and she did not regret it after the discovery she made through the conversation between Wrentham and his brother of what mischief had been at work against Philip and Madge.

She was glad to be able to do something to show her gratitude and affection; Madge had been always a good friend and adviser—especially in her own present trouble. So, having seen her grandfather safely housed, she travelled down to Willowmere.

The gravity with which Dame Crawshay received her, and the sad look in Madge’s eyes, caused the visitor to fear for an instant that they were offended with her; but she quickly understood that it was their own sorrow which had made the change in their manner. There was another reason, however, for the expression in Madge’s eyes—sympathy for the pain which the girl must feel when she learned that Caleb Kersey had been arrested on suspicion of having set fire to the Manor, and that the evidence was strong against him. For the present, Pansy was only told about the fire, and her immediate exclamation was:

‘Is father hurt?’

‘No, he is quite well, and poor Mr Hadleigh is lying in his cottage. As soon as he can be moved, he is to be brought here, and we are turning this room into a bedroom, so that he may not have to be carried up-stairs.’

‘And the young ladies?’

‘Miss Hadleigh is still with her father; Miss Caroline and Bertha are here.’

‘And thou’lt have to stay here to-night, too,’ broke in the dame as she continued her rearrangement of the lighter pieces of furniture; ‘there cannot be a corner for thee in the cottage.’

Pansy gave thanks to the dame, and went on to say that it was her intention to return to her grandfather in the morning, but she would ‘see father before starting.’

‘I did not intend to be back so soon,’ she went on, with an awkward glance first at Madge, next at Aunt Hessy. She did not know how to convey her information with the least offence. ‘But there was something I heard about Missy and Master Philip this afternoon that I thought she ought to know—that you all ought to know.’

‘About Philip and me!’ exclaimed Madge, the colour heightening in her cheeks as she wondered if it could be possible that the broken engagement had already become the subject of common gossip.

‘Sit thee down, Pansy,’ said Aunt Hessy, ceasing to work, ‘and tell us plainly what thou hast heard.’

Thus encouraged, the girl repeated with considerable accuracy the substance of the conversation she had overheard.

‘And as I fancied,’ Pansy concluded, ‘that though you knew of the mischief, you might not know how it was being put right—I came straight to tell you.’

There was a pause. The treachery of Wrentham to Philip and the villainous insinuations with which he had endeavoured to poison his mind regarding Madge in order to distract him and prevent him from looking too closely into business details—the whole wicked scheme was made clear to Aunt Hessy. Madge saw at once how grossly Philip’s generous confidence had been abused, but at the moment she did not quite understand why Wrentham in carrying out his plot should be so foolish as to try to slander her to Philip—she knew he could only _try_ to do it, for not one word against her would be credited for an instant by her lover. And yet!... He had been so strange of late in many ways: he had shown so much displeasure with her for maintaining Beecham’s secret—what may he not have suffered from brief doubt, although he did not believe in anything ill that was suggested to him.

‘Thou art a good girl, Pansy,’ said Aunt Hessy, kindly, but without any sign of agitation, ‘and we thank thee for coming to us with what is really good news—that the man is found out.’

‘Ay, mistress, I thought that would be good news for you—and his own brother is against him!’

‘I am sorry for the poor brother.—Now go into the kitchen and get supper with the maidens: make friends with Jenny Wodrow, for she will be thy bedfellow to-night.’

Pansy obeyed, although she would have intensely liked to have had some sign from Madge to show how the news had affected her.

‘I will see you before bedtime,’ said Madge in answer to the look; ‘I have something to tell you.’

But Madge’s friendly intention to break the news to her of Caleb’s position was frustrated. Jenny Wodrow, the maiden to whose graces Pansy had been directed to recommend herself, although good-natured in the main, had been ready to give more of her favour to the stalwart Agitator than to any of the other lads about. That all the shafts levelled at him with her bright eyes and soft tongue fell pointless, she attributed rightly to the charms of the gardener’s daughter. In church, in field, or at the harvest-home, Caleb had no vision for any one but Pansy. The maidens saw, understood, and discreetly turned their thoughts elsewhere.

