CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.

"I'M VERY GLAD YOU'RE IN TROUBLE."

"I'm very glad you're in trouble, Miss Thorne," said Mr William Forth Burge, as he took the chair in the little parlour which Hazel placed for him, Mrs Thorne, not being dressed to her own satisfaction, having escaped into the kitchen, where her son was seated, sulky, and with his countenance full of gloom.

"Are you?" said Hazel, smiling sadly.

"No; not glad you're in trouble, but that you've felt that I could help you," said the visitor, suddenly recollecting that Hazel was standing, and rising to put a chair for her in turn.

"I am so lonely here--so helpless," said Hazel after a pause, for she hesitated to begin and lay bare the trouble that was at her breast.

"Well, don't say lonely, Miss Thorne," said the great man. "I'm sure my sister and me has always felt a sort of longing to be neighbours, and to be friendly. For don't you think because I'm a rich man that it's made a bit of difference in me."

"I felt your kindness so much, Mr Burge," she replied earnestly, "that I ventured to ask for your advice and help in this very great trouble."

"That's right," he exclaimed, his admiration and respect for the speaker shining out of his honest eyes. "I'm a very plain, common sort of man, my dear, but I've had lots of business experience, and p'r'aps I can help you better than some people would think."

There was a pause here, for Hazel's tongue seemed to refuse its office. Her visitor's manner was so tender and kind, as well as respectful, that it touched her to the heart, and she looked at him piteously, as if imploring him to give her time.

"It's a good big bit of trouble, I can see, my dear," he said quietly. "Give yourself time and speak out; and if William Forth Burge can help you through with it, you may feel that it's as good as done. Suppose I try a bit of a guess--just to help you like. Now, is it money? Don't be offended at my saying so, but is it money, now?"

"It is about money," faltered Hazel, making an effort.

"I thought so," he said, brightening up and rubbing his hands softly. "Then don't you worry a bit more, my dear; for my sister Betsey's got lots of money saved up, and there's nothing wouldn't please her better than putting your bit of trouble all right for you."

"I must explain to you, Mr Burge," said Hazel.

"Oh, I don't know," he said gently. "It might hurt you, perhaps; and, dear heart alive! why should you make yourself miserable about such a thing as money! Now, just you look here, my dear Miss Thorne. I'm going straight home, and I'll send down my sister Betsey, and you just say offhand to her what will put it straight--fifty, or a hundred, or two hundred, or whatever it is--and she'll have it in her ridicule, and the job's done. There, I shall make you cry if I stay, and I don't want to do that, you know. Good-bye. God bless you!"

He had started up, and was standing, hat in hand, holding out his hand to her, which she took and held while she tried to speak.

"No, no, Mr Burge," she said at last. "Let me tell you all."

"To be sure you shall," he said soothingly. "There, there! don't be afraid to speak to me, my dear.--Just you say to yourself, `William Forth Burge is an old friend of mine, and I'd trust him with anything, and he's just the man to go to when I'm in trouble.'"

"You are very kind," faltered Hazel, fighting hard to be brave. And at last she told him the story of her brother's lapse.

"The young dog!" he cried angrily; and his voice was raised. "How dare he do such a thing, and disgrace you and his mamma? I--I could thrash him well."

"It is so terrible--so shocking a thing. I don't know what to do, Mr Burge. I feel so helpless: for the people, his employers--seemed to hint at prosecution."

"Is--is he in there?" whispered Mr William Forth Burge, winking one eye and pointing with his thumb at the door.

"Yes; he is in the next room," replied Hazel.

"I shouldn't wonder a bit," said the visitor very loudly. "I should say they are sure to prosecute and put him in prison."

The moment after he nodded and frowned and winked at Hazel.

"Let's frighten him a bit," he whispered. "Let him think he is going to be in great trouble, and it will make him remember. But you give me the people's names, my dear, and I'll set my lawyer on to 'em; and don't you worry yourself any more. I'll square it all for you, and make it right."

"But the shame--the disgrace!" cried Hazel.

"It's no shame or disgrace of yours, my dear," he said. "You couldn't help it. I had three boys in my place at different times as was bitten that way. Lots of 'em are. A silly young dog! He deserves to be well flogged. But just you leave the thing to me, and I'll put it right. But what are you going to do with him afterwards? You can't keep him here!"

It was a question Hazel could not answer, for like a blow the idea came to her that by his act of dishonest folly her brother had lost his character, and that the chances were greatly against his obtaining further employment.

"Ah! You don't know," said Mr William Forth Burge cheerfully. "You can't think. It is a job, isn't it? Sometimes, my dear, I have thought that boys are a regular mistake. They're a terrible lot of trouble, unless they make up their minds to be very careful and particular, and that they don't often do. But never you mind. We'll see if we can't set it all right by-and-by. We'll get him out of the scrape first, and then see what's to be done with him afterwards. Now, suppose I put down who the people are; and you may as well give me the letters you talked about.--That's right. Now wait a bit."

Mr William Forth Burge's coat was buttoned very tightly across his chest, and he had some difficulty in getting at the breast-pocket; but he extricated therefrom a large metallic paper pocket-book, such as would be used by a commercial traveller about to receive an order, opened the clasp, found a suitable place, and fixed it by placing the elastic band of the pocket-book round the leaves, after which he moistened the tip of the pencil between his lips from habit, and proceeded to enter the day and date of the month.

"Nothing like doing these things in a business-like way, my dear," he said, as he wrote on, asking questions and making his notes, ending by saying:

"Now, suppose we have in the young fellow."

"Have him in?" faltered Hazel.

"Yes; let's have him in and give him a bit of a talking to. Don't you think it will be best?"

Hazel thought for a few moments, and in that brief space she seemed to realise exactly what Percy would say, and how he would resent being taken to task by their visitor.

Mr William Forth Burge guessed her thoughts, and nodded and smiled.

"You're afraid I shall be too hard upon him. That's just the way with worn--I mean ladies. You're too gentle and kind--just like your nature. Why, my sister, Betsey, she'd come here in a case like this, and she'd tell that brother of yours that he was a very naughty boy, and mustn't do so any more, and there would be an end of it; only it wouldn't do any good. For, bless you, my dear, if you talk like that to a boy who has been a bit out in the world, he'll pretend to be very sorry and that he's going to be quite square, and as soon as you're out of sight he'll grin at you and think how soft you are. Now, suppose you fetch him in."

For answer Hazel rose and went to the kitchen, where she found that Percy had tried to secure himself by taking his two young sisters one upon each knee, and holding them there as a sort of armour of innocence against attack.

"Percy, there is a gentleman in the next room wishes to see you."

"Oh, I can't go--I daren't go!" the boy said excitedly. "What does he want?"

"Surely, Hazel, my dear, you are not going to expose poor Percy to insult," cried Mrs Thorne.

"Mamma," said Hazel firmly, "I have asked Mr Burge to come down here and help me in an endeavour to settle Percy's affairs."

"Settle his affairs! Oh! surely, Percy, you have not been such a bad boy as to go and get into debt?"

"Yes, mother," said Hazel quickly, as she responded to the boy's imploring look, "Percy has behaved badly, and entangled himself with a very serious debt and Mr Burge is going to see what can be done."

"Then you've been a bad, wicked, thoughtless boy, Percy!" exclaimed Mrs Thorne in a whining voice; "and I don't know what you don't deserve-- going spending your money in such a reckless way, and then taking trust for things you ought not to have had."

"Don't you turn against me, ma," whimpered the lad.

"But I must turn against you, Percy. It is my duty as your mamma to teach and lead you, and when you are going wrong to scold you for being naughty. Now, put those children down directly, and go upstairs and brush your hair, and then go and see Mr William Forth Burge, who will, I dare say, being a very respectable sort of man, talk to you for your benefit. Hazel, my dear, make my compliments to Mr William Forth Burge, and tell him I am much gratified by his calling, but that I never receive till after three o'clock. Tuesdays and Fridays used to be my days, but of course one cannot be so particular now."

"Yes, mother," said Hazel quietly. "Come, Percy," she continued, and she took his hand.

"I say, Hazy, must I go?" said the lad, wiping the perspiration from his forehead.

"Yes: come along and be brave and respectful. Let Mr Burge see that you are truly sorry, and I think he will try and see your employers, and make some arrangement."

"What--so that there shall be no police bother?" he asked eagerly.

"Yes, I hope so."

"I couldn't stand that, Hazy; I couldn't indeed. I should go and enlist or jump off a bridge, or something of the kind."

"Don't be foolish, Percy, but try and meet the difficulty like a man."

"Yes," he said, "I will. But stop a moment. I say, is my collar all right? Those children have been tumbling me."

"Yes, it looks quite right."

"And--must I go upstairs and brush my hair?"

"No, no; it looks quite smooth. Now, come--be brave and face it as you should."

"Oh yes, it's all very well for you, who haven't got it to do," he replied. "You can't think what it is."

"Yes, Percy, I can; and it makes me say to you: Why expose yourself to such bitter humiliation? Would it not have been better to be able to hold up your head before all the world and to say: I am poor, and occupy a very menial position, but I am a gentleman?"

"Yes, Hazel is quite right my dear," said Mrs Thorne. "It is what I always say to her: Never forget that you are a lady; and I am glad to find that she does not forget my teachings."

"I'll come now," said Percy. "I--I think I'm ready;" and, clinging to his sister's hand, he went with her into the room where Mr William Forth Burge was seated behind his book, with his pencil across his mouth, as if it had been a bit to bridle his tongue from uttering that which he had wished to say. He was trying to look very stern, but an admiring glance shot from his eyes as Hazel closed the door after her and then said simply:

"This is my brother, Mr Burge."

There was a few moments' pause, during which Percy, after a quick look at the great man of Plumton, stood there humbled and abashed, for the knowledge of his position completely took away his natural effrontery, and seemed to have made him ten years younger than he was. A flash of resentment came for a moment, and made his eyes brighten and his cheek colour on hearing their visitor's salutation, but they both died out directly, for all Percy Thorne's spirit seemed to have evaporated now.

"Well, sir," cried Mr William Forth Burge fiercely, for here was an opportunity for crowing over a lad who was a very different sort of boy to what he had been. He had never meddled with moneys entrusted to him, and had been content to plod and plod slowly and surely till he had made himself what he was. This boy--Percy Thorne--had tried to make himself rich by one or two bold strokes--by gambling, in fact, and this was a chance; so "Well, sir," he cried, "and what have you got to say for yourself?"

Percy looked up and looked down, for it was evident he had nothing to say for himself, and he ended by gazing appealingly at his sister, his lips moving as if saying: "Speak a word for me! Please do."

Mr William Forth Burge could be sharp enough as a business-man, simple as he was in some other matters, and he noted Percy's glance, and softly rubbed his hands beneath the table as he rejoiced in the fact that he had been called in to help Hazel in this family matter. Then, seizing upon the opportunity of showing where he could be shrewd and strong, he said quietly:

"I think, Miss Thorne, you had better leave us together for a few minutes, and well see what can be done."

Hazel hesitated for a moment, and then, in spite of an appeal from her brother, walked to the door, turning then to direct a glance at her visitor which completely finished the work that her eyes had unconsciously already done, and for a few moments after she had gone the ex-tradesman sat with his gaze fixed upon the table, completely unnerved and unable to trust himself to speak.

He soon recovered, though, and turned sharply to where the tall, thin boy stood, miserable and humiliated, resting first on one foot and then on the other, and after staring him completely out of countenance for a few moments, he showed himself in quite a new character, and gave some inkling of how it was that he had been so successful in his trade.

"Now, young fellow," he said sharply, "I know all about it, and what a scamp you have been."

Percy blushed again, and raised his head to make an angry retort.

"Well, scoundrel, then, or blackguard, if that other name isn't strong enough for you."

"How dare"--began Percy, scarlet.

"Eh? What? How dare I? Well, I'll tell you, boy. It's because I'm an honest man, and you ain't. There: you can't get over that."

Percy could not get over that. The shot completely dismantled at one blow the whole of his fortifications, and left him at his enemy's mercy. Giving up on the instant he whimpered pitifully--

"Please don't be hard on me, sir; I have been a scoundrel, but if you-- you--could give me another chance--"

Boy prevailed, and all Percy Thorne's manliness went to the winds. He was very young yet in spite of his size, and, try how he would to keep them back, the weak tears came, and he could not say another word.

"Give you another chance, eh?" said the visitor sharply. "That's all very well, but we've got to get you out of this scrape first. Your people, Suthers, Rubley, and Spark, write as if they meant to prosecute you for robbing them."

"But I meant to pay it again, sir--I did indeed!" cried Percy.

"Yes: of course. That's what all fellows who go in for a bit of a spree with other people's coin say to themselves, so as to give them Dutch courage. But it won't do!"

"But indeed I should have paid it sir."

"If you had won, which wasn't likely, boy. Only one in a thousand wins, my lad, and it's always somebody else--not you. Now then, suppose I set to work and get these people, Suthers, Rubley, and Spark"--he repeated the names with great gusto--"to quash the prosecution on account of your youth and the respectability of your relations, what would you do?"

"Oh, I'd be so grateful, sir! I'd never, never bet again, or put money on horses, or--"

"Make a fool of yourself, eh?"

"No, sir; indeed, indeed I would not."

"Well, what sort of people are these Suthers, Rubley, and Spark?"

"Oh! dreadful cads, sir."

"If you say that again," cried the ex-butcher sharply, "I won't make a stroke to get you out of your trouble."

Percy stared at him with astonishment.

"It's all very fine!" cried Mr William Forth Burge. "Every one who don't do just as you like is a cad, I suppose. People have often called me a cad because I've not had so good an education and can't talk and speak like they do; and sometimes the cads are on the other side."

"I'm very sorry, sir," faltered Percy.

"Then don't you call people cads, young fellow. Now then, you mean to give up all your stupid tricks, and to grow into a respectable man, don't you?"

"Yes, sir; I'll try," said Percy humbly.

