"And her nephew?" inquired the clergyman.

"Her grandson, you mean."

Jeffreys' heart leapt. "What was his name?" he asked, excitedly.

"Forrester; a dear young fellow he was. His mother, who died out in India, was Mrs Wilc.o.x's only daughter. Yes, poor Gerard Forrester was brought home from school about six months ago terribly crippled by an accident. It was said one of his school-fellows had--"

"But where is he now? tell me, for mercy's sake!" exclaimed Jeffreys.

"I cannot tell you that," replied the minister. "His grandmother was ordered to Torquay almost as soon as he arrived home. He remained here about a month in charge of his old nurse; and then--"

"He's not dead!" almost shouted Jeffreys.

"Then," continued the minister, "when the news came of his grandmother's death, they left Grangerham. From all I can hear, Mrs Wilc.o.x died very poor. I believe the nurse intended to try to get him taken into a hospital somewhere; but where or how I never knew. I was away in London when they disappeared, and have never heard of them since."

"Isn't his father alive?"

"Yes. I wrote to him by Mrs Wilc.o.x's request. He is an officer in India in the Hussars. I have had no reply, and cannot be sure that the letter has reached him, as I see that his regiment has been dispatched to Afghanistan."

"Did you never hear from the nurse?" asked Jeffreys.

"Never."

"And was it thought Forrester would recover?"

"I believe it was thought that if he got special treatment in a hospital his life might be spared."

This then was all Jeffreys could hear. Jonah Trimble might be right after all. How he abused himself for flying from York as he had done without extracting the truth first! It was too late now. He begged to be taken to see the house where Forrester lived. It was occupied by a new tenant, and all he could do was to pace up and down in front of it, in a lonely vigil, and try to imagine the pale face which only a few months back had gazed wearily from those windows on the active life without, in which he was never more to take a share.

He had not the courage to wait that night in Grangerham, although the minister urged him and Julius, tramps as they were, to do so. He felt stifled in these narrow streets, and longed for the fresh heath, where at least he could be alone.

He accepted, however, the hospitality of his guide for half an hour in order to write a short note to Mr Frampton. He said:--

"I have come here hoping to hear something of Forrester. But I can hear nothing more than what you told me four months ago. He has left here in charge of his old nurse, and has not been heard of since. You will wonder why I have left York. The story of what happened at Bolsover reached the ears of my employer's son. He accused me of it before all the school, and added that he knew Forrester was dead. I could not stand it, and came away--though I feel now I was foolish not to ascertain first how he had learned what you and I have not yet been able to hear. It is too terrible to believe! and I cannot believe it till I find out for myself. Where I shall go next I do not know, and feel I do not care. My guardian has left York. I saw him two days before I came away, and he told me then he should refuse to pay my last half-term's bill, which came to 7. I enclose thirty shillings now--all I have; and you may depend on my sending the rest as soon as I can earn it; for I shall be miserable as long as I owe a farthing to Bolsover."

Having written this dismal letter, and having posted it with its enclosure, he bade farewell to Grangerham, and wandered forth with the sympathetic Julius out on to the quiet heath, and there lay down--not to sleep, but to think.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

WILDTREE TOWERS.

Jeffreys spoke truly when he wrote to Mr Frampton that he did not know and did not care where he was going next. When he awoke in his heathery bed next morning, he lay indolently for a whole hour for no other reason than because he did not know whether to walk north, south, east or west.

He lacked the festive imagination which helps many people under similar circ.u.mstances. It did not occur to him to toss up, nor was he aware of the value of turning round three times with his eyes closed and then marching straight before him. Had he been an errant knight, of course his horse would have settled the question; but as it was, he was not a knight and had not a horse. He had a dog, though. He had found Julius in possession of the caretaker at his guardian's house, and had begged her to let him have him.

"Which way are we going, Julius?" inquired the dog's master, leaning upon his elbow, and giving no sign which the dog could possibly construe into a suggestion.