Jenny was ready enough to follow their example, but she felt aggrieved and a little spiteful, especially as Pansy, not being precisely ‘in service,’ seemed to take a place above those who were ‘quite as good as her any day, and maybe her betters.’ Jenny continued to think of Caleb Kersey, and at present her head was full of his misfortunes. So, in the bright kitchen where the huge fire was reflected on rows of shining dish-covers and platters, and the supper of bread and cheese and beer was being served on a massive white deal table, the chatter of the maidens was all about the latest wonder, the burning of the Manor, and the parlous state of Mr Hadleigh.

‘Ay, and who d’ye think they’ve taken up and put in prison for burning the big house?’ said Jenny shrewishly, as she looked full in her rival’s face. ‘Who but Caleb Kersey; and if the master dies, hanging will be the end on’t.’

Pansy was frightened. She became red and then so white that young Jerry Mogridge, who was not given to close observation of anybody when engaged with his meals, growled at Jenny.

‘It’s darned spite that. Can’t you let the wench take supper in peace.’

‘She didn’t mean no harm,’ retorted a young ploughman who had his own reasons for acting as Jenny’s champion. ‘How was she to know that hearing the news was to spoil Miss Pansy’s supper. Ain’t she like the rest ov us?’

‘You keep your tongue in your jaw—it ought to be big enough for it, I believe,’ snorted Jerry, his mouth full of bread and cheese, his mug of beer raised to his lips.

‘I’ll teach you, young man, to speak without splutter,’ cried Jenny, administering a smart slap to poor Jerry’s back with a result fatal to the contents of his mouth and mug.

The roar of laughter elicited by the coarse jest might have provoked Jerry—half choked though he was—to further argument, had he not been too well aware of the more immediate importance of securing the huge brown jug in order to replenish his cup.

Pansy had slipped out of the kitchen during this passage-at-arms. She was full of self-reproaches. Caleb arrested—in jail—in danger maybe of hanging! And all through her fault! If Caleb had emigrated, she might have consoled herself with the idea that in rejecting him she had done him a great kindness—for every strong man made a fortune in the colonies, she understood. But to think that she, however innocently, had some share in driving him to this terrible crime—that was a thought which made the poor girl’s heart and brain ache.

(_To be concluded._)

QUEEN MARGERIE.

When I look back on my schoolboy days, there is one scene that always stands out before me with peculiar force and vividness; there is one occurrence that happened then more deeply graven than any other upon my memory; and that is no small thing to say, for I can call to mind any number of exciting things that took place when I was at Greychester. I could tell of many a victory that we gained, against heavy odds, by land or water; for there was scarcely a Greychester lad who could not pull an oar, as well as handle a bat, with more or less dexterity; and both on the cricket-field and on the river our opponents always found us pretty stubborn antagonists. I could tell many a story of our adventures and hairbreadth escapes, and of those little exploits and mischances of my own in which I figured as the hero or culprit, as the case might be, from the day on which I received my first ‘swishing’ until I left as top of the Sixth. There is a grim sort of interest, I always fancy, about one’s first sound thrashing, that makes it, in a fashion, a landmark in a schoolboy’s career. Even now I remember how I came by mine. It was soon after I entered the school, and I was in the third form—Tunder’s. Old Tunder, we called him, not that he really was old, for he was not much over forty, but to a schoolboy with the best of life before him, forty seems a patriarchal age. Tunder was anything but a profound scholar, and he was, moreover, very near-sighted, so that there was perhaps some reason for the boys of his form being much more distinguished for their proficiency in the art of practical joking than for their attainments in any branch of knowledge. Anyway, the third-form room was a very hotbed of mischief.