"Then just you go to your bedroom, brush that streaky hair off your forehead, take out that pin, and put on a different tie; and next time you get some clothes made, don't have them cut like a stable-boy's. It don't fit with your position, my lad. Now, look sharp and get ready, for you're going along with me."

"Going with you, sir?"

"Yes, along with me, my lad; and I'm going to keep you till you are out of your scrape. Then we'll see about what's to be done next."

Percy left the room, and his sister came back, to find Mr William Forth Burge looking very serious; but his eyes brightened as he took Hazel's hand.

"I am going to take your brother away with me, and I sha'n't let a moment go by without trying to put things square. I think the best thing will be for me to take him right up to London, and go straight to his employers; but I haven't told him so. If I did, he'd shy and kick; but it will be the best way. And I dare say a bit of a talk with the people will help to put matters right."

"But will they prosecute, Mr Burge? It would be so dreadful!"

"So it would, my dear; but they won't. They'll talk big about wanting to make an example, and that sort of thing, and then they'll come round, and I shall square it up. Oh, here he comes. There, say good-bye to your sister, young man, for we've no time to spare. Now, go in first. Good-bye, Miss Thorne."

"Mr Burge, I cannot find words to tell you how grateful I am," cried Hazel in tears.

"I don't want you to," he replied bluntly, as he shook hands impressively, but with the greatest deference. "I couldn't find words to tell you, my dear, how grateful I am to think that you are ready to trust me when you want a friend."

Here Mr William Forth Burge stuck his hat on very fiercely, and went home without a word, Percy Thorne walking humbly by his side, and checking his desire to say to himself that after all, Mr William. Forth Burge did seem to be a regular cad.

CHAPTER THIRTY.

MR BURGE IS BUSINESS-LIKE.

"I am the last person in the world, Rebecca, to interfere," said Beatrice, as she busied herself making a series of holes with some thick white cotton, which she wriggled till something like a pattern was contrived; "but I cannot sit still and see that young person misbehaving as she does."

"I quite agree with you, dear, and it shocks me to see into what a state of moral blindness poor Henry has plunged."

"Ah!" sighed her sister, "it is very sad;" and she sighed again and thought of a certain scarlet woman. "What would he say if he knew that Miss Thorne openly sent letters to Mr William Forth Burge?"

"But they might be business letters," said Rebecca.

"Miss Thorne has no right to send business letters to Mr William Forth Burge," said Beatrice angrily. "If there are any business matters in connection with the school, the letter, if letter there be--for it would be much more in accordance with Miss Thorne's duty if she came in all due humility--"

"Suitably dressed," said Rebecca.

"Exactly," assented her sister. "--to the Vicarage and stated what was required. Or if she wrote, it should be to the vicar, when the letter would be in due course referred to us, and we should see what ought to be done."

"Exactly so," assented Rebecca.

"Mr William Forth Burge has been a great benefactor to the schools; but they are the Church schools, and, for my part, I do not approve of everything being referred to him."

"I--I think you are right, Beatrice," assented Rebecca; "but Mr William Forth Burge has, as you say, been a great benefactor to the schools."

"Exactly; a very great benefactor, Rebecca; but that is no reason why Miss Thorne should write to him."

"I quite agree with you there, Beatrice; and now I have something more to tell you, which I have just heard as I came up the town."

"About the schools?"

"Well, not exactly about the schools, but about the school-cottage. I heard, on very good authority, that the Thornes have a young man staying in the house."

"A young man!"

"Yes; he arrived there yesterday afternoon, and Mr Chute, who was my informant, looked quite scandalised."

"We must tell Henry at once," cried Beatrice.

"Of what use would it be?" said Rebecca viciously. "He would only be angry, and tell us it was Miss Thorne's brother, or something of that sort."

"It is very, very terrible," sighed Beatrice, "Of what could Henry be thinking to admit such a girl to our quiet country district?"

Just at the same time their brother also was much exercised in his own mind on account of the letter that he had seen in Hazel's handwriting directed to Mr Burge, and he was troubled the more on finding that she should appeal to Mr Burge instead of to him--the head of the parish, and one who had shown so great a disposition to be her friend--for even then he could not own that he desired a closer intimacy.

The Reverend Henry Lambent knit his brows and asked himself again whether this was not some temptation that had come upon him, similar to those which had attacked the holy men of old; and as he sat and thought it seemed to him that it could not be, for Hazel Thorne grew to him fairer and more attractive day by day, and, fight hard as he would against those thoughts, they grew stronger and more masterful, while he became less able to cope with them.

And all this time Mr William Forth Burge, the stout and plain and ordinary, was working away on Hazel's behalf. He was showing the business side of his nature, and any one who had studied him now would easily have understood why it was that he had become so wealthy. For there was a straightforward promptness in all he did that impressed Percy a good deal; and when, after keeping him for some hours at his villa, wondering what was to happen next--hours that were employed in copying letters for his new friend--the said new friend announced that they were going up to London, Percy, with all the disposition to resist obeyed without a word, and followed to the station.

"Don't seem very well off," thought Percy, as Mr William Forth Burge took a couple of third-class tickets for London.

He read the boy's thoughts, for he said sharply--

"Six shillings third class; eighteen shillings first class. Going this way saves one pound four."

Percy said, "Yes, sir," and subsided moodily into the corner of the carriage opposite to his companion, and but little was said on the journey up. Mr William Forth Burge took the boy to a quiet hotel, and wrote a letter or two, as it was too late to do any business that night. The next morning Percy was left in the coffee-room to look furtively over the sporting news in the _Standard_ while his new friend went off to see Mr Geringer, who, on hearing his business, seemed greatly displeased at any one else meddling with the Thornes' affairs; and though he did not refuse to go with his visitor to intercede for Percy, he put him off till the next afternoon, and Percy's champion left his office chuckling to himself.

"Asks me to wait till next day," he said, "so that he may go and see the state of the market for himself. Won't do, Mr Geringer, sir. That's not William Forth Burge's way of doing business." And he went straight to the firm, gave his card, and was shown in to Mr Spark, a dull, heavy man, remarkable in the business for his inertia.

Yes, of course they should prosecute Percy Thorne, if that was what the visitor wanted to know; and if the said visitor wanted to know anything else, would he be kind enough to be quick, for Mr Spark's time was very valuable?

"Quick as you like, sir," said Mr William Forth Burge, who showed the new side of his character. "I've been in trade, and I know what's what. Now, sir, I'm the friend of the boy's sister; father dead--mother a baby. Business is business. Prosecute the boy, and you put him in prison, and spend more money; you get none back. Forgive him, and take him on again, and, if it's fifty pounds, I'll pay what's lost."

Then followed a long argument, out of which Mr William Forth Burge came away a hundred pounds poorer, and with Percy Thorne free to begin the world again, but handicapped with a blurred character.

That evening they were back at Plumton.

"But there's going to be no prosecution, or anything of that sort, Miss Thorne; and, till we hear of something to suit him, he shall stop at my house and do clerk's work in my office."

"But I feel sure you have been paying away money to extricate him from this terrible difficulty, Mr Burge," cried Hazel.

"Well, and suppose I have," he said, smiling; "I've a right to do what I like with my own money, and it's all spent for the benefit of our schools."

"But, Mr Burge," cried Hazel eagerly, and speaking with the tears running down her cheeks, "how can I ever repay you?"

"Oh, I'll send in my bill some day," he said hastily. "But as I was going to say, Master Percy shall stay at my place for the present. I could easily place him at a butcher's or a meat salesman's, but that ain't genteel enough for a boy like him. So just you wait a bit and--"

"See," he would have said, but all this time he had been backing towards the door to avoid Hazel's thanks, and he escaped before his final word was spoken.

"There's something about that man I don't quite like," said Mrs Thorne as soon as their visitor had gone.

"Not like him, dear?" cried Hazel wonderingly.

"No, my dear; there's a sort of underhandedness about him that isn't nice."

"But, my dear mother, he has been up to town on purpose to extricate Percy from a great difficulty, and, I feel sure," said Hazel warmly, "at a great expense to himself."

"Yes, that's it!" exclaimed Mrs Thorne triumphantly. "And you mark my words, Hazel, if he don't try to make us pay for it most heavily some day."

"Oh, really, mother dear!"

"Now, don't contradict, Hazel, because you really cannot know so well as I do about these things. Has he not taken Percy to his house?"

"Yes, dear."

"Then you will see if he doesn't make that boy a perfect slave and drudge, and work him till--Well, there now, how lucky! What can have brought Edward Geringer down now?"

Hazel turned pale, for at her mother's exclamation she had turned sharply, just in time to see Mr Geringer's back as he passed the window, and the next moment his knock was heard at the door.

"Well, my dear," exclaimed Mrs Thorne, as Hazel stood looking greatly disturbed, "why don't you go and let Mr Geringer in? And, for goodness sake, Hazel, do be a little more sensible this time. Edward Geringer has come down, of course, on purpose to see you, and you know why."

Further speech was cut short by the children relieving their sister of the unpleasant duty of admitting the visitor, who came in directly after, smiling and looking bland, with one of the little girls on each side.

"Ah, Hazel!" he exclaimed, loosing his hold of the children.

Hazel tried to master the shrinking sensation that troubled her, and shook hands. Her manner was so cold that Geringer could not but observe it; still, he hid his mortification with a smile, and turned to Mrs Thorne.

"And how are you, my dear madam?" he exclaimed effusively as he took both the widow's hands, to stand holding them with a look that was a mingling of respect and tenderness, the result being that the widow began to sob, and it was some little time before she could be restored to composure.

"I had a visit," he said at last, "from a gentleman who resides in this place, and upon thinking over your trouble I have engaged to go with him to-morrow afternoon to see poor Percy's employers; but I felt bound to run down here first and have a little consultation with you both before taking any steps."

He glanced at Hazel, and their eyes met; and Hazel read plainly that she was the price of his interference to save Percy, and as she mentally repeated his letter, she met his eye bravely, while her heart throbbed with joy as she felt ready to give him a triumphant look of defiance. He started, in spite of himself, as Mrs Thorne exclaimed--

"It is just like you, Mr Geringer--so kind and thoughtful! But Mr William Forth Burge has settled the matter with those dreadful people. They kept a great deal of it from me, but I know all, now it is well over; and it is very kind of you, all the same."

"I try to be kind," he said bitterly, "but my kindness seems to be generally thrown away. Miss Thorne, I am going to the hotel to stay to-night. A note will bring me back directly. Mrs Thorne, you must excuse me now."

He spoke in a quiet very subdued voice, and left the house, lest they should see the mortification he felt and he should burst out into a fit of passionate reproach, so thoroughly had he hoped that, by coming down, he might work Percy's trouble to his own advantage, and gain so great a hold upon Hazel's gratitude that he might still win the life-game he had been playing so long. But this was check and impending mate, and had he not hurried away he felt that he would have lost more ground still.

He walked up to the hotel in a frame of mind of no very enviable character, fully intending to stay for a few days; but on reaching the place he found that it was possible to catch the night-train back to town.

"Better let her think I am offended now," he muttered. "It is the best move I can make;" and he went straight back to the station, so for the present Hazel saw him no more, and to her great relief.

Percy only came to the cottage once a week, saying that Mr William Forth Burge kept him hard at work writing, and he should be very glad to get a post somewhere in town, for he was sick of Plumton, it was so horribly slow, and Mr William Forth Burge was such a dreadful cad.

Percy's stay proved to be shorter than he expected, for at the end of a month he was one morning marched up to Ardley, and brought face to face with George Canninge, who was quiet and firm with him, asking him a few sharp questions, and ending by giving him a couple of five-pound notes and a letter to a shipping firm in London, the head of which firm told him to come into the office the very next day, and was very short, but informed him that his salary as clerk would begin at once at sixty pounds a year, and that if he did his duty he should rise.

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE.

ANOTHER TROUBLE.

It was, some will say, a childish, old-fashioned way of keeping cash, but all the same it was the plan adopted by Hazel, who every week dropped the amounts she had received from the school pence, after changing the coppers into silver, through the large slit of an old money-box that had been given her when a child. It was a plain, oak-wood box, with ordinary lock and key, and the slit at the top was large enough to admit of each week's shillings and sixpences being tied up in note-paper, in the ladylike way adopted by the fair sex--that is to say, a neat packet is made and tied up with cotton. After the tying up Hazel used to put the amount it contained upon the packet, enter the said amount in a memorandum-book, drop the packet through the slit, and lock up the drawer in which the box reposed.

During the early portion of her stay at Plumton, as previously shown, Mr Chute went on changing the pence for her from copper to silver, but after a time Hazel felt a certain amount of diffidence in charging the schoolmaster with the task, and made an arrangement with the grocer and draper of the place, who readily made the exchange.

Then there was the monthly payment to the blanket fund, which was also placed in the same receptacle, after being duly noted; and there were times when Hazel thought that it would be a good thing when she could get rid of an amount that was rather a burden to her, and she even went so far as to think that she would ask Mr William Forth Burge to take charge of the amount, but for certain reasons she declined.

It was no uncommon thing for Hazel to run very short of money for housekeeping purposes, and several times over it would have been a great convenience to have made use of a portion of the school pence and replaced it from her salary; but she forbore, preferring that the sums she held in charge should remain untouched as they had come into her hands.

After expecting for what seemed a very great length of time, she at last received a beautifully written but ill-spelt letter from one of the churchwardens, requesting her to send him in a statement of the amounts received for the children's pence, and to be prepared to hand over the money at a certain appointed time.

The letter came like a relief to her as she sat at dinner; and upon Mrs Thorne asking, in a somewhat ill-used tone, who had been writing that she was not to know of, her daughter smilingly handed her the letter.

"It was such a thorough business letter, dear, that I thought you would not care to read it."

But Mrs Thorne took it, read it through, and passed it back without a word.

"I think you seem a good deal better, dear," said Hazel, smiling.

"Indeed, I am not, child," replied Mrs Thorne sharply. "I never felt worse. My health is terrible: Plumton does not agree with me, and I must have a change."

"A change, dear?" said Hazel, sighing.

