"I was never more pained than when I received this money," said he.

"Your guardian was written to by the clerk in ordinary course, but I never imagined the bill would be pa.s.sed on to you."

Jeffreys had nothing for it but to take the money back, much as he disliked it. Until he did so, Mr Frampton was too fidgety to be approachable on any other subject.

The morning after his arrival, they went up Wild Pike together--the first time Jeffreys had been on the mountain since the death of Julius.

They had a fine day and no difficulty; but the long talk which beguiled the way amply made up to Jeffreys for the lack of adventure.

Mr Frampton told him much about Bolsover, and of how it was at last beginning to thrive and recover from the dry-rot; how this winter the football team had got up a name for itself; how the school discussion society was crowded with members; how the cricket prospects were decidedly hopeful; and how two fellows had lately gained scholarships at Oxford. Then he began to ask Jeffreys about himself, and got from him a full account of all that had befallen him since he left school. Mr Frampton was a most sympathetic listener, and the poor "dog with a bad name," who had almost forgotten the art of speaking his mind fully to any one, warmed insensibly to this friend as they talked, and reproached himself for the pride and shortsightedness which had induced him to shut himself out so long from his friendship.

Then they talked of young Forrester. Mr Frampton made no attempt to gloss over the wickedness of that unhappy act of pa.s.sion. But he showed how fully he made allowances for the poor blundering offender, and how he, at least, saw more to pity than to upbraid in it all.

He knew nothing of young Forrester's fate. He had seen in the papers the notice of Captain Forrester's death, from whom, months before, he had had a letter of inquiry as to his son's whereabouts, and to whom he had written telling all he knew, which was but little.

Then Jeffreys unfolded his present uncomfortable dilemma, and his intention of speaking to Mr Rimbolt, and they talked it over very seriously and anxiously. At last Mr Frampton said,--

"Let me speak to Mr Rimbolt."

"Most thankfully I will."

So Mr Frampton spoke to Mr Rimbolt, and told him frankly all there was to tell, and Mr Rimbolt, like a gentleman who knew something of Christian charity, joined his informant in pitying the offender.

"Jeffreys," said he, the day after Mr Frampton's departure, "your friend has told me a story about you which I heard with great sorrow.

You are now doing all that an honest man can do, with G.o.d's help, to make up for what is past. What I have been told does not shake my present confidence in you in any way, and I need not tell you that not a single person in this house beyond yourself and me shall know anything about this unhappy affair."

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

"GOING IT."

Jeffreys started for London with a lighter heart than he had known since he first came to Wildtree. When he contrasted his present sense of relief with the oppression which had preceded it, he marvelled how he could ever have gone on so long, dishonestly nursing his wretched secret under Mr Rimbolt's roof. Now, in the first reaction of relief, he was tempted to believe his good name was really come back, and that Mr Rimbolt having condoned his offence, the memory of Bolsover was cancelled.

It was a pa.s.sing temptation only. Alas! that memory clung still.

Nothing could alter the past; and though he might now feel secure from its consequences, he had only to think of young Forrester to remind him that somewhere the black mark stood against his name as cruelly as ever.

Yet, comparatively, he felt light-hearted, as with the Rimbolt family he stood at last on the London platform.

It was new ground to him. Some years ago Mr Halgrove had lived several months in the Metropolis, and the boy, spending his summer holidays there, and left entirely to his own devices, had learned in a plodding way about as much of the great city as a youth of seventeen could well do in the time.

The Rimbolts' house in Clarges Street was to Jeffreys' mind not nearly so cheerful as Wildtree. The library in it consisted of a small collection of books, chiefly political, for Mr Rimbolt's use in his parliamentary work; and the dark little room allotted to him, with its look-out on the mews, was dull indeed compared with the chamber at Wildtree, from which he could at least see the mountain.

Nor did he by any means enjoy the constant round of entertainments which went on in London, at which he was sometimes called upon in a humble way to a.s.sist. He had been obliged, in deference to Mrs Rimbolt's broad hints, to buy a dress suit, and in this he was expected on occasions to present himself at the end of a grand dinner-party, or when Mr Rimbolt required his professional attendance.