It happened that about this time we had hit upon a novel and pleasant form of amusement with which to beguile the monotony of our studies, Tunder’s defective vision giving us ample opportunity for the recreation. There were to be had at the Greychester toyshops little wooden frogs made to jump with a spring. It was a matter of intense and absorbing delight to us to range our frogs in line and test their powers by seeing which would take the longest jump. The excitement on these occasions was great. Tunder’s cane was constantly being brought into use, but until one ill-fated day I managed to escape it. One hot summer afternoon, Smithson Minor, who sat next to me, brought out of his pocket a couple of new spring-frogs, and making me a present of one, proposed that we should have a match between them, just to see what they were like. Now, if I had had my wits about me, I should have suspected that some snare lay hidden under this unusual generosity on the part of Smithson Minor, for, as a rule, he was not of a giving sort, and rarely parted with anything but for full and ample consideration. But I suspected nothing; the day was warm; a little relaxation from our struggles in decimal fractions seemed desirable, and old Tunder was safely moored at his desk just in front of us, correcting exercises, so that Smithson’s proposal appeared both kind and opportune, and met with a ready acceptance on my part.

But Smithson Minor, though I knew it not, was a traitor, and compassed my ruin; for the frog which he had given me was equipped with a spring of some fourfold strength. Somewhere in the course of his researches at the toyshops he had come across it, and his keen scent for mischief had quickly detected a rare opportunity for fun. He got his fun—at my expense. The frogs were carefully stationed at the lower edge of the desk, Smithson Minor giving them a last touch, just to see, he said, that it was a fair start, but in reality to point mine in a particular direction. The course would be the upward slope of the desk; ample space, we thought—at least I thought—for the most actively disposed jumper; and if by chance one of them did overshoot the mark and tumble on the floor, then we should have the additional excitement of recovering it at the risk of drawing on to us Tunder’s attention and Tunder’s cane. Everything was ready; the critical moment came. The frogs jumped, and mine won—won easily, beating all previous records, for it soared majestically into the air and swooped down full on to old Tunder’s nose! He regarded it quietly for a moment or two, and then taking it into his hands, said slowly and sarcastically: ‘The proprietor of this ingenious toy has evidently more leisure on his hands than he knows how to dispose of; if he will kindly step this way, I will give him something that will engage his attention for a time.’

I stepped that way, and found him as good as his word. I went back to my place sadder, if not wiser, than when I left it; and for that day and for several days to come, I found that a sitting posture was not altogether free from discomfort.

Poor old Tunder! he was not a bad sort of fellow after all. He left the school not very long afterwards, and then we found out how many kindly and generous things he had done in a quiet unobtrusive sort of way. I don’t suppose his salary as an under-master was a very large one, and I know from what he said himself that he had no private income, so that he must have practised considerable economy and self-denial to have been able to indulge in those unsuspected acts of charity in the poorer parts of Greychester which came to light after he had gone. I have lost sight of him for some time; but if he should still be living, and should chance to read these lines, he will see that in spite of the spring-frog episode, I can still speak of him with respect, and even affection.

But I am wasting time in gossiping about so paltry an affair as my first flogging, and almost forgetting that I have a story of a very different kind to tell—a story so tinged to a certain extent with sadness, that even now it costs me something to relate it. Indeed, I should not do so, did I not think that—apart from the passing interest it may have—it may serve in some cases to point a moral and give a warning.

Two of my particular chums at school were Frank and Charlie Stewart, popularly known as the two young Hotspurs. Why, I will tell you. They were fellows of the real good sort, as we used to say, good run-getters in a cricket-match, and pulling a first-rate oar. Not that they were dunces either, for they were never very low down in their forms, and they had a quickness and readiness that carried them above fellows of more plodding industry. They had one fault—I suppose every schoolboy has one, many more than one—and it was this failing that gained them their nickname. Kindly and good-natured enough as a general rule, each of them had a quick and impetuous disposition, which was liable, under no very great provocation, to blaze out into hot passion. They resented anything like dictation or unfair treatment so much, that their high spirit could at times scarcely brook even a fair and proper opposition to their ideas and opinions, and instead of trying to gain their argument, they would lose their temper. But, to do them justice, there was nothing sullen, or mean, or vindictive about them; and their fits of temper were shortlived. They tried earnestly to guard against their besetting weakness, sometimes succeeding, and always bitterly lamenting afterwards if they failed. Occasionally, they came to words between themselves; but in a moment or two they would be as friendly as ever again, pulling a pair together, or tossing for sides at cricket. Once, however, they came to blows, and it is that scene which is so vividly painted on my memory.