"Yes. It is dreadful this constant confinement in a little poking place. I feel sometimes as if I should be stifled. Good gracious, Hazel! what could you be thinking about to come and live in a town like this? Let's go, my dear, and find some occupation more congenial to your spirit. I cannot bear to go on seeing how you are wasted here."

"My dear mother!" exclaimed Hazel wonderingly.

"I repeat it, Hazel--I repeat it, my dear!" exclaimed Mrs Thorne excitedly. "You are not fit for this place, and the wretched people down here do not appreciate you. Let us go away at once."

"But, my dear mother, it is impossible. I should, even if I thought it best, be obliged to give some months' notice; and besides, it would be ungrateful to Mr and Miss Burge, and to the vicar, who is most kind and considerate."

"Oh yes; I know all that," whimpered Mrs Thorne. "But all the same, we must go."

"Must go, mother dear?"

"Yes, child--must go. It is a cruelty to you to keep you here."

"But I have been so well, mother; and I seem to be winning the confidence of the people, and the children begin to like me."

"Oh yes--yes--yes; of course they are bound to like you, Hazel, seeing what a slave you make yourself to them. But all the same, my dear, I protest against your stopping here any longer."

"My dear mother," said Hazel, rising and going to her side to bend down and kiss her, "pray--pray don't be so unreasonable."

"Unreasonable?--unreasonable? Am I to be called unreasonable for advising you for your benefit? For shame, Hazel--for shame!"

"But my dear mother, suppose I accede to your wishes and decide to leave: where are we to go? I should have to seek for another engagement."

"And you would get it, Hazel. Thousands of school managers would be only too glad to obtain your services."

Hazel shook her head and smiled.

"No, mother dear; you are too partial. Engagements are not so plentiful as that. Think it over, and you will look at the matter differently. We have not the means at our command to think of moving now."

"But we must leave, Hazel, and at once," cried Mrs Thorne excitedly. "I cannot and I will not stay here."

"But it would be unreasonable and foolish, dear, to think of doing so under our present circumstances. For the children's sake--for Percy's sake, pray be more considerate. We must not think of it at present. After a time, perhaps, I may have the offer of a better post and the change may be such a one as you will like. Come, dear, try and be content a little longer, and all will be right in the end."

"Hazel," cried Mrs Thorne angrily, "I insist upon your giving up this school at once!"

"My dear mother!"

"Now, no excuses, Hazel I say I insist upon your giving up this school at once, and I will be obeyed. Do you forget that I am your mother? Is my own child to rise up in rebellion against me? How dare you? How dare you, I say?"

"But my dear mother, if we decide to leave, where are we to go? Where is the money to pay for our removal? You know as well as I do that, in spite of my care, we are some pounds in the tradespeople's debt."

"Now she throws that in my face, when I have worked so hard to make both ends meet, and cut and contrived over the housekeeping, thinking and striving and straining, and now this is my reward!"

"I do not blame you, dear," said Hazel sadly; "I only think it was a pity that you should have ordered goods for which we had not the money to pay."

"And was I--a lady--to go on living in the mean, sordid, penurious way you proposed, Hazel? Shame upon you! Where is your respect for your wretched, unhappy parent?"

It was in Hazel's heart to say, half angrily, "Oh, mother, dear mother, pray do not go on so!" but she simply replied, "I know, dear, that it is very hard upon you, but we are obliged to live within our means."

"Yes: thanks to you, Hazel," retorted her mother. "I might be living at ease, as a lady should, if my child were considerate, and had not given her heart to selfishness and a downright direct love of opposition to her parent's wishes."

"Dear mother," cried Hazel piteously, "indeed I do try hard to study you in everything."

"It ought to want no trying, Hazel. It ought to be the natural outcome of your heart if you were a good and affectionate child. Study me, indeed! See what you have brought me to! Did I ever expect to go about in these wretched, shabby, black things, do you suppose--I--I, who had as many as two dozen dresses upon the hooks in my wardrobe at one time? Oh, Hazel, if you would conquer the stubbornness of that heart!"

"My dear mother, I must go and put away the dinner-things; but I do not like to leave you like this."

"Oh, pray go, madam; and follow your own fancies to the top of your bent. I am only your poor, weak mother, and what I say or do matters very little. Never mind me, I shall soon be dead and cold in my grave."

"Oh, my dear mother, pray, pray do not talk like this!"

"And all I ask is, that there may be a simple headstone placed there, with my name and age; and, if it could possibly be managed, and not too great an expense and waste of money for so unimportant a person, I should like the words to be cut deeply in the marble,--or, no, I suppose it would be only stone, common stone--just these simple words: `She never forgot that she was a lady.'"

Here Mrs Thorne sighed deeply, and began to strive to extricate herself from her child's enlacing arms.

"No, no, no, Hazel; don't hold me--it is of no use. I can tell, even by the way you touch me, that you have no affection left for your poor suffering mother."

"How can you say that dear?" said Hazel firmly.

"Nor yet in your words, even. Oh, Hazel, I never thought I should live to be spoken to like this by my own child!"

"My dear mother, I am ready to make any sacrifice for your sake."

"Then marry Mr Geringer," said the lady quickly.

"It is impossible."

"Move from here at once. Take me away to some other place. Let me be where I can meet with some decent neighbours, and not be Chuted to death as I am here."

Mrs Thorne was so well satisfied with the sound of the new word which she had coined that she repeated it twice with different emphases.

"My dear mother, we have no money; we are in debt and it might be months before I could obtain a fresh engagement. Mother, that too, is impossible."

"There--there--there!" cried Mrs Thorne, with aggravating iteration. "What did I say? Everything I propose is impossible, and yet in the same breath the child of my bosom tells me that she is ready to do anything to make me happy, and to show how dutiful she is."

"Mother," said Hazel gravely, "how can you be so cruel? Your words cut me to the heart."

"I am glad of it, Hazel--I am very glad of it; for it was time that your hard, cruel heart should be touched, and that you should know something of the sufferings borne by your poor, bereaved mother. A little real sorrow, my child, would make you very, very different, and teach you, and change you. Ah, there is nothing like sorrow for chastening a hard and thoughtless heart!"

"Mother dear," said Hazel, trying to kiss her. "I must go into the school."

"No, no! don't kiss me, Hazel," said the poor, weak woman with a great show of dignity; "I could not bear it now. When you can come to me in all proper humility, as you will to-night, and say, `Mamma, we will leave here to-morrow,' I shall be ready to receive you into my embrace once more."

"My dear mother, you drive me to speak firmly," said Hazel quietly. "I shall not be able to come to you to-night and to say that we will leave here. It is impossible."

"Then you must have formed some attachment that you are keeping from me. Hazel, if you degrade yourself by marrying that Chute I will never speak to you again."

"Hush, mother! the children will hear."

"Let them hear my protests," cried Mrs Thorne excitedly. "I will proclaim it on the housetops, as Mr Lambent very properly observed last Sunday in his sermon. I will let every one know that you intend to degrade yourself by that objectionable alliance, and against it I now enter my most formal protest."

Mrs Thorne's voice was growing loud, and she was shedding tears. Her countenance was flushed, and she looked altogether unlovely as well as weak.

Hazel hesitated for a moment, her face working, and the desire to weep bitterly uppermost, but she mastered it, and laying her hand upon her mother's shoulder, bent forward once again to kiss her.

It was only to be repulsed; and as, with a weary sigh, she turned to the door, Mrs Thorne said to her angrily--

"It is time I resumed my position, Hazel--the position I gave up to you when forced by weakness and my many ills. Now I shall take to it once again, and I tell you that I will be obeyed. We shall leave this place to-morrow morning, and I am going to begin to pack up at once."

CHAPTER THIRTY TWO.

A QUESTION OF CASH.

"Heaven give me strength to be patient and forbearing!" said Hazel softly, as she left the cottage and went into the school, for it was just upon two o'clock. "What am I to do? Will she have forgotten this by night?"

Far from it, for as soon as Hazel returned Mrs Thorne began again with fresh importunity, and in so strange a manner that her daughter grew frightened, and hesitated as to whether she should send for medical advice; but after a while the poor woman grew more calm, took out her work and began knitting some unnecessary ornament with costly wool; ending, to Hazel's great relief, by going off fast asleep.

She signed to the children to be quiet, and led them softly to bed without waking the sleeper; after which, at liberty for the first time that day, she sat down in her own room to think, previous to drawing up a statement of the school pence ready for giving to the churchwarden upon the following day.

Hazel's thoughts wandered far--to Archibald Graves, to Mr Geringer, and then to the vicar, his sisters, and good-hearted, kindly Mr Burge, to whom she felt that she could never be sufficiently grateful. Lastly, she went over her mother's strange fit that day. Mrs Thorne had never seemed settled at Plumton, and had always been full of repining, but had never been so excited and importunate before.

"She will be better to-morrow," thought Hazel, "and perhaps revert to it no more. I told her aright--it is impossible for us to go away from here; and now--"

She had been speaking half aloud during the last few minutes; but she said no more, only sat thinking deeply of the troubles she had had to encounter since she had been at Plumton, and a pleasant smile came upon her lip as she thought that the troubles had been more than balanced by the kindliness and friendly ways of many there. Even the parents of the children had a pleasant smile and a cheery word for her whenever she went to inquire after some sick absentee.

"No," she thought to herself. "I should not like to leave my children now." And she smiled as she recalled scenes with Ann Straggalls and Feelier Potts. Then over the sunshine of her memories came clouds once more, as the stiff, chilling presence of the Lambent sisters intruded itself and changed the aspect of her workaday life. Then, as she sat and thought there came back the scene of the school feast the enjoyment of the children, and then--

A vivid blush came into Hazel Thorne's face, and she rose from her seat angry with herself and ready to cry shame for the direction her thoughts had taken, and that was towards George Canninge and the attentions he had paid her.

She tried to drive these thoughts away, but they returned pertinaciously, and, try how she would, she kept picturing his face, his words, the quiet gentlemanly courtesy with which he had always treated her.

"Oh, it is monstrous!" she cried aloud at last and taking her paper, pen, and ink, she prepared to make out the statement ready to deliver next day; but though she tried to keep her thoughts to the work, she found it impossible, and at last the tears gathered in her eyes, and, weary and low-spirited, she found herself thinking bitterly of her position in life, and her want of strength of mind for allowing such thoughts as these to intrude.

At last she began to master herself, and taking up her pen, she opened her memorandum-book, copied out the various amounts received week by week ever since her coming, cast them up, and found that she had a total of twenty-three pounds seven shillings and fourpence, including nearly six pounds that had been paid in for club money.

This done, she went down on tiptoe to see if Mrs Thorne had awakened; but she was sleeping soundly, and after glancing at the children Hazel returned to her task, though not to recommence, for once more the thoughts of George Canninge, and his conduct towards her, came back, till, blushing vividly for her folly, she made a stern effort and resumed her work.

She had pretty well ended, but there was this to be done: she felt that she ought to unfasten the little packets of money and count them over and check them, ending by placing the whole of the silver in a stout canvas-bag which she had provided for the purpose. Leaving her seat, then, she opened the drawer and took out the heavy oaken box, placed it upon the table, and unlocked it slowly, her thoughts wandering to George Canninge all the time, but only to be rudely brought back by the box before her.

She had not opened it before during many months, but in imagination she had pictured its contends--a number of little white packets tied up with cotton lying one upon the other in a sort of neat chaos. Instead of this there were the pieces of paper certainly, but they had been opened, and the scraps of cotton were lying about with the crumpled paper and a number of pence.

It struck her as strange, that was all. She did not for the moment remember placing pence in the box, but she must have done so once, probably when she could not get them changed for silver. It was hard to recall what she had done in the course of so many weeks, and after trying for a few moments, she let the effort go, and picked up two or three of the pieces of paper to read her memorandums on the outer side. This one was six shillings and fivepence, that five and elevenpence, then a heavier one that had held ten shillings and sixpence; and again another, evidently when some arrears had been paid up, for it had contained eleven shillings and ninepence.

Then the paper dropped from Hazel's hand, and, with lips parted and a look of astonishment in her eyes, she hurriedly took out the heap of pieces of paper, to find that, one and all, they had been emptied, and that at the bottom of the box lay about five shillings' worth of coppers, not a single silver coin remaining behind.

"Ah!" ejaculated Hazel, and a chill of horror ran through her, followed by a peculiar sinking sensation of dread. Where was the money left in her charge--where were the contents of those little packets which she had so carefully tied up and entered? Not one remained untouched, for the box had been opened, and she had been robbed!

No: it was impossible. Who could know of the existence of that money? Strangers might know that she received the money weekly, but no one would be aware of the fact that she placed it in that box, locked it, and then locked the box in her drawer.

She must have made some mistake. It was impossible that she could have been robbed. It was a mistake certainly, and she hurriedly turned out the contents of the box upon the bed, and counted up the pence first-- four shillings and ninepence. Then there were the empty papers.

Hazel put her hand to her head, feeling bewildered, and wondering whether she had not made some strange mistake. Did she know what she was doing, or was her memory failing from over-study?

Making a determined effort to be cool, she took the papers, arranged them by their dates, and checked them off by the statement which she had drawn up, to find that they tallied exactly; but when she had done that she was no further than before, and at last she stood there in a state of helpless despair, face to face with the fact that she had at last been called upon to give an account of her stewardship and the moneys that should have been ready for handing over to the churchwarden were gone.

Hazel sank down upon the floor with her hands clenched and her brain dizzy, to try and think out the meaning of this strange problem.

She recalled that she had had other difficult questions to solve before now--puzzles that had seemed perfectly insurmountable, but that they had grown less formidable by degrees, and the difficulties had been surmounted. Perhaps, then, this would prove less black after a time, and she would make out how it was.

Had she paid anybody? taken any of the money? given change?

No; she could recollect nothing, and in place of growing clearer, the problem grew momentarily more and more confused.

Her brow became full of wrinkles, her head more giddy, and as she crouched upon the floor with the empty money-box upon the bed, and the candle that stood upon the table surrounded by the empty wrappers, long of snuff and mushroom topped, she began more and more to realise the fact that at last she was face to face with a difficulty far greater than any that she had yet been called upon to deal with since she had been at Plumton.