Julius was far too deep an animal not to see through an artless design like this. But for all that he undertook the task of choosing. He rose from his bed, shook himself, rubbed a few early flies off his face, and then, taking up the bundle in his teeth, with a rather contemptuous sniff, walked sedately off, in the direction of the North Pole.

Jeffreys dutifully followed; and thus it was that one of the most momentous turns in his life was taken in the footsteps of a dog.

Let us leave him, reader, tramping aimlessly thus o'er moor and fell, and hill and dale, leaving behind him the smoke of the cotton country and the noisy shriek of the railway, and losing himself among the lonely valleys and towering hills of Westmoreland--let us leave him, footsore, hungry, and desponding, and refresh ourselves in some more cheery scene and amidst livelier company.

Where shall we go? for we can go anywhere. That's one of the few little privileges of the storyteller. Suppose, for instance, we take farewell of humble life altogether for a while, and invite ourselves into some grand mansion, where not by the remotest possibility could Jeffreys or Jeffreys' affairs be of the very slightest interest.

What do you say to this tempting-looking mansion, marked in the map as Wildtree Towers, standing in a park of I should not like to say how many acres, on the lower slopes of one of the grandest mountains in the Lake country?

On the beautiful summer afternoon on which we first see it, it certainly looks one of the fairest spots in creation. As we stand on the doorstep, the valley opens out before us, stretching far to the south, and revealing reaches of lake and river, broad waving meadows and cl.u.s.tering villages, wild crags and pine-clad fells.

We, however, do not stand on the doorstep to admire the view, or even to ask admission. We have the storyteller's latchkey and invisible cap.

Let us enter. As we stand in the great square hall, hung round in baronial style with antlers, and furnished in all the luxury of modern comfort, wondering through which of the dozen doors that open out of the square it would be best worth our while to penetrate, a footman, bearing a tray with afternoon tea, flits past us. Let us follow him, for afternoon tea means that living creatures are at hand.

We find ourselves in a snug little boudoir, furnished and decorated with feminine skill and taste, and commanding through the open French windows a gorgeous view down the valley. Two ladies, one middle-aged, one young, are sitting there as the footman enters. The elder, evidently the mistress of the mansion, is reading a newspaper; the younger is dividing her time between needlework and looking rather discontentedly out of the window.

It is quite evident the two are not mother and child. There is not the slightest trace of resemblance between the handsome aquiline face of the elder, stylishly-dressed woman, and the rounder and more sensitive face of her quietly-attired companion. Nor is there much in common between the frank eyes and mock-demure mouth of the girl, and the half- imperious, half-worried look of her senior.

"Tell Mr Rimbolt, Walker," says the mistress, as she puts down her paper, and moves her chair up to the tea-table, "and Master Percy."

A handsome gentleman, just turning grey, with an intellectual and good- humoured face, strolls into the room in response to Walker's summons.

"I was positively nearly asleep," he says; "the library gets more than its share of the afternoon sun."

"It would be better for you, dear, if you took a drive or a walk, instead of shutting yourself up with your old books."

The gentleman laughs pleasantly, and puts some sugar in his tea.

"You are not very respectful to my old friends," said he. "You forget how long we've been parted. Where's Percy?"

"Walker has gone to tell him."

"I think he is out," said the young lady; "he told me he was going down to the river."

"I consider," said Mrs Rimbolt rather severely, "he should tell _me_ what he is going to do, not you."

"But, aunt, I didn't ask him. He volunteered it."

"Fetch your uncle's cup, Raby."

Raby's mouth puckers up into a queer little smile as she obeys.

Walker appears in a minute to confirm the report of Master Percy's absence. "He's been gone this three hours, mem."

"Let some one go for him at once, Walker."

"I get so terrified when he goes off like this," says the mother; "there's no knowing what may happen, and he is so careless."

"He has a safe neck," replies the father; "he always does turn up. But if you are so fidgety, why don't you send Raby to look after him?"