For, there being no books to take care of here, Mr Rimbolt availed himself of his librarian's services as a private secretary in some important political business, and found him so efficient and willing, that he proposed to him a considerable increase in his salary, in consideration of his permanently undertaking a good share of his employer's ordinary correspondence.

The chief portion of Jeffreys' time, however, still belonged to Percy, and it was a decided relief to him that that young gentleman scoffed at and eschewed the endless hospitalities and entertainments with which his mother delighted to fill up their life in London.

"I don't see the fun of gorging night after night, do you, Jeff? A good spread's all very well now and again, but you get sick of it seven nights a week. Makes me sleepy. Then all these shows and things! I've a good mind to get laid up again, and have a real good time. There's to be no end of a crowd here to-night--everybody. I shall cut it if I can; shan't you?"

"Mr Rimbolt wants me to come into the drawing-room after dinner," said Jeffreys.

"All serene! That won't be till nine. Come up to Putney, and have a row on the river this afternoon."

Percy was an enthusiastic oarsman, and many an afternoon Jeffreys and he, flying from the crowd, had spent on the grand old Thames. Jeffreys enjoyed it as much as he, and no one, seeing the boy and his tutor together in their pair-oar, would have imagined that the broader of the two was that ungainly lout who had once been an object of derision in the Bolsover meadows.

The party that evening was, as Percy predicted, a very large one, and Jeffreys had the discomfort of recognising a few of the guests who last autumn had helped to make his position so painful.

They, to do them justice, did not now add to his discomfort by recognising him. Even the lady who had given him that half-crown appeared wholly to have forgotten the object of her charity.

What, however, made him most uncomfortable was the sight of Mrs Scarfe, and hearing her say to Percy, "Edward is coming on Sat.u.r.day, Percy; he is looking forward with such pleasure to taking you about to see the University sports and the Boat Race. Your dear mamma has kindly asked two of his college friends to come too, so you will be quite a merry quartette."

Jeffreys had nearly forgotten Scarfe's existence of late. He no longer dreaded him on his own account, but on Percy's he looked forward to Sat.u.r.day with dismay. He would have liked to know also, as a mere matter of curiosity of course, what Raby thought about the promised visit.

His own communications with that young lady had not been very frequent of late, although they continued friendly. Percy's nonsense gave them both a considerable amount of embarra.s.sment; for although Jeffreys never for a moment supposed that Mr Rimbolt's niece thought twice about him except as a persecuted dependant and a friend to Percy, to have anything else suggested disturbed his shy nature, and made him feel constrained in her presence.

"You'll have to mind your eye with Raby now that Scarfe's coming," said Percy that night. "You bet he'll try to hook her. I heard his mother flying kites with ma about it, to see how the land lies."

Jeffreys had given up the formality of pretending, when Percy launched out on this delicate subject, not to know what he was talking about.

"Whatever Scarfe does," said he, "is nothing to me."

"What I don't you and Raby hit it off, then?"

"Hit what off?"

"I mean aren't you dead on her, don't you know?--spoons, and all that sort of thing?"

"I am not aware that I entertain feelings towards anybody which could be described by any article of cutlery at all."

"Well, all I can say is, when I blowed her up for being down on you, she blushed up no end, and cried too. I should like to know what you call that, if it isn't spoons?"

"I think it would be kinder, Percy, if you did not talk to your cousin about me; and I fancy she would as soon you did not talk about her to me."

"Well, that's rather what I should call a shut-up," said Percy. "It bothers me how people that like one another get so precious shy of letting the other fellow know it. I know I shan't. I'll have it out at once, before any other chap comes and cuts me out."

With which valiant determination Percy earned Jeffreys' grat.i.tude by relapsing into silence.

He was, however, destined to have the uncomfortable topic revived in another and more unexpected quarter.

On the day before Scarfe's proposed visit, Walker accosted him as he was going out, with the announcement that my lady would like to speak to him in the morning-room.

This rare summons never failed to wring a groan from the depths of the librarian's spirit, and it did now as he proceeded to the torture- chamber.

The lady was alone, and evidently burdened with the importance of the occasion.

"Mr Jeffreys," said she, with a tone of half conciliation which put up Jeffreys' back far more than her usual severe drawl, "kindly take a seat; I wish to speak to you."

"It's all up with me!" groaned the unhappy Jeffreys inwardly, as he obeyed.