It was horrible. She had to give up a heavy amount on the next day--a sum that she held in trust--and it was missing.

What should she do? What could she do?

She could have sobbed in the agony of her heart; but she forced herself to think--to try and make out where the money had gone.

The children would not have taken it; they did not know of its existence. Then who could?

Percy?

Oh no, it was impossible. He had--

Oh no; she would not harbour the thought. He had been weak and foolish, but she felt that she should scorn herself if she harboured such a thought as that her brother would have taken the money that she had in charge. It was too dreadful, and she would not believe it.

Then who could it be?

As she asked herself this again and again she suddenly heard a sound below as of a chair being thrust back. Then some one rose, and there came the opening of a door, and steps upon the stairs.

Hazel rose softly, and stood behind the dim unsnuffed candle as the steps came higher. The door was thrust open, and the breath that Hazel had been holding back till she felt that she must suffocate escaped with a loud sigh, and mother and daughter stood gazing across the table at each other.

The thought was horrible, almost maddening--but there was Mrs Thorne with her cap half off, and her hair slightly disarranged by her sleeping, staring in a shrinking, half-angry way before her daughter's searching gaze.

For Hazel had no such thought before. Now it came with almost stunning violence, and she saw in it the explanation of her mother's strange manner that day--her sudden desire to leave Plumton at any cost, as soon as she had read the letter containing the request for the school funds to be given up.

Words rose to Hazel Thorne's lips, and then sank back; they rose again, and she still remained silent. It was in her mind to ask her mother in accusing tones what she knew of the absent money, for she, and she alone, knew where it was kept and could have had access to the keys.

But no; those words were not uttered. She could not speak them. It was too horrible! But Hazel's eyes accused the poor, weak woman, who waited for nothing more, and exclaimed:--

"There, there, Hazel! don't glower at me like that child! It's all your fault; leaving me so short as you did for days and weeks together. Not a shilling to call my own, and poor Percy always writing to me for new clothes and pocket-money; and then things wanted to make the house tidy. I was obliged to use the money; I don't know what I should have done without it. You must pay it back out of your next quarter's salary; and there: pray don't look at me like that. It's very dreadful to be reduced to taking every penny from your own daughter, and--"

"Oh, mother, mother!" wailed Hazel; "say no more. What have you--have you done?"

"What have I done? What was I to do? How can you be so foolish, Hazel? Do you suppose I can keep up even so small an establishment as this upon the wretched pittance you give me for housekeeping?"

Hazel gazed at her mother wonderingly, for the poor woman took hardly any interest in the household management which fell almost entirely upon her child, who found no little difficulty in keeping matters straight. And now Mrs Thorne was seizing upon this as a reason for her abstraction of the money; for she made no denial whatever, but, driven to bay, haughtily acknowledged the fact.

"Then you really did take this money, mother?"

"Of course I did, Hazel. Why should I leave it when it was lying idly there? It was absurd."

"But, my dear mother, the money was not mine."

"What nonsense, Hazel! What does it matter whether it was yours or not? Money's money. The school people don't want you to give them the very pennies that the children brought."

"No, mother; but they want the amount."

"Then give it to them, Hazel. My dear child, what a ridiculous fuss you do make?"

"But, mother, do you not understand--do you not see that I have no money, and no means of making it up?"

"Really, Hazel, you are too absurd," said Mrs Thorne with forced levity. "What is the ridiculous amount?"

"Between twenty and thirty pounds."

"Absurd! Why, I have often given as much, or more, for a new dress. There, get the money from the school people--Mr Lambent, Mr Burge, or somebody--and pray do not bother me about it any more."

"Mother, dear mother," cried Hazel, "have you no thought? Tell me, have you any of this money left?"

"Of course not, and I must beg of you not to address me in so disrespectful a manner. It is a very good thing that your little sisters are not awake. I would not have them hear you speak to me like this on any consideration."

"How ever could you think of taking the money?"

"Now, this is too absurd; Hazel, when you leave me for days together without a penny. Why, I have even been obliged to go to Mrs Chute to borrow a shilling before now."

"You have borrowed shillings of Mrs Chute, mother?"

"To be sure I have, my dear; and of course I had to pay them back. She said it was absurd not to use the school pence."

"She told you that?" cried Hazel quickly.

"Yes, my dear; and she said that both she and Mr Chute often used the pence, and made the sum up again when he took his salary. There, I am sleepy. For goodness' sake, put away that box and get to bed, and don't be so ridiculous."

Hazel looked piteously at her mother, and stood hesitating for a few minutes, asking herself what she was to do in such a strait, for it seemed as if Mrs Thorne had quite lost all sense of right and wrong.

Was this really, then, the reason why her mother had expressed such a keen desire to got. It seemed like it, and this explained a great deal; for as Hazel studied her appearance more, it became evident to her that the poor woman was in a state of intense nervous trepidation, and that she hardly dare meet her daughter's eye.

"Mother," said Hazel at length, "the churchwarden will be here to-morrow, asking me for this money. What am I to say?"

"Say nothing, you foolish child! Pay him out of some other money."

"You know, mother, that I have no other money whatever."

"Then tell him to wait, like any other trades-person. He is only a common man. Such people as these must take their money when they can get it."

"Are you wilfully blinding yourself to the fact, mother, that we have committed a theft in using this money?"

"My dear, absurd child--"

"That it is as great a trouble as that from the consequences of which poor, foolish Percy has just been rescued by Mr Burge?"

"Then go to Mr Burge, Hazel, and tell him that you were obliged to use the money because the salary is so small. He will give you the amount directly, my dear;" and she nodded and smiled as she eagerly reiterated her advice.

"Mother, mother, what are you thinking of?"

"I'm thinking of what is for the best, Hazel, under the circumstances," said Mrs Thorne pompously.

"Mother," cried Hazel excitedly, for she was now regularly unstrung, "I could not degrade myself by going and asking Mr Burge for that money, and I dare not face the churchwarden to-morrow when he comes. You took the money--cruelly took the money that was not mine--and I must send him to you."

"No--no; no, no, my dear Hazel, I could not, I will not see him! It is impossible. I dare not face him, Hazel. No, no! Let us go away; there is plenty of time. Let us go and settle down somewhere else, and let them forget all about it. They soon will."

"Mother, are you bereft of your senses?" said Hazel. "Oh, for shame, for shame! How could we go away and leave such a name behind us? How could I ever hold up my head again? Oh, how could you? How could you?"

"I'm sure, my dear, I never thought it would cause all this trouble, or I wouldn't have taken the paltry, rubbishing money. But Hazel, Hazel," she cried, glancing round in an excited manner, "you--you don't think-- you don't think--they'd take me up for it? Hazel, it would kill me; I'm sure it would. I've been frightened, my dear, ever since I took the first packet; but taking one seemed to make me take another."

"Mother," said Hazel, as a thought flashed across her mind, "does Mrs Chute know that you took this money?"

"Yes, my dear; I told her every time, and she said it was quite right and the best thing I could do. Oh, my dear child, pray, pray do something! Let's--let's run away, Hazel; and take all we can carry, and leave the rest."

"Be silent mother. Sit down, and let me think," said Hazel in a cold, hard voice.

"Oh, don't speak to me like that Hazel!" cried Mrs Thorne reproachfully. "What have I done to deserve it?"

Hazel glanced at her wonderingly, for the poor woman's words were absurd; but she had evidently spoken in all sincerity, and there was a mute agony of mind and appeal in her countenance, which made her child feel that it would be folly to look upon her any more as one who was thoroughly answerable for her actions.

"Hadn't we better go, Hazel?" she said again. "This is a miserable place, and we should be better away. The people are not nice. We could get a long way off by morning, and then we shouldn't be worried any more about this wretched school money."

"Pray, pray be quiet, mother!" said Hazel wearily; "you distract me!"

"Ah! you are beginning to feel what trouble is now. I've--had my share, Hazel."

"Mother, will you be silent, and let me try to think of some way out of this difficulty?"

"Of course I will, my dear; though I don't see why you should speak so pertly to me, and show such want of respect for your poor, bereaved mother. For my part, I don't think you need trouble your head about it. The churchwarden will know that you are a lady, and if, as a lady, you give him your word that you will send the money to him--say to-morrow or next day, or next week--I'm sure it cannot be particular to a few days."

Hazel covered her face with her hands, resting her elbows upon her knees, while Mrs Thorne went maundering on; and as the poor girl sat there, mingled with her thoughts came her mother's garrulity. Now it was strong advice to go at once to Mr Burge, who, in spite of his vulgarity, was very rich and well-disposed. Mrs Thorne said that she would not for a moment mind asking him herself, and that would settle the matter at once.

Then she thought that Mr Lambent, who, in spite of his stiffness, was a thorough gentleman, had displayed a good deal of interest in Hazel. He would lend her the money in a moment if he had it; but then Mrs Thorne was not sure that he had got it, and he might not be able to get it in time; for, as Hazel would know when she grew older, clergymen were very often short of money, especially curates; and if she, Mrs Thorne, had her time to come over again, she should never listen to the attentions of a curate. Yes: Mr Lambent would, of course, lend the money if he had it, for he was a perfect gentleman, and could not, of course, refuse a lady; but then he might not have it and if this were the case, all he could do would be to speak to the churchwarden and tell him to wait.

Then there was Mr Canninge, a very gentlemanly man, who might be quite ready to advance the amount as a sort of donation to the school, especially as Hazel was so genteel, and ladylike. She felt that she rather liked Mr Canninge, and if she were Hazel she should be very

## particular how she behaved to Mr Canninge--for there was no knowing.

Some gentlemen had common-sense enough not to look for money, and she had her suspicions on the day of the school feast.

"Yes," rattled Mrs Thorne, "he was very attentive that day. I remarked it several times. I have a very observant eye, Hazel, for that sort of thing, and depend upon it my dear, if you play your cards properly, there are far more unlikely things than your becoming mistress of Ardley Hall. Yes; I should say that you might very well send Mr Canninge a nicely-worded note, written on thoroughly good paper--in fact, I'd get some for the purpose--and take pains with your writing, so as to let him see that you are a lady. I should tell him that a sudden demand has been made upon you for fifty pounds--yes, I'd make it fifty pounds, anything under looks so paltry, and as if you were a common begging-letter writer. I don't know but what I'd make it a hundred while I was about it. The extra money would be so useful, my dear; you could buy yourself a few dresses with it and make yourself more attractive. You would be sure to win Mr Canninge, I feel certain. The very fact of your showing him that you look upon him almost as a friend would be sufficient to make, as it were, a link between you. Ah! my dear, if young people would only think a little more of their advantages they would be far more successful in life."

Here Mrs Thorne yawned very audibly, and looked at Hazel, who was still bending down, hearing everything, and struggling at the same time to see her way out of the difficulty before them, and to keep back the feelings of misery and degradation aroused by her mother's words.

"She has actually gone to sleep!" said Mrs Thorne, who seemed quite to have forgotten the terrors of the past few hours. "Ah, these young people--these young people! Heigh-ho!--has--have--Dear me, how sleepy I am! I think I'll go to bed."

She glanced at Hazel, and hesitated for a moment, as if about to touch her, but directly after she left the room, saying--

"I won't wake her. Poor girl! she works very hard, and must be terribly tired."

As Mrs Thorne closed the door and went into the adjoining room, Hazel rose from her crouching attitude, her faced lined with care-marks, and a hopeless aspect of misery in her heavy eyes.

Hazel stood gazing at the door, listening to every sound from the little adjoining room, till she heard her mother sigh and throw herself upon the bed, when she said in a low voice, "God help me!" and knelt down to pray.

CHAPTER THIRTY THREE.

PAYING THE PIPER.

"You must ask Mr Canninge, Hazel, or else Mr Burge or Mr Lambent," said Mrs Thorne dictatorially. "Either you must ask one of those gentlemen, or I shall certainly feel that it is my duty to leave Plumton and seek a refuge at the home of one of my relatives."

"Mother," said Hazel decidedly, "I cannot ask one of those gentlemen. Can you not see that it would be a degradation that I could not bear?"

"If you would think less of your own degradation, Hazel, and more of mine," said Mrs Thorne, "I think it would be far more becoming on your part."

It was breakfast-time, and, hot-eyed, feverish, and weary, Hazel was trying to force down a few morsels of dry bread as she sipped her weak tea.

She made no reply, but was working hard to find some solution of the difficulty in which she found herself, but could see none.

One thing was evident to her, and that was the fact that she must take the full blame of the pence being missing, and undertake to pay it out of her next half-year's salary. It was impossible for her to accuse her mother, and she could think of no relatives who would advance the money. Her head ached violently, and she was suffering from a severe attack of lassitude that deadened her brain-power making her ready to go back to her bed and try to forget everything in sleep.

But there was the day's work to meet and at last, in a dreary, hopeless spirit, she went to the school, seeing Mr Chute on his way to the duties of the day, and meeting his eye, which was full of an ugly, malicious expression, that made her shrink and feel that she had indeed made this man her enemy.

The children were more tiresome than usual, or seemed to be, and it was only by a great effort that she was able to keep her attention to the work in hand.

At another time she would not have noticed it, but now every tap at the schoolhouse door made her start violently, and think that it was the churchwarden, Mr Piper, come for the school pence.

"A guilty conscience needs no accuser," she thought to herself, as she set to once more trying to see her way to some solution of her difficulty, but always in vain; and at last she found herself letting the trouble drift till it should find bottom in some shallow shoal or against the shore, for nothing she could do would help her on.

The only thing she could hit upon was to say to the churchwarden that she would bring him up the money shortly, and in the meantime she might find out some means of raising it wishing the while that the jewellery of which she once had a plentiful supply was still her own.

She could think of no other plan, and was drearily going on with her work, when there came a loud tap from one of the lower classes, presided over at that time by Feelier Potts, and followed by a howl.

"What is that?"

