"And so you began betting on horse-races, Percy--a habit poor papa used to say was one of the greatest follies under the sun."

"Well, no, dear, it wasn't exactly betting, but going to a bookmaker and putting money on any horse you chose. He did the betting. You only give him your money and wait."

"Till you know it is lost, Percy!"

"Well, yes; it was so with me, because I was so terribly unlucky. Some fellows win no end that way."

"And you have always lost, Percy?"

"Yes, Hazy; and it does lead you on so," he cried earnestly, "you lose, and then you think your luck must turn, and you try again, because one winning means making up for no end of losses."

"Yes, I suppose so," said Hazel sadly.

"And so I kept on and kept on, trying so hard; but the luck hasn't turned yet. I'm sure it would, though, if I had been able to keep on."

"That is what all gamblers think, Percy."

"Don't call me a gambler, Hazel, because I'm not that."

"And that is where the money went that poor mamma borrowed for you, Percy?"

"Yes," he said despondently; "but I mean to get it all back again some day, and to pay it, and interest too."

"That is quite right, Percy; but not by betting."

"I don't see why not," he said. "Other fellows do."

"Let them," replied Hazel; "but it is not a course to be followed by my brother. Tell me, did your employers find out that you were engaged in betting?"

"Ye-es," faltered Percy; "and it was all through that sneak, Tom Short."

"And they dismissed you?"

"Well, I think I dismissed myself; I resigned, you know."

"Call things by their right names, Percy. Well, I am glad you have told us. We will say no more now. But to-morrow we must begin to take steps to get you another engagement."

"But look here, Hazel," cried the lad, "if you and mamma could knock together twenty pounds for me to start with, I feel as sure as sure that I could make no end by putting it on horses at some of the big races.

You've no idea what a pot of money some fellows handle that way. Ah, you may smile, but you are only a girl, and very ignorant of such things. You wouldn't laugh if I was to turn twenty pounds into a thousand."

"No, Percy, I should not laugh if you turned twenty pounds into a thousand," said Hazel. "But there, we will say no more now; only promise me this,--that you will not smoke again in this cottage, nor yet make any more bets."

"Yes, I'll promise," said the boy sulkily. "I suppose I must."

"I'm sure no one could have behaved better than Percy has, my dear,"

said Mrs Thorne. "He has been perfectly open and frank. All that you can find against him is that he has been unlucky. Poor boy! If your father had been alive!"

Here Mrs Thorne entered into the performance of a prose dirge upon her sufferings, and the cruelty of fate--of what would have happened if Mr Thorne had lived, and finished up during a _resume_ of her prospects when she was Hazel's age by finding that Percy had gone fast asleep, Hazel being upstairs, making arrangements for the accommodation of this addition to their family, a task of no small difficulty to people with their limited means.

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

THE FACTS.

Several things interfered with Hazel's obtaining a good night's rest.

She had given up her bedroom to Percy, and the little sofa was cramped and hard. But had she been in the most luxurious of beds, Hazel Thorne would not have slept well, for she was haunted by the angry, vindictive look of Mr Samuel Chute, and troubled by his threats. Next there was the shame and mortification of knowing that her mother's weak words had gone home, and were being used against her. Then the quiet deference of the vicar and his peculiar way made her uneasy as she went over and over her interview with him, and recalled the smallest matters of his reference to Mr Chute.

Lastly there was Percy's sudden arrival, and the battle she found herself having with the idea that, in spite of his apparent frankness, the boy had not told her all.

At last, towards morning, she dropped into an uneasy sleep, in which she dreamed that Mr William Forth Burge had told her he loved her, and that he would provide for Percy and make her mother a comfortable home, if she would be his wife.

In her trouble she awoke suddenly, to find that it was morning; and, unwilling to tempt sleep again, she rose, dressed, and prepared the kitchen and sitting-room for the breakfast before going upstairs and softly awakening the two little girls, who, under her tuition, had become adepts at dressing each other in turns.

Whispering to them to be silent and not awaken their mother, Hazel stole down again, and went to the door to glance up the street, for it was nearly half-past seven, and she had a strange fancy that a letter would arrive that morning.

Sure enough, before another ten minutes had pa.s.sed away she saw the postman coming down the last row of houses towards the schools, and she was about to hurry out and meet him, when, through the wire window-blind, she caught sight of Mr Chute, who stepped out and received a letter from the postman, with whom he at once entered into conversation.

Hazel, from where she stood, could see everything that pa.s.sed, and that Chute stretched out his hand to take a large blue envelope from the postman's hand; but this the rustic official refused to allow. He, however, permitted the schoolmaster to peruse the address, and that of another letter, before going on with his delivery.

Hazel felt that he was coming there, and she opened the door in time to stop his heavy thump.

"Two letters, miss--big 'un and little 'un," he said, thrusting the missives into her hand. The next moment Hazel was reading the directions, both of which were to her mother.

One was from Mr Geringer--she knew his hand well. The other, the large blue envelope, was probably from Percy's employer. She had expected that letter; and, yes, there were the names on the back, stamped in blue letters in an oval, "Suthers, Rubley, and Spark."

Hazel stood hesitating as to what course she should pursue. She held in her hands, she knew, the explanation of Percy's return home. If the letters contained painful revelations her mother would suffer terribly.

Ought she to let her see the news without reading it first?

Of late all the correspondence had fallen to her share, and Mrs Thorne, when a letter had arrived, had been in the habit of saying, "Open that, Hazel, and see what it is."

She hesitated a few minutes, and then opened the blue envelope.

The letter was short and stern in its diction, saying that knowing Mrs Thorne to be a lady of good family, and one who had suffered much trouble, the firm had felt it to be their duty to write to her before taking further proceedings with respect to her son, who had, they regretted to say, abused the confidence placed in him, and been guilty of embezzlement, to what amount they were not prepared to state.

Hazel stood with her brow wrinkled, gazing straight before her for some minutes before, with a weary sigh, she opened the second letter--Mr Geringer's--which endorsed the information contained in the first, and finished as follows:--

"It is very terrible, my dear Mrs Thorne; and, for my poor friend's sake, I deeply regret that his son should so soon have shown a disposition to go wrong. It comes the harder on me because I was the cause of his going to these people, who took him entirely upon my recommendation. I regret your position, of course, and beg to a.s.sure you of my deep sympathy. Had we been related by marriage, I should have felt it my duty to see the lad through his difficulty, the result, I find, of folly, he having entered upon a course of betting upon horses. As it is, you must excuse me for saying that my credit will not allow of my having my name mixed up with the transaction."

He remained, as a matter of course, Mrs Thorne's very sincere and attached friend; but, all the same, he had given Hazel a severe stab in the course of the letter, which again placed her conduct in an unsatisfactory light. Was she always to be accused of standing in the way of her mother's and brother's prospects? And as she asked herself that question, quietly folding the letters the while, she could not help seeing Mr Geringer's selfishness showing through all.

But what was to be done? The people evidently meant to prosecute Percy, and at any moment he might be taken into custody. She knew enough of the law to see that he was in a very perilous position, and if her mother knew, she trembled for the consequences.

"I am glad I opened the letters," she thought; "but now I know, what shall I do?"

A host of ideas pa.s.sed through her brain, for the most part wild, impossible notions, that could not be carried out.

Percy must escape--go away somewhere; but how, and to what place?