Like myself, the Stewarts were town-boys, and as our homes were not very far apart, we generally went to and from school together, the intimacy thus formed being gradually ripened by congenial tastes and pursuits into a warm and lasting friendship, which made them almost like brothers, and their house quite a second home to me. Their father, who had been a retired naval officer, possessed of ample independent means, had died a year or two before, and they lived with their widowed mother and a sister—a child, when first I knew her, of about six or seven. Margerie her name was—Queen Margerie, in a playful way, they always called her; and well she deserved her title, for she held absolute and sovereign sway over every heart in the household, and indeed over all who knew her.

I wish I were a word-painter, so that I could portray Queen Margerie as I see her in my mind’s eye now. I wish a more skilful hand than mine could place the portrait before you—the portrait of a child—somewhat small for her age, you might say, and perhaps somewhat fragile-looking—with clustering soft brown hair, brightened here and there by a gleam of gold; hazel eyes, always lit up with mirth and happiness, except when the story of some one’s troubles filled them with tears; and soft cheeks, where the shadow of ill-humour seemed never to find a resting-place. And then, what pretty ways she had; talking in such a demure, old-world fashion, with a voice deep for a child, and yet with such music in it, and doing everything so pleasantly and lovingly, that no wonder those about her made her their idol.

Chief among the idolaters were her two brothers. If I had not seen it, I should never have thought that two school-lads could have been so tender and loving to a child. No trouble and no self-sacrifice did they grudge her, gratifying her wishes, as far as lay in their power, as soon as they were uttered; often, indeed, anticipating them before they were spoken. It was curious, and yet pleasant, to see how they would come to her with the story of their feats and adventures, like knights of old, who valued most their victories in the jousts in that they gained them the smile of the queen of the tournament. If either of them had won a prize, or made the top score in a match, or done some other redoubtable thing, his chief pleasure was in the thought of Queen Margerie’s delight at the news. ‘Tell me all about it,’ she would say, nestling eagerly close to him, ‘tell me every word—every word from beginning to end.’ Then would he give her a full and graphic account, she listening with growing interest the while, and gazing at him with a look of pride, until the tale was ended; and then her joy at the history of his success was to him his crowning reward.

Queen Margerie, how mother, brother, servants adored thee! I believe if the sacrifice of their own lives had been necessary to preserve thine, not one of them would have hesitated a moment to pay the price.

‘They overdid it,’ do you say? Nay, believe me, they did not, for a child in the home may be among the very richest gifts for which heaven claims our gratitude. A child’s presence may fill with sunlight the house which else would be wrapt in gloom; a child’s influence may preserve purity in the mind which but for it might become stained and corrupted; a child’s love may serve to keep warm the heart which the cares and worries of life might otherwise make cold and selfish.

‘I wonder,’ said Frank Stewart once to me, in an abstracted sort of way, as if he had been pondering over some weighty matter—‘I wonder what we should do if anything were to happen to Margerie; if she were to—to go away.’

‘Go away!’ I replied in wonderment. ‘How can a child like that go away? What do you mean?’

He made no answer, but went on, as if in continuance of his own remarks: ‘It would kill my mother, and I think it would me, if Margerie were to’—— Then he stopped short.

I began to understand his meaning; but I said no more, for this was a sort of mood I had never seen Frank Stewart in before, and I did not know how to meet it. So the conversation ceased, and for a time I forgot all about it.

It was one afternoon some time after this that the Stewarts, one or two other fellows, and myself, were going home from school, not quite in our usual spirits, for a cricket-match we had played the day before had ended—rather unusually for us—in our suffering a disastrous defeat. True to human nature, instead of taking kindly to our reverse of fortune, we tried to find a pair of shoulders on which we might conveniently put the whole load of blame, and the owner of the shoulders happened to be Frank Stewart, who had been the captain of our Eleven, and who, we thought, had not managed matters very discreetly. In the course of our discussion on the subject, the two brothers irritated each other to such an extent that they came to blows. We tried to pacify them; but in vain. I am afraid that, like every British schoolboy, we had just a sort of lurking fondness for a good fair fight, which made the fray not without interest for us. Anyway, we watched it so intently that we did not see a childish figure come to the garden-gate leading to the Stewarts’ house, and pausing a little to take in what was passing, run quickly down the road towards us. We saw and heard nothing until Queen Margerie was close to the struggling lads, calling on them piteously to stop; but in a moment—blinded and deafened with excitement—one of them stumbled against her, and fell—dragging the other with him—heavily over her to the ground.