"Please, teacher, Feely Potts hit me over the head with a book."

"Please, teacher, I kep' on telling her you'd got a bad headache, teacher, and told her to be quiet, and she would keep on making a noise, and--and--and I think I did box her with the Testament, teacher."

"But you know, Ophelia how strictly I have forbidden any monitor to touch one of her class."

"Yes, please, teacher; and I wouldn't have touched her now, only I knew you'd got such a bad headache, and she would be so tiresome I felt as if I could knock her head right off."

"Ophelia!" exclaimed Hazel, as she felt ready to smile at what was evidently a maternal expression.

"Please, teacher, I won't do so no more."

"Then go to your class. I shall trust you, mind. You have given me your word."

"Yes, teacher," cried the girl eagerly; "and is your head better, please, teacher!"

"No, Ophelia; it is very bad," said Hazel wearily.

"Then, please, teacher, let me run home and get mother's smelling-salts. She's got a new twopenny bottle. Such strong 'uns. Do, please, let me go and fetch 'em, teacher."

"Thank you; no, Ophelia," said Hazel, smiling at the girl, whose eyes were sparkling with eagerness. "I have a bottle here. Now, go back to your class, and remember that you will help me most by being attentive and keeping the girls quiet, but not with blows. I do not keep you quiet and attentive, Ophelia, by striking you."

"No, please, teacher; but mother does."

"I prefer gentle means, my child. I want to rule you, if I can, by love."

Feelier looked sharply round to see if she was observed, and then bobbed down quickly, and before Hazel knew what the girl intended to do, she had kissed her hand and was gone.

It was a trifling incident, but in Hazel's depressed condition it brought the tears into her eyes, and made her think for the first time of how hard it would be to leave her girls if fate said that through this terrible defalcation she must give up the school. The toil had been hard, the work tiresome, but all the same there had been a something that had seemed to link her to the children, and she began to find out now how thoroughly her heart had been in her daily task.

There were endless little troubles to encounter; even now there was a heap of confiscations taken from the children, petted objects that they carried in imitation of their brothers--sticky pieces of well-chewed indiarubber, marbles, buttons; one girl had a top which she persisted in bringing to school, though she could never get it to spin, and had twice been in difficulties for breaking windows with it--at times when its peg stuck to the end of the string. There were several papers of sweets, and an assortment of sweets without papers, and in that semi-glutinous state that comes over the best-made preparations of sugar after being submitted to a process of biscuiting in a warm pocket. Half-gnawed pieces of cake were there too, and fancy scraps of a something that would have puzzled the keenest observer, who could only have come to the conclusion that it was comestible, for it displayed teeth-marks. Without analysis it would not have been safe to venture upon a more decisive opinion.

It had been imperceptible, this affection for her school, coming on by slow degrees; and as in the middle of her morning's work Hazel suddenly found herself face to face with the possibility of having to resign, she felt startled, and began to realise that in spite of the many troubles and difficulties with which she had had to contend, Plumton had really been a haven of rest and the thought of going completely unnerved her.

She started violently several times over as tap after tap came to the door; but the visitors were always in connection with the children. "Please, may Ann Straggalls come home? Her mother wants her."

"Please I've brought Sarah Jane Filler's school money." Then there were calls from a couple of itinerant vendors of wonderfully-got-up illustrated works, published in shilling and half-crown parts, to be continued to infinity, if the purchaser did not grow weary and give them up.

At last there came a more decided knock than any of the others, and Hazel's heart seemed to stand still. She knew, without telling, that it was the churchwarden, and she was in no wise surprised at seeing him walk in with his hat on, without waiting to have the door opened, but displaying a certain amount of proprietorship only to be expected from an official of the church.

Mr Piper was the principal grocer of Plumton, and in addition to the sale of what he called "grosheries," he dealt largely in cake--not the cake made with caraways or currants, but linseed oil-cake, bought by the farmers for fattening cattle and giving a help to the sheep. Mr Piper "did a little," too, in corn, buying a lot now and then when it was cheap, and keeping it till it was dear. There were many other things in which Mr Piper "did a little," but they were always bits of trading that meant making money; so that take him altogether, he was what people call "a warm man," one who buttoned up his breeches-pockets tightly, and slapped them, as much as to say, "I don't care a pin for a soul--I'm too independent for that."

This was the gentleman who, tightly buttoned up in his best coat, and looking, all the same, as if he still had his shop-apron tied, walked importantly into the school with his hat on, and nodded shortly as the girls began to rise and make bobs, the curtseys being addressed to the broadcloth coat more than to Mr Piper himself, a gentleman of whom all the elder girls had bought sweets, and who was associated in their minds with the rattling and clinking of copper scales with their weights. For a goodly sum per annum was expended by the Plumton school children in delicacies, a fact due to the kindness of Mr William Forth Burge, who always went down the town with half-a-crown's worth of the cleanest halfpennies he could get, a large supply of which was always kept for him by Mr Piper's young man, who even went so far as to give them a-shake-up in a large worsted stocking with some sand and a sprinkling of vitriol, knowing full well that these halfpence were pretty sure to come to him again in the course of trade.

It was, then, to Mr Piper's best coat that the girls made their bobs, that gentleman being held in small respect. In fact as soon as he entered Feelier Potts went round her class, insisting upon every girl accurately toeing the line; and then, whispering "Don't laugh," she began to repeat the words of the national poet who wrote those touching, interrogative lines beginning, "Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers," and finishing off with, "Please, Mr Piper, I want a pen'orth of pickled peppers."

"'Morning, Miss Thorne," said Mr Piper importantly, and speaking in his best-coat voice, which was loud and brassy, and very different to his mild, insinuating, "what's-the-next-article, ma'am, yes-it-is-a-fine-morning" voice, which was used behind the counter, and went with a smile.

"She ain't ready with that money, I'll lay a crown," said Mr Piper to himself. Then aloud--"I have been getting Mr Chute's school pence, Miss Thorne, to put in my accounts. I always collect the school money once a year."

Just then the school-door opened quietly, unheard by Hazel and the churchwarden, and also unnoticed by Miss Feelier Potts, who, forgetting all promises of amendment, was delighting her class by asking Mr Piper in a low voice for half-ounces and pen'orths of all sorts of impossible articles suggested by her active young brain, beginning with sugared soap, and on through boiled blacklead to peppermint mopsticks.

The terrible moment had come, and Hazel said, as firmly as she could--

"I am not ready with the accounts, Mr Piper; but I will see to them at once, and--"

"Oh, all right: I'm in no hurry," he replied; and Hazel's heart gave a leap of relief, but only to sink down heavily the next moment, as he continued--"I always give one morning a year to this job, so get the money and a pen and ink, and I'll soon run through it with you."

"You misunderstood me, Mr Piper," faltered Hazel, whose cheeks began to burn before turning pale with shame. "I have made up the account but I have not the money ready."

"Couldn't have made out the account properly without the money counted out ready," he said triumphantly.

"I checked it by the sums I had put down each week, Mr Piper," said Hazel.

"To be sure. Well, it won't take us long to count the money out."

"But I have not the money by me," said Hazel desperately, for she could make no excuse at the moment.

"Oh!" said Mr Piper slowly, as he made a curious rasping noise by rubbing a rough finger upon his closely-shaven cheek: "have not got the money by you."

"No; not at present," faltered Hazel; and once more the tell-tale blush came flushing to her cheeks.

"Oh!" said Mr Piper again; and his interjection was as long as a ten-syllable word.

"I will send or bring it up to you in a few days."

"Oh!" said Mr Piper once more, and he took out his pocket-book at the same time, but made no attempt to go. He slowly took a pencil from a sheath at the side, and examined its point before thrusting it in again, as if trying very hard to make sure that it was a fit.

Hazel was in agony, and would have given anything to be alone, but Mr Piper went on testing the depth of his pencil-sheath in the leather pocket-book, and drawing the pencil out again.

"You see, it always has been paid upon the morning I said I'd call. I've got Mr Chute's money in here."

He slapped his breeches-pocket twice in a very emphatic manner, and looked at Hazel the while, as if asking her to deny it if she dared.

"I--I was taken rather by surprise," faltered Hazel.

"Nay, nay," said the churchwarden; "I gave you a day's notice."

"Yes," said Hazel, "but I was not ready. I will send or bring the amount in a few days, Mr Piper."

"I wanted to have made up my accounts," he said, gazing still at his pencil and pocket-book in a meditative way. "You see, it puts me out, being a business-man. I have all this churchwarden work to do, and don't get nothing by it, and it puts me wrong when things go contrary like, and I can't get in the accounts. Now, your pence, for instance--I ought to have had them a month ago."

"I am very sorry, sir, but I was not aware when they ought to be paid in."

"You see, I make up all these parish things regular like, and if I can't get the money in it throws me all out."

"I am very sorry, Mr Piper."

"Yes," he said, turning his pencil upside down, and trying whether it would go in the reverse way; "but, you see, that don't help a busy man. I give up one morning like this every year to the school accounts, and dress myself"--he glanced at the sleeve of his black coat--"and come down, and if the money isn't ready, you see, it throws me out."

"Yes, I understand, Mr Piper," faltered Hazel; "and I am very sorry."

"Yes," he continued, trying to coax the pencil down by giving it a revolving movement, which succeeded better, though not well, for the leather of the pencil-sheath was getting worn with use, and it went into so many folds that Mr Piper had to withdraw the pencil and try it in the proper way--"Yes, it is a nuisance to a busy man," he continued. "I don't know why I go on doing this parish work, for it never pleases nobody, and takes up a deal of a man's time. I wouldn't do it, only Mr Lambent as good as begs of me not to give it up. P'r'aps you'll give me what you have in hand, miss."

"Give you what I have in hand?" said Hazel.

"Yes! Part on account you know, and send me the rest."

"I cannot, Mr Piper. I am not prepared," said Hazel, who felt ready to sink with shame, and the degradation of being importuned at such a time.

"Can't you give me any of it on account--some of your own money, you know, miss!"

"I really cannot sir; but I will endeavour to pay it over as soon as possible."

"Within a week?"

"I--I think so," faltered Hazel.

Rap went the book open, and Mr Piper's pencil was going as if it was taking down an order for "grosheries," making a note to the effect that Miss Thorne could not pay the school pence upon the proper day, but would pay it within a week.

Hazel stood and shivered, for it was horrible to see how business-like Mr Piper could be; and though she could not see the words he wrote, she mentally read them, and wondered how it would be possible to meet the engagement. Still, it was a respite, disgraceful as it seemed, and she felt her spirits rise as the churchwarden wrote away as busily as a commercial traveller who has just solicited what he calls a "line."

All this time the school-door was standing partly open, as if some one was waiting to come in, but Hazel was too intent to see.

"That'll do, then, for that," said the churchwarden, shutting his book on the pencil and then peering sidewise like a magpie into one of the pockets, from which he extracted a carefully folded piece of blue paper, at the top of which was written very neatly, "Miss Thorne."

"As I was coming down, miss, I thought it would be a good chance for speaking to you about your account, miss, which keeps on getting too much behindhand; so p'r'aps you'll give me something on account of that and pay the rest off as quick as you can."

"Your account, Mr Piper?" said Hazel, taking the paper.

"Yes, miss. Small profits and quick returns is my motter. I don't believe in giving credit--'tain't my way. I should never get on if I did."

"But you mistake, Mr Piper; everything we have had of you has been paid for at the time, or at the end of the week."

"Don't look like it, miss. When people won't have nothing but my finest Hyson and Shoesong, and a bottle of the best port every week, bottles regularly returned, of course a bill soon runs up."

"But surely--" cried Hazel.

"Oh, you'll find it all right there, miss; every figure's my own putting down. I always keep my own books myself, so it's all right."

"Have you nearly done, Mr Piper?" said Miss Lambent, speaking sweetly, as she stood with Beatrice at the door. "Pray don't hurry: we can wait. Our time's not so valuable as yours."

"Just done, miss--just done, miss. You'll find that quite right, Miss Thorne--eleven pun fifteen nine and a half. S'pose you give me six this morning and let the other stand for a week or two?"

"Mr Piper, I must examine the bill," said Hazel hoarsely. "I did not know that I was indebted to you more than half-a-sovereign."

"Oh, you'll find that all right miss, all right. Can you let me have a little on account?"

"I cannot this morning!" cried Hazel desperately.

"May we come in now?" said Rebecca Lambent.

"Yes, miss, come in," said the churchwarden, closing his pocket-book as Hazel crushed this last horror in her hand in a weak dread lest it should be seen.

"So you've been collecting the school accounts as usual, Mr Piper," said Beatrice, smiling. "How much do they amount to this time? My brother will be so anxious to know."

Out came Mr Piper's pocket-book again, the pencil was drawn from its sheath, and the page found.

"Boys' pence for the year ending the blank day of blank eighteen blank," read Mr Piper, "thirty-two pound seven shillings and eightpence-ha'penny: though I can't quite make out that ha'penny."

"And the girls', Mr Piper--how much is that?"

"Well, you see, Miss Thorne ain't ready 'm yet so I can't tell. It's no use for me to put down the sum till I get the money. Good morning, miss. Good morning, miss. It's a busy time with me, so I must go."

The churchwarden left the schoolroom, his hat still upon his head, and Hazel was left face to face with her friends from the Vicarage.

"Had you not better call Mr Piper back, Miss Thorne," said Rebecca.

"Shall I call him, Miss Thorne?" said Beatrice eagerly.

"No, ma'am, I thank you," replied Hazel. "I explained to Mr Piper that I was not ready for him this morning."

"But did he not send word that he was coming?" said Rebecca suavely. "I know he always used to send down the day before."

"Yes, Miss Lambent; Mr Piper did send down, but I have not the money by me," said Hazel desperately. "My--I mean we--had a pressing necessity for some money, and it has been used. I will pay Mr Piper, in the course of a few days."

Rebecca Lambent appeared to freeze as she glanced at her sister, who also became icy.

"It is very strange," said the former.

"Quite contrary to our rules, I think, sister," replied Beatrice, "Are you ready?"

