Scarfe was at the bottom of his heart not quite a villain, and much as he detested Jeffreys, and longed to be revenged--for what injury do certain minds feel half so much as that which one man commits in being better than another?--he had an uncomfortable suspicion in his mind that after all Jeffreys was not quite the miscreant he tried to imagine him.

That he was guilty in the matter of young Forrester there was no doubt; but much as he should have liked to believe it, he could not be quite sure that the accident at Bolsover was the result of a deliberate murderous design, or indeed of anything more than the accidental catastrophe of a blundering fit of temper--criminal, if you like, and cowardly, but not fiendish. And his conscience made coward enough of him just now to cause him to hesitate before plunging into ruin one who, hateful as he was to him, was after all a poor wretch, miserable enough for any one.

Not having done what he intended to do, Scarfe felt decidedly virtuous, and considered himself ent.i.tled to any amount of credit for his forbearance! It seemed a pity Raby should not know of this n.o.ble effort of self-denial.

"Miss Atherton," said he, just as they were about to separate for the night, "I'm afraid you will have forgotten all about me when you see me next."

"You are very uncomplimentary, Mr Scarfe."

"I do not mean to be; and I'm sure I shall not forget you."

"Thank you. This has been a very eventful visit."

"It has; but I shall never regret that day on the ice, although I fear I made one enemy by what I did."

"You don't understand Mr Jeffreys; he is very shy and proud."

"I understand him quite well, and wish for Percy's sake every one here did too. But I am not going to disobey you, and talk of people behind their backs, Miss Atherton. I am sure you will approve of that."

"I do; I never like it unless it is something nice of them."

"Then I certainly had better not talk to you about Mr Jeffreys," said Scarfe with a sneer, which did him more damage in Raby's eyes than a torrent of abuse from his lips. "Do you know you have never yet shown me the telegram you had about your father's last battle? It came the morning I was away, you know."

"Yes. I fancied perhaps you did not care to see it, as you never asked me," said Raby, producing the precious paper from her dress, where she kept it like a sort of talisman.

"How could you think that?" said Scarfe reproachfully, who had quite forgotten to ask to see it.

He took the paper and glanced down it.

"Hullo!" said he, starting as Jeffreys had done. "Captain Forrester! I wonder if that's poor young Forrester's father?"

"Who is poor young Forrester?" inquired Raby.

Scarfe read the paper to the end, and then looked up in well-simulated confusion.

"Poor young Forrester? Oh--well, I dare say Jeffreys could tell you about him. The fact is, Miss Atherton, if I am not allowed to talk of people behind their backs it is impossible for me to tell you the story of poor young Forrester."

"Then," said Raby, flushing, as she folded up the paper, "I've no desire to hear it."

Scarfe could see he had gone too far.

"I have offended you," said he, "but really I came upon the name so unexpectedly that--"

"Do you expect to be working hard this term at Oxford?" said Raby, doing the kindest thing in turning the conversation.

It was hardly to be wondered at if she retired that night considerably perplexed and disturbed. There was some mystery attaching to Jeffreys, which, if she was to set any store by Scarfe's insinuations, was of a disgraceful kind. And the agitation which both Scarfe and Jeffreys had shown on reading the telegram seemed to connect this Captain Forrester, or rather his son, whom Scarfe spoke of as "poor young Forrester," with the same mystery. Raby was a young lady with the usual allowance of feminine curiosity, which, though she was charity itself, did not like to be baulked by a mystery.

She therefore opened a letter she had just finished to her father, to add the following postscript:--

"Was this brave Captain Forrester who saved the guns a friend of yours?

Tell me all about him. Had he a wife and children? Surely something will be done for them, poor things."

Early next morning Mrs Scarfe and her son left Wildtree.

Jeffreys, from Percy's window, watched them drive away.

"Very glad you must be to see the back of them," said Percy.

"I am glad," responded Jeffreys honestly.

"I'm not so frightfully sorry," said Percy. "Scarfe's a jolly enough chap, but he's up to too many dodges, don't you know? And he's dead on Raby, too. Quite as dead as you are, Jeff."

"Percy, a fortnight's congestion has not cured you of the bad habit of talking nonsense," said Jeffreys.

"All very well, you old humbug, but you know you are, aren't you?"

"Your cousin is very good and kind, and no one could help liking her.

Everybody is 'dead on her,' as you call it, even Walker."

Percy enjoyed this, and allowed himself to be led off the dangerous topic. He was allowed to sit up for the first time this day, and held a small _levee_ in his room.

Jeffreys took the opportunity to escape for a short time to the library, which he had scarcely been in since the day on the mountain.

He knew Mrs Rimbolt would enjoy her visit to the sick-chamber better without him, and he decidedly preferred his beloved books to her majestic society.

Percy, however, was by no means satisfied with the arrangement.

"Where's old Jeff?" said he presently, when his mother, Raby, and he were left alone. "Raby, go and tell Jeff, there's a brick. You can bet he's in the library. Tell him if he means to cut me dead, he might break it gently."

"Raby," said Mrs Rimbolt, as her niece, with a smile, started on his majesty's errand, "I do not choose for you to go looking about for Mr Jeffreys. There is a bell in the room, and Walker can do it if required. It is unseemly in a young lady."

"One would think old Jeff was a wild beast or a n.i.g.g.e.r by the way you talk," said Percy complainingly. "All I know is, if it hadn't been for him, you'd all have been in deep mourning now, instead of having tea up here with me."

"It is quite possible, Percy," said his mother, "for a person--"

"Person!" interrupted the boy. "Jeff's not a person; he's a gentleman.

As good as any of us, only he hasn't got so much money."

"I fear, Percy, your illness has not improved your good manners. I wish to say that Mr Jeffreys may have done you service--"

"I should think he has," interrupted the irrepressible one.

"But it by no means follows that he is a proper companion for a good innocent boy like you."

Percy laughed hilariously.

"Really, ma, you are coming it strong. Do you see my blushes, Raby?"

"You must make up your mind to see a great deal less of Mr Jeffreys for the future; he is not the sort of person--"