The boys quickly rose unhurt, but the child never stirred. There she lay, the poor little face deadly pale, except where there were a few stains of blood from a bruise on the temple; and one arm seemed to have suffered some injury. There was for a moment a faint look of recognition, just a feeble attempt to smile, and then there was unconsciousness.

The whole thing took place so suddenly that none of us at first could realise it. For an instant or two the Stewarts seemed perfectly dazed, kneeling by the child, and calling her by name, as if she were only making a pretence of being hurt, and would spring into their arms presently. Then the truth seemed to burst upon them, restoring their self-possession; for, taking the little form gently to his breast, Frank Stewart strode hurriedly homewards, entreating us, as he went, to bring a doctor. We lost no time on our errand, and medical help was soon at hand. Shortly afterwards, we heard that the arm was fractured, but that that was not so serious as the injury to the head, from which the gravest results might be feared.

We did not see the Stewarts again at school during that term, of which a few days only remained. For three days they watched with their mother by the child’s bedside, scarcely ever taking food or sleep. At times she was conscious, and gave them one of her old looks, or feebly held out her hand to touch theirs. Once or twice she rallied enough to speak a little, but not a word passed her lips about her injuries or the cause of them. She only asked them not to forget her when she had gone, for she seemed to think that the shadows would soon be falling about her.

Once, I remember, when I called to make inquiries, Frank Stewart came down to see me. I scarcely knew him, he looked so altered. ‘It is bad enough to see her dying,’ he said, sobbing: ‘but to think of its being my fault!’—and he broke down utterly.

What words of comfort could a schoolboy utter in the presence of such grief? What could I say, when I feared they were only waiting for the King’s messenger to take Queen Margerie where pain and weariness are not known? For though the doctor said there _was_ a chance, that chance seemed but a slender one.

* * * * *

Fifteen years since then, is it? Why, it scarcely seems as many months. How well I remember it, and yet my schoolboy days ended long ago, and now I am a staid married man. My wife, to tell the truth, is sitting near me as I write, and now and then she comes and looks over my shoulder at what I have written, saying with a smile that she wonders how I can exaggerate as I have done once or twice. I turn the tables on her by replying that instead of being a help to me, she is my greatest hindrance, for as long as she is in the room I am always neglecting my work to look at her. And that is the truth. I am continually looking at her, because, to my mind, she is the prettiest picture one can look at. She has soft brown hair, with here and there a gleam of gold, bright hazel eyes, and a gentle face without a trace of ill-humour. It is true you may see on her forehead the faintest traces of a scar, but then, I say, it is a beauty-mark. Sometimes she says, in a make-believe solemn way, that she wonders how I could have married any one with one arm stiff and good for nothing. But I know she is only joking, for I don’t think her arm is a whit worse now than any one else’s.

But I am not the only one who worships her. There are her two brothers, for instance, who are quite as foolish as I am. The elder of them is a lieutenant in the navy, and he misses no opportunity of sending her wonderful treasures and curiosities, which he collects for her on his travels. Before long, our modest-sized dwelling will be a storehouse of marvels. The other, a young lawyer, who lives with his widowed mother, is a perfectly infatuated brother, and under one pretext or another is always coming to see that all is going well with his idol. I tell him sometimes, laughingly, that I shall become jealous if this sort of thing goes on; that I shall forbid him the house, and bar the doors against him! But my threats are of little use; for he says that neither husband nor bolts nor bars shall prevent his coming, like a loyal subject, to pay allegiance to Queen Margerie. For the one slender chance did prevail, and my story ends happily after all.

ONE WOMAN’S HISTORY.