"Yes, dear. Good morning, Miss Thorne."

"Yes; good morning, Miss Thorne," said Beatrice; and they swept out of the school together, remaining silent for the first hundred yards or so as they went homeward. "This is very extraordinary, Rebecca," cried Beatrice at last, speaking with an assumption of horror and astonishment, but with joy in her heart.

"Not at all extraordinary," said Rebecca. "I am not in the least surprised. Unable to pay over the school pence and deeply in debt to the grocer! I wonder what she owes to the butcher and baker?"

"And the draper!" said Beatrice malignantly. "A schoolmistress flaunting about with a silk parasol! What does a schoolmistress want with a parasol?"

"She is not wax," said Rebecca. "I rarely use one. And now look here, Beattie; it is all true, then, about that boy."

"What! Miss Thorne's brother?"

"Yes; Hazel Thorne's brother. He was in trouble, then, in London, and fled here, and it seems as if the vice is in the family. Why, it is sheer embezzlement to keep back and spend the school pence. I wonder what Henry will say to his favourite now?"

Meanwhile Hazel, whose head throbbed so heavily that she could hardly bear the pain, had dismissed the girls, for it was noon, and then hurried back to the cottage to seek her room, very rudely and sulkily, Mrs Thorne said, for she had spoken to her child as she passed through, but Hazel did not seem to hear.

"I sincerely hope, my dears, that when you grow up," said Mrs Thorne didactically, "you will never behave so rudely to your poor mamma as Hazel does."

"Hazel don't mean to be rude, ma," said Cissy in an old-fashioned way. "She has got a bad headache, that's all. I'm going up to talk to her."

"No, Cissy; you will stay with me," said Mrs Thorne authoritatively.

"I may go, mayn't I, ma? I want to talk to Hazel," said Mab.

"You will stay where you are, my dears; and I sincerely hope to be able to teach you both how to comport yourself towards your mamma. Hazel, I am sorry to say, has a good deal changed."

A good deal, truly; for she looked ghastly now, as she knelt by the bed, holding her aching head, and praying for help and strength of mind to get through her present difficulties and those which were to come.

CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR.

MOTHER AND SON.

"I thought you would have come in, George," said Mrs Canninge, entering her son's library, where he was seated, looking very moody and thoughtful.

"Come in? Come in where?"

"To the drawing-room, dear. Beatrice Lambent called. I thought you would have known."

"I saw some one come by," he said quietly. "I did not know it was she."

"She is in great trouble, poor girl!" continued Mrs Canninge; "or, I should say, they are all in great trouble at the Vicarage."

"Indeed! I'm very sorry. What is wrong!"

"Nothing serious, my dear; only you know what good people they are, and when they make a _protegee_ of anybody, and that body doesn't turn out well, of course they feel it deeply."

"Of course," said George Canninge absently; and his mother bit her lip, for she had not excited his curiosity in the least and she had wanted him to ask questions.

"It seems very sad, poor girl!" she said after a pause.

"My dear mother," said the young squire rather impatiently, "Is it not rather foolish of you to speak of Beatrice Lambent as `poor girl'? She must be past thirty."

"I was not speaking of Beatrice Lambent, my dear," said Mrs Canninge; "though, really, George, I do not think you ought to jump at conclusions like that about dear Beatrice's age, which is, as she informed me herself, twenty-five. I was speaking of their _protegee_ at the Vicarage."

"I beg your pardon," said George Canninge. "I did not know, though, that they had a _protegee_."

"Well, perhaps I am not quite correct, my dear boy, in calling her their _protegee_; but they certainly have taken great interest in her, and it seems very sad for her to have turned out so badly. They took such pains about getting the right sort of person, too."

"Whom do you mean?" said the young man carelessly; "their new cook? Why, the parson was bragging about her tremendously the other day when he dined here--a woman who could make soup fit for a prince out of next to nothing."

"My dear boy, how you do run away, and how cynically and bitterly you speak!" exclaimed Mrs Canninge, laying her hands upon her son's shoulders. "I was not speaking of Mr Lambent's cook; I meant the new schoolmistress."

There was a pause.

"I felt his heart give a great throb," said Mrs Canninge to herself. "Calm as he is striving to be, I can understand him, and read him as easily as can be."

"Indeed!" said George Canninge at last, as soon as he could master his emotion. "I was not aware the Vicarage people thought so much of Miss-- of the new schoolmistress."

"Well, you see, dear, she is only a schoolmistress, but they have been very kind and considerate to her. They found her to be a young person of prepossessing manners, and, like all country people, they took it for granted that she would be worthy of trust; and, therefore this discovery must have been a great shock to them."

It needed all George Canninge's self-command to keep him calmly seated there while his mother, from what she considered to be a sense of duty, went on poisoning his wound. But he mastered himself, and bore it all like a stoic, denying himself the luxury of asking questions, though the suspense was maddening, and he burned to hear what his mother had to say.

"I declare, George," she said at last; "it is quite disheartening. You seem to have given up taking an interest in anything. I thought you would have liked to hear the Vicarage troubles."

"My dear mother, why should I worry myself about the `Vicarage troubles'?" said the young squire calmly. "I have enough of my own."

"But you are the principal landholder here, my dear, and you must learn to take an interest in parish matters for many reasons. Now, this Miss Thorne has been trusted to a great extent by Mr Lambent and it seems shocking to find one so young behaving in an unprincipled manner."

George Canninge rose.

There is an end to most things; certainly there is to the forbearance of a man, and Mrs Canninge's son could bear no more.

"Unprincipled is a very hard term to apply to a young lady, mother," he said, with the blood flushing into his cheeks.

"It is, my dear boy, I grant it; and very sad it is to find one who seemed to be well educated and to possess so much superficial refinement, ready to yield to temptation."

The ruddy tint faded out of George Canninge's cheeks, leaving him very pale; but he remained perfectly silent, while his mother went on--

"It is the old story, I suppose: that terrible love of finery that we find in most young girls. I must say I have noticed myself that Miss Thorne dressed decidedly above her station."

George Canninge did not speak. His eyelids drooped over his eyes, and he stood listening, with every nerve upon the stretch; and very slowly and deliberately Mrs Canninge went on--

"I am sure I am very sorry, my dear, for it seems so sad; though, really, I do not see that I need trouble myself about it. The foolish girl, I suppose, wanted money for dress, and having these school funds in her hand--children's pence and some club money--she made use of them. So foolish, too, my dear, because she must have known that sooner or later, she would be found out."

"Who has told you this, mother!" said George Canninge sternly.

"I heard it from Beatrice Lambent, my dear, just now. She is in terrible trouble about it."

"Miss Lambent has been misinformed," said George Canninge calmly; but it cost him a tremendous effort to speak as he did.

"Oh, dear me, no, my dear George!" exclaimed Mrs Canninge eagerly. "She was present when Mr Piper went to the school to receive the money, and she confessed to having spent it; and it seems that these people are terribly in debt as well."

"There is some mistake, mother," said George Canninge again, in the same calm, judicial voice; "it cannot be true."

"But it is true, my dear boy," persisted Mrs Canninge, who, woman of the world as she was, had not the prudence upon this occasion to leave her words to rankle in her son's breast, but tried to drive them home with others in her eagerness to excite disgust with an object upon which George Canninge seemed to have set his mind.

"I say, mother, that it cannot be true," he said, speaking very sternly now; and he crossed the room.

"You are not going out dear?" said Mrs Canninge. "I want to talk to you a little more."

"You have talked to me enough for one day, mother," said the young man firmly; "and I must go."

"But where, dear? You are not going to the Vicarage to ask if what I have told you is true? I had it from dear Beatrice's own lips, and she is terribly cut up about it."

"I am not going to the Vicarage, mother," said the young man firmly. "I am going down to the school to ask Miss Thorne."

"George, my dear son!"

Her answer was the loudly closing door, and directly after she heard steps upon the gravel-drive.

She ran to the window, and could see that her son was walking rapidly across the park; for George Canninge was so deeply considering the words he had heard that he would not wait for his horse.

"It is monstrous!" cried Mrs Canninge, stamping angrily. "It shall never be! It would be a disgrace!"

The next minute she had thrown herself angrily into her son's chair, and sat there with clenched hands and lowering brow. A minute later, and she was acting as most women do when they cannot make matters go as they wish. Mrs Canninge took out her pocket-handkerchief, and shed some bitter, mortified tears.

CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE.

SISTER AND BROTHER--VULGAR.

"Oh, Bill!"

Then an interval of panting and wiping her perspiring face and then again--

"Oh, Bill!"

Then a burst of piteous sobbing, for poor little Miss Burge was crying as if her heart would break.

"Let it go, Betsey. Don't try to stop it, dear. Let it go," said Mr William Forth Burge in the most sympathising of tones; and his sister did let it go, crying vehemently for a time, while he waited patiently to know what was the matter.

"That's better, my dear," he said, kissing her. "Now then, tell us what's the matter."

"Oh, Bill! I've been down the town, and I almost ran back to tell you the news."

"And you haven't told it to me yet," he said, smiling affectionately at the troubled little woman, under the impression that he was doing the right thing to comfort her.

"Don't laugh, Bill dear; for you'll be so upset when you know."

"Shall I, Betsey?" he said seriously. "Then I won't laugh."

"You see, I went down to Piper's to order some fresh things for the storeroom, as I'd been through this morning, when Mr Piper himself came to wait upon me, and he told me he'd been down to the schools for the children's pence for the year, and that Mr Chute had paid, and that Miss Thorne didn't, but owned that she had spent all the money."

"What! the school pence?"

"Yes, dear; and after a time he said that the Thornes were a good deal in debt with him besides."

"More shame for him. I never went shouting it out to other folks if any one was in my debt. But, Betsey, did he say Miss Thorne had--had spent the money!"

"Yes, dear; and it was so shocking."

Mr William Forth Burge stood rubbing and smoothing his fat round face over with his hand for a few moments, his sister watching him eagerly the while, like one who looks for help from the superior wisdom of another.

"I don't believe it," said the great man at last.

"You don't believe it, Bill?"

"Not a bit of it."

"Oh, I am glad!" cried Miss Burge, clapping her hands. "It would have been shocking if it had been true."

"Did you go down and see Miss Thorne?"

"No, dear; I came to tell you directly."

"You ought to have gone down and asked her about it, Betsey," said her brother stiffly.

"Ought I, Bill dear? Oh, I am so sorry! I'll go down at once."

"No, you won't: I'll go myself. Perhaps, poor girl! she has spent the money because it was wanted about her brother, and she's been afraid to speak about it, when of course, if she'd just said a word to you, Betsey, you'd have let her have fifty or a hundred pound in a minute."

"No, indeed, Bill dear, for I haven't got it," said Miss Burge innocently.

"Yes, you have, dear," he said, screwing up his face, and opening and shutting one eye a great deal. "Of course she wouldn't take it from me, but she would from you, you know. Don't you see?"

"Oh, Bill dear, what a one you are!" cried little Miss Burge. "I'll go down to her at once."

"No," he said; "I must go. It's too late now; but another time you just mind, for you've got plenty of money for that I say, Betsey: I've got it, my dear--it's her mother!"

"What's her mother, Bill dear?"

"Spent the money, and she's took the blame," he cried triumphantly.

"Oh! I am glad, Bill. But oh, how clever you are, dear! How did you find it out?"

"It's just knowing a thing or two; that's all, Betsey. I've had jobs like this in connection with business before now. But I must be off."

"But won't you take me with you, Bill?"

He hesitated for a moment or two, and then said--

"Well, you may as well come, Betsey; but mind what you're about, and don't get making an offer, for fear of giving offence."

"Would it give offence, Bill?"

"Yes, if you didn't mind your p's and q's. You hold your tongue, and leave everything to me; but if I give you a hint, you're to take Miss Thorne aside and make her an offer."

"It's my belief that Bill will be making her an offer one of these days," thought little Miss Burge; "but she don't seem to be quite the sort of wife for him, if he is going to bring one home."

Mr William Forth Burge was not long in changing his coat and he met his sister in the hall, twirling his orange silk handkerchief round and round his already too glossy hat; after which they walked down arm-in-arm to the school, to find the head pupil-teacher in charge, and the girls unusually quiet, a fact due to the vicar being in the class-room, in company with George Canninge, both having arrived together, and then shaken hands warmly, and entered to have a look round the school.

Mr William Forth Burge and his sister both shook hands with the other visitors, and were then informed that Miss Thorne was suffering from a terribly bad headache. She had been very unwell, the pupil-teacher said, all the morning, and had been obliged to go and lie down.

Hereupon the visitors all began to fence, the object of their call being scrupulously kept in the background, and they one and all took a great deal of interest in the girls, and ended by going away all together, expressing their sorrow that poor Miss Thorne was so unwell.

The vicar and George Canninge walked up the town street together, after shaking hands with Mr and Miss Burge, and discussed politics till they parted; while Mr William Forth Burge, slowly followed with his sister, also talking politics but of a smaller kind, for they were the politics of the Plumton people, and the great man began to lay down the law according to his own ideas.

"They were both down there about that school money, Betsey, as sure as a gun. But just you look here: people think I'm soft because I come out with my money for charities and that sort of thing; but they never made a bigger mistake in their lives, if they think they can do just what they like with me; so there now."

"That they never did, Bill," assented his sister.

"I look upon them schools as good as mine, and if there's to be a row about this money, I mean to have a word in it, for I'm not a-going to have that poor young lady sat upon by no one. I've hit the nail on the head as sure as a gun, and if it isn't the old lady that's got her into a scrape, you may call me a fool."

"Which I never would, Bill," said little Miss Burge emphatically; and together they toddled back home.

CHAPTER THIRTY SIX.

SOMETHING BY POST.

It was a most extraordinary thing, but, probably from uneasiness, Mrs Thorne was the first down next morning. Hazel had had a sleepless night, and it was not till six o'clock that she dropped off to sleep heavily, and did not awaken till past eight, when, hot, feverish, and with her head thick and throbbing, she hurriedly dressed herself and went down.

Fate plays some strange tricks with us at times; and on this, the first morning for months that Hazel had not received the letters herself, Mrs Thorne was there to take them.

"Three letters for Hazel," she said to herself. "Dear me, how strange! Three letters, and all bearing the Plumton postmark!"

She changed the envelopes from hand to hand, and shuffled them in a fidgety way, as if they were cards.

"I feel very much displeased, for Hazel has no right to be receiving letters from gentlemen; and I am sure if Edward Geringer were here he would thoroughly approve of the course I take. She shall not have these letters at all. It is my duty as Hazel's mamma to suppress such correspondence. Often and often have I said to her, `Hazel, my child, under any circumstances never forget that you are a lady.'"

There was another close examination of the letters, and then Mrs Thorne went on--

"No young lady in my time would have ventured upon a clandestine correspondence with a gentleman; and now, to my horror as a mamma, I wake to the fact that my daughter is corresponding with three gentlemen at once. Oh, Hazel, Hazel, Hazel! it is a bitter discovery for me to make that a child of mine has been deceiving me. I wonder who they can be from."

Mrs Thorne laid the envelopes before her with the addresses uppermost.

"`Miss Thorne, The Schools, Plumton All Saints,' all addressed the same. This, then, is the reason why poor Edward Geringer has been refused."

Here there was another examination of the postmarks.

"Three gentlemen, and all living at Plumton. Now, really, Hazel, it is not proper. It is not ladylike. One gentleman would have been bad enough, in clandestine correspondence; though, perhaps, if there had been two it would be because she had not quite made up her mind. But three gentlemen! It is positively disgraceful, and I shall stop it at once!"

This time, in changing the position of the letters, Mrs Thorne turned them upside down.

"I remember at the time poor Thorne was paying me attentions how Mr Deputy Cheaply and Mr Meriton, of the Common Council, both wished to pay me attentions as well; but, no: I said it would not be correct. And I little thought, after all my efforts, that a child of mine would be so utterly forgetful of her self-respect as to behave like this. Ah, Hazel! Hazel! It is no wonder that the silver threads begin to appear fast in my poor hair."

Mrs Thorne placed the envelopes beneath her apron as the two children came bustling in, one with the cloth, and the other with the bread-trencher, to prepare the breakfast.

"Hazel's fast asleep, ma, and we're going to get breakfast ready ourselves."

"I'm sure I don't know why your sister can't come down, my dears," said Mrs Thorne pettishly. "It is very thoughtless of her, knowing, as she does, how poorly I am."

"Sis Hazy has got a very bad headache, mamma; and we dressed quietly and came down and lit the fire quite early."

"Oh, it was you lit the fire, was it!" said Mrs Thorne. "I thought it was one of the schoolgirls."

"No; it was us, ma dear; and when we've made the tea we're going to take poor Hazy a cup in bed."

"Whoever can these letters be from?" said Mrs Thorne to herself, as she turned them over and over in her hands, growing quite flushed and excited the while. "I declare I don't know when I have felt so hurt and troubled;" and going into the little parlour, leaving the children busy over the preparations, she once more examined them carefully, and ended by taking out her scissors.

"I don't care!" she exclaimed; "it is my duty as Hazel's mamma to watch over her, and I should not be doing that duty if I did not see who are the gentlemen who correspond with her."

Mrs Thorne hesitated a few minutes longer, and then the itching sensation of curiosity proved to be too much for the poor woman, and taking the pair of finely-pointed scissors, she slit open the three envelopes, and then started guiltily, thrust them into her pocket, and went into the kitchen.

"Did I hear Hazel coming down?" she said sharply.

"No, ma. Mab just went up and found her fast asleep."

Mrs Thorne went back into the parlour, hesitated a few moments longer, and then opened the first letter, to find that it contained five ten-pound notes, all new and crisp, and with them a sheet of note-paper bearing the words:--

"Will Miss Thorne accept the help of a very sincere friend?"

That was all.

"Well, I am sure!" exclaimed Mrs Thorne, staring at the crisp notes, re-reading the words upon the note-paper, and then hurriedly replacing notes and paper in the envelope. "Now, who can that be from?"

The second envelope was then opened, and, to Mrs Thorne's intense astonishment, it contained ten five-pound notes, also crisp and new, and with them the simple words:--

"With the hope that they may be useful. From a friend."

"I never did in all my life!" exclaimed Mrs Thorne, now beginning to perspire profusely, as she hurriedly replaced the second batch of notes, and then with trembling fingers opened the last envelope, which contained six five-pound notes, carefully enclosed in a second envelope, but without a word.

"Only thirty pounds," said Mrs Thorne, "only thirty, and without a word. Well, all I can say is, that whoever sent it is rather mean. Now, who can have sent these banknotes? Well, of course, it is on account of that paltry sum in school pence being required, and it is very kind, but I don't think I ought to allow Hazel to receive money like this. Really, it is a very puzzling thing, and I wish Edward Geringer was here."

The notes were returned to the third envelope, and Mrs Thorne sat there very thoughtful, and looking extremely perplexed.

"No; I certainly shall not let Hazel have this money. A girl at her time of life might be tempted into a great many follies of dress if she had it and I shall certainly keep it from her."

With a quiet self-satisfied smile, she placed the notes in her pocket and was in the act of rising, when she turned and saw Cissy at the door.

"Well, what is it?" said Mrs Thorne sharply.

"Breakfast's ready, ma dear; and I can hear Hazy dressing in such a hurry. Come and sit down, and let's all be waiting for her. It will be such fun. She will be so surprised when she comes down."

Mrs Thorne felt relieved, for she was afraid that the child had seen her with the notes, and that might have interfered with her plans.

"I'm sure it is quite time your sister was down, my dear," said the lady indignantly. "I don't know how she expects the wretched children she teaches to be punctual, if she is so late herself." And assuming an aspect of dignified, injured state, she seated herself at the table, the children smothering their mirth as they also sat down, one on either side, and watched the door.

Hazel hurried down directly after, to come hastily into the little kitchen, where, reading the children's faces, she felt the tears rush into her eyes with the emotion caused by the pleasant innocent surprise, and went and kissed them both before saluting her mother, who kept up her childish, injured air.

"Really, Hazel, my dear, I think when I do come down that you might study me a little, and not leave everything to these poor children. It comes very hard upon me, to see them driven to such menial duties, when their sister might place us all in a state of opulence. It seems very hard--very hard indeed."

Hazel glanced at her, but did not speak. There was that, however, in her eyes which told of mingled reproach and pity, emotions that the weak woman could not read, as she took the tea handed to her, sipping it slowly with an injured sigh.

"Were there any letters, mother!" said Hazel, when breakfast was half over and she had glanced at the clock, for Feelier Potts had been for the schoolroom key, and already there were distant echoing sounds of voices and footsteps in the great room, which told of the arrival of the scholars.

Mrs Thorne did not reply.

"Were there any letters, mother dear?" said Hazel again.

"Pass me the bread and butter, Mab, my child," said Mrs Thorne, colouring slightly, while Hazel looked at her with wonder.

"There were three letters for you, Hazy," cried Cissy sharply.

"Cissy! How dare you say such a thing?" cried Mrs Thorne.

"Please, ma, I met the postman when I went for the milk, and the postman told me so, and I saw him afterwards showing them to Mr Chute."

"You wicked--Oh, of course, yes. I forgot," said Mrs Thorne hastily, as she encountered her daughter's eye fixed upon her with such a look of reproach that she shivered, and in her abject weakness coloured like a detected schoolgirl.

"Will you give me the letters, mamma?" said Hazel, holding out her hand.

"Don't call me mamma like that, Hazel," said Mrs Thorne, with a weak attempt at holding her position; but her daughter's outstretched hand was sufficient to make her tremblingly take the letters from her pocket and pass them across the table.

"You have opened them, mamma!" said Hazel.

"Once more, Hazel, I must beg of you not to call me _mamma_ like that!" exclaimed Mrs Thorne. "I have always noticed that it is done when you are angry."

"I said you have opened them, mamma!"

"Of course I have, my dear. I should not be doing my duty as your mother if I did not see for myself who are the class of people with whom you hold clandestine correspondence."

"You know, mother," said Hazel firmly, "that I should never think of corresponding with any one without your approval."

"Then, pray, what do those letters mean?"

"I do not know," said Hazel quietly; and she opened them one by one, saw their contents, read the notes that accompanied two, and then, letting her face go down upon her hands she uttered a loud sob.

"Now, that is being foolish, Hazel," cried her mother. "Children, leave the table! Or, no, it will be better that your sister and I should retire. No; take your breakfasts into the other room, children, and I will talk to your sister here."

"Don't cry, Hazy," whispered Cissy, clinging to her sister affectionately.

"Don't speak cross to Hazel, please ma," whispered Mab.

"Silence, disobedient children!" cried the poor woman in tragic tones. "Leave the room, I desire."

Hazel felt cut to the heart with sorrow, misery, and despair. The increasing mental weakness of her mother, and her growing lack of moral appreciation of right and wrong, were agonising to her; and at that moment she felt as if this new trouble about the letters was a judgment upon her for opening those addressed to her mother, though it was done to save her from pain. To some people the airs and assumptions of Mrs Thorne would have been food for mirth; but to Hazel the mental pain was intense. Knowing what the poor woman had been previous to her troubles, this childishness was another pang; and often and often, when ready to utter words of reproach, she changed them to those of tenderness and consideration.

"Now, Hazel," said Mrs Thorne with dignity, "I am waiting for an explanation."

"An explanation, dear?" said Hazel, leaving her seat to place her arm affectionately round her mother's neck.

"Not yet, Hazel," said the poor woman, shrinking away. "I cannot accept your caresses till I have had a proper explanation about those letters."

"My dear mother, I can give you no explanation."

"What! do you deny that you are corresponding with three different gentlemen at once?"

"Yes, mother dear. Is it likely?" said Hazel, smiling.

"Don't treat the matter with levity, Hazel. I cannot bear it! Who are those letters from?"

"I do not know, dear; though I think I could guess."

"Then I insist upon knowing."

"My dear mother, I can only think they are from people who know of my trouble about the school."

"You did not write and ask for help, Hazel?"

"No, mother. No; I should not have done such a thing."

"Then tell me at once who would send to you like that."

"Mother dear, can you not spare me this?"

"I never did see such a strange girl in my life as you are, Hazel. Well, never mind; I dare say I can bear another slight or two if you will not tell me. There, I suppose you must pay that wretched school money out of those notes."

"Out of these, mother?"

"Of course, child. Why, what are you thinking now?"

"Mother dear, it is impossible."

"Impossible, child! Why, what romantic notion have you taken into your head now?"

"It is no romance, mother; it is reality," sighed Hazel.

"Then what are you going to do?"

"Return the money to the givers as soon as I can be certain where to send."

"Return it? What! that money, when you know how urgently it is needed at home?"

"Yes, dear."

"And how is that school money to be paid?"

Hazel was silent.

"I declare, Hazel," cried Mrs Thorne, "your behaviour is quite preposterous, and the absurdity of your ideas beyond belief. Do, pray, leave off these foolish ways and try to behave like a sensible--There now, I declare her conduct is quite shocking: running off like that without saying `Good morning,' or `May I leave the room, mamma?' Dear, dear me, I have come down in the world indeed."

For Hazel had suddenly left the room--nine o'clock striking--and the idea strongly impressing itself upon her mind that so sure as she happened to be late some one or another would kindly inform Miss Lambent if she did not realise it for herself.

CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN.

HAZEL THORNE SEEKS HELP.

As soon as Hazel Thorne had fairly started the school that morning, she took out the envelopes and studied each handwriting fairly to see if she could make out who were the senders of the letters.

That she found she could not do, but in her own mind she set down the writers aright, and a bitter feeling of shame and humiliation came upon her as she felt that those who sent would never have dreamed of making such a present to any one they respected. It looked to her like charity, and her face burned as she indignantly longed to return the envelopes and notes to their senders.

She knew that there had been the three gentlemen visitors to the school while she was absent upon the previous afternoon, and though it was possible that they might have been down to speak to her respecting her failure of trust, her heart told her that it was not; and now her mother's strong desire to leave the place seemed to have come upon her in turn, and she felt that she would give anything to be a hundred miles away from Plumton and at peace.

She tried to win forgetfulness by devoting herself to the various classes, but in vain; every step she heard seemed to be a visitor coming to ask her about the money not paid, and every subject she took up suggested the notes now lying in her pocket.

Twice over she went to her desk and there wrote a brief letter of thanks to Mr William Forth Burge, but she tore it up directly; and she dared not write one to George Canninge, nor yet to the vicar, from whom she was sure the other amounts had come.

Just in the middle of one of her greatest fits of depression there was a knock at the door, and she dreaded that it might be the vicar, while if it had been George Canninge she felt that she dared not have faced him.

Her heart gave a throb of relief as she heard the familiar tones of Mr William Forth Burge, and the next throb was one of gratitude as she knew that he had had the delicacy to bring his sister with him. Then there was a depressing feeling as she felt that they would show by their manner how displeased and disappointed they were at her breach of trust.

Here she was wrong again, for her visitors' greeting was warm in the extreme, and with the reaction a sensation of oppression robbed her of the power of speech; while had she not tried hard she would have burst into a passionate flood of tears.

"We were so sorry to hear of your bad headache, my dear," said little Miss Burge affectionately, "and really I don't think you ought to be here now. Your poor eyes look as red as red, and you are quite pale and feverish."

"So she is," said Mr William Forth Burge. "Why, Betsey, there ought to be a holiday, so that Miss Thorne could take a day or two's rest."

"No, no, Mr Burge; I am better," said Hazel, speaking excitedly; for the kindly consideration of these people had taken away all resentment, all pride, and she felt that she was with friends. "Mr William Forth Burge--"

"No, no; plain Mr Burge or William Burge to me, Miss Thorne. I don't want a long name from you."

"Mr Burge--Miss Burge, yesterday I could not have spoken to you upon this subject, but your kindness--"

"There, there, there; don't say a word about it," he replied quickly. "I know all, and it was an accident."

"An accident?"

"Yes, my dear," broke in little Miss Burge. "Bill talked it over to me last night, and--Now, you won't be offended, my dear?"

"Nothing you could say would offend me," cried Hazel eagerly.

"No, of course not, my dear. Well, my brother said to me, `depend upon it, Betsey, her poor ma wanted the money for housekeeping or something, and just used it. That's all.'"

"And he has humiliated me by this letter that I received by post."

"Don't call it humiliation, my dear," cried Miss Burge; "it was only sent out of civility to you as one of our neighbours whom we like, and that's what it means."

Hazel hesitated for a few moments, and then, in her loneliness and isolation, she clung to the hands outstretched to help her.

"Mr Burge--Miss Burge, I am so lonely and helpless here. You have heard about the school pence, but I cannot tell you why the amount was wanting. Give me your help and counsel."

"Then will you let me help you?"

"I shall be most grateful if you will," cried Hazel.

"Hullo!" shouted Burge, staring up at the partition. "What are you a-doing there?"

"The shutter slipped down a little, sir," said Mr Chute loudly. "Trying to close it, sir. That's it!" and the shutter closed with a snap.

"Oh, that's it, is it?" said Mr William Forth Burge angrily. "I don't know as that is it, Mr Chute." But Mr Chute had by this time fastened the shutter, and had descended from his coign of vantage, looking very red and feeling terribly mortified at having been detected. "He was listening; that's about what he was doing."

There was a buzz of excitement amongst the children, but it subsided directly, and Hazel placed at a venture the envelope which she believed to have come from her visitor in his hands.

"You sent that to me, Mr Burge," said Hazel firmly.

"Well, it was me, as you know, Miss Thorne; and you won't hurt our feelings by refusing it, will you?"

"I could not take it, sir; but I do appreciate your goodness all the same. Now help me to decide who sent me these letters."

Hazel's visitors looked at each other, then at the envelopes, and then back at Hazel.

"Do you want me to say who sent those two letters?" said Mr William Forth Burge gloomily.

"I should be very grateful if you could, sir."

"This one's from Mr Canninge, at Ardley, I should say; and the other's the parson's writing, I feel sure. If they've sent you money, Miss Thorne, of course you won't want mine--ours."

It was an endorsement of her own opinion, and for the moment Hazel did not notice the dull, heavy look on her visitor's face as she exclaimed--

"I have no doubt these gentlemen had kindly intentions, but I cannot take their help, and I want to see whether I might risk a mistake in returning the notes."

"Oh, I think I'd return 'em," said Mr William Forth Burge eagerly. "I'd risk its being a mistake. Even if it _was_, your conduct would be right."

Hazel looked at him intently, and then bowed her head in acquiescence.

"Yes," she said thoughtfully, "I will risk its being a mistake. Or no: Mr Burge, will you be my friend in my present helpless state? I ask you to return the notes on my behalf."

"That's just what I will do," he cried excitedly, for it seemed to him that he had won the day.

CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT.

MR WILLIAM FORTH BURGE IS INDIGNANT.

You may make money, and you may turn philanthropist giving right and left, letting not either hand know what the other doeth; but if you think you are going to make innumerable friends by so doing, you are mistaken, for you will most likely make enemies.

You will excite jealousy amongst your equals, because you have passed them in the race; your superiors, as they call themselves, will condemn you, and hold you in contempt for trying, as they say, to climb to their level; and even the recipients of your bounty will be offended.

Mrs Dilly will think that Miss Bolly's half-pound of tea was better than hers, and old Tom Dibley will be sure to consider the piece of beef his neighbour, Joe Stocks, received "a better cut" than his own.

It was so with Mr William Forth Burge, who gave a great deal of beef to the poor--it was in his way--and who was constantly giving offence by presenting one poor family with better "cuts" than others; and he knew it, too.

"I tell you what, Betsey," he said, rubbing his ear with vexation, one day, "it's my full belief that nature made a regular mistake in bullocks. There ought to be no legs and shins, or clods or stickings, my dear, but every beast ought to be all sirloin; though it's my belief, old girl, that if it was, and you let 'em have it full of gravy, and sprinkled with nice white scraped horse-radish on the top, they wouldn't be satisfied, but would say the quality was bad."

"There, never mind, Bill dear," said his comforter; "some people always would be ungrateful. Old Granny Jinkins is just as bad. She said yesterday that the nice, warm, soft, new flannel jacket I made for her myself was not half so nice and warm as one I gave to Nancy Dean."

"Yes, that's just the way," said Mr William Forth Burge. "The more you help people, the more they turns again' you. I often wish I'd never made a penny; for what's the good of it all but to help other people, and be grumbled at afterwards for not helping 'em more?"

"Oh, but all people ain't the same, dear."

"There ain't much difference, Betsey. Here's old Mrs Thorne quite hates me; that boy thinks I'm a reg'lar cad; and Miss Thorne's turning the same way."

"That I'm sure she's not!" cried little Miss Burge, starting up and speaking angrily, with her face flushed, "Miss Hazel Thorne's as good as gold, and she thinks you the best of men; and I declare, Bill, that you ought to be ashamed of yourself, and I don't know what you don't deserve. It's too bad. There!"

"Thanky, Betsey, my dear. That seems to do me good. I like to hear you speak out like that. But do you really think she likes me?"

"I'm sure she does, Bill, and there ain't no think in the matter; and there, for goodness' sake, don't you settle down into a grumbler, Bill, because you've got no cause to be, I'm sure."

"Well, I don't know, Betsey," he said, stirring his tea slowly. "Things don't seem to go right. I thought, seeing what I'd done for the schools, I ought to have a pretty good voice in everything, but because I've spent hundreds and hundreds over 'em it seems just why I'm to be opposed. Here's Chute: I showed the committee that he was a miserable spy of a fellow, not content with watching Miss Thorne, but putting it about that she was carrying on with different people in the place and gentlemen from town, just out of spite like, as Lambent agrees with me, because the poor gal wouldn't notice him. Well, I want him dismissed or made to resign."

"Well, and isn't he to go?"

"Go! Lor' bless you! Why, the committee's up in arms to keep him; and just on account of that school-pence job, as the poor gal couldn't help at all, they'd have dismissed her if she hadn't said she'd resign."

"Oh, Bill, it's much too bad!"

"Bad ain't nothing to it, my dear. I've been fighting hard for her stopping, and sending her resignation back; but neither Lambent nor Squire George Canninge won't interfere, and I'm left to fight it all out, and they're beating me."

"And why didn't you tell me all this before, Bill?" said Miss Burge.

"Oh, I hadn't the heart to talk about it, my dear," replied her brother. "It's all worry and vexation, that it is, and I wish I'd never done nothing for the schools at all."

"Don't say that, Bill, when you've done so much good."

"But I do say it," he cried angrily. "Here is everybody setting themselves again' me, and it's all jealousy because I've got on. I never asked no favours of 'em before; it's all been give, give; and now they show what they're all made of. It's all horse-leeches' daughters with 'em, that's what it is, and I wish Plumton All Saints was burnt. All Saints indeed!" he cried indignantly; "it's all devils, and no saints in it at all."

"But can't Mr Lambent settle it?"

"No, he couldn't if he'd moved; and those two cats--there, I can't call 'em anything else--who are always going about preaching charity and love to the poor people, and giving 'em `Dairyman's Daughters' instead of beef or tea, have been setting every one again' the poor gal, and they're at the bottom of it all I know. They hate her like poison."

"Well, I don't know about as bad as poison," said little Miss Burge thoughtfully; "but they don't like her, and I don't think that Mrs Canninge likes her either."

"No, I'm sure she don't; but I don't care," said Mr William Forth Burge furiously. "I'm not beaten, and if that poor girl will stand by us, I'll stand by her, to the last shilling I've got."

"That's right, Bill!" cried little Miss Burge enthusiastically, "for I do like her ever so; and the good, patient way in which she puts up with the fine airs and silly ways of her ma makes me like her more and more. I haven't got a very bad temper, have I, Bill?"

"I think you've got a regular downright good 'un, Betsey," said her brother, looking at her admiringly.

"Well, Bill, do you know if I was to go there much, Mrs Thorne would make me a regular spitfire. She gives me the hot creeps with her condescending, high-and-mighty ways. She's come down in the world. Well, suppose she has. So's thousands more, but they don't--they don't--"

"Howl," said Mr William Forth Burge, "that's it; they don't howl. Lor a mussy me, what difference do it make? Do you know, Betsey, I believe I was just as happy when I first started business on my own account; and I'm sure I thought a deal more of my first new cart, with brass boxes and patent axles, painted chocklit--it was picked out with yallar--than I did of our new carriage, here, and pair. Ah! and my first mare, as I only give fifteen pun for, could get over the ground better than either of these for which I give two hundred because they was such a match."

"There, now, you're beginning to grumble again, Bill, and I won't have it. You've grown to be a rich man, all out of your own cleverness, and you ought to be very proud of of it; and if you're not, I am."

"But, you see, Betsey, I ain't so happy as I thought I should be."

"Then you ought to be, seeing how happy you can make other folks; and oh, Bill, by-the-way, them Potts's are in trouble."

"Well, that ain't nothing new. Potts always is in trouble. He ought to have been christened Beer Potts or Pewter Potts, though they don't know what a pewter pot is down in this part of the world."

"That's better, Bill; now you're beginning to joke," said little Miss Burge, smiling, "But you'll do something for the Potts's?"

"I'll never do nothing for anybody else again in the place," said Mr William Forth Burge; "a set of ungrateful beggars. What's the matter with Potts? Been tipsy again?"

"I'm afraid he has, Bill; but that isn't it. They've got the fever there; that big, saucy girl, Feelier, is down with it and the poor mother wants money badly."

"Why don't she work for it, then?"

"Oh, she do, Bill; she's the most hard-working woman in the place."

Mr William Forth Burge's hand went into his pocket, and he brought out five pounds, to place them in his sister's hand.

"I wouldn't give it her all at once, dear," he said; "but a pound at a time like. It makes it do more good."

Little Miss Burge had the tears in her eyes as she gave her brother a sounding smack on either cheek.

"Now, don't you pretend again, Bill, that you ain't happy here," she said, "for ain't it nice to be able to do a bit of good like this now and then?"

"Of course it is," he replied, "but they only jumps on you afterwards. Here we're going to do this, and p'r'aps save that child's life; and as soon as she gets well the first thing she'll do will be to make faces at your back in the school, as I've seen her do on Sundays over and over again."

"Oh, I don't mind, Bill."

"But you're not going to the house where that gal's ill?"

"Oh no, Bill dear; I won't go down. Don't you be afraid about that. And look here; you make a big fight of it, and beat 'em about Miss Thorne."

"I'm going to," he replied. "But I say, Betsey," he continued, half turning away his face.

"Yes, Bill."

"Should--should--"

Mr William Forth Burge's collar seemed to be very tight, for he thrust, one finger between it and his neck, and gave it a tug before continuing hoarsely--

"I never keep anything from you, Betsey?"

"No, Bill, you don't. You always was a good brother."

"Should--should you mind it much, Betsey, if I was to--to--get married?"

Little Miss Burge stood gazing at him silently for some minutes, and then she said softly--

"No, Bill; I don't think I should. Not if it was some one nice, who would make you very happy."

"She is very nice, and she would make me very happy," he said slowly. "But, Betsey--my--dear--do--you--think--she'd--have me?"

Mr William Forth Burge's words came very slowly indeed at last, and he rested his arms upon his knees and sat in a bent position, looking down at the carpet as if waiting to hear what was a sentence of great moment to his life.

"Bill dear, I know who you mean, of course," said the little woman at last, tearfully. "I don't know. She likes you, for she told me she did; but I shouldn't be your own true sister if I didn't say that p'r'aps it's only as a friend; and that ain't love, you know, Bill, is it?"

"No," he said softly; "no, Betsey; you're quite right, dear. But I'm going to try, and--and I'm only a common sort of a chap, dear--if she says no, I'm going to try and bear it like a man."

"That's my own dear--dear--O Bill, look; if there she isn't coming up to the house!"

And little Miss Burge ran off to hide her tears.

CHAPTER THIRTY NINE.

WILLIAM FORTH BURGE MAKES LOVE.

Mr William Forth Burge's heart gave a big throb, and his red face assumed a mottled aspect as he went out to the front to welcome Hazel Thorne, who shook hands warmly; and her pale face lit up with a pleasant smile as he drew her hand through his arm and led her into the handsome breakfast-room, his heart big with what he wished to say, while he asked himself how he was to say it, and shrank trembling from the task.

"Yes, my sister's quite well," he said, in answer to a question. "She'll be here directly; and I hope the little girls are quite well. When may they come and spend the day?"

"It is very kind of you, Mr Burge," said Hazel, giving him a grateful look; "but I think they had better not come."

"Oh! I say, don't talk like that," he cried. "My dear Miss Thorne--"

He could get no farther. He had made up his mind to declare his love, but his heart failed as he mentally told himself it would be madness to ask such a thing of one so different to himself.

"She'll go away again, and I shall have said nothing," he thought. "It can't never be, for she's too young and nice for me." And then, as is often the case, the opportunity came, and, to his own astonishment, William Forth Burge said, simply and honestly, all that was in his heart leaving him wondering, in spite of his pain, that he had spoken so truthfully and well.

"You have always been so kind, Mr Burge," began Hazel, "that I shrink from letting you think I impose upon your good nature; but one of my girls is down with a very serious illness, and I have come to ask you to help her poor mother in her time of trial."

"Help her? Why, of course," he cried, leaving his chair and crossing to take Hazel's hands. "Is there anything I wouldn't do if you asked me, Miss Thorne? My dear, don't think I'm purse-proud--because I tell you I'm a rich man; for I only say it so as you may know there's plenty to do good with; and if you'll come to me, my dear, and let it be yours or ours, or whatever you like to call it--there it is. You shall do as you like, and I'll try, and I know Betsey will, to make you as happy as we can."

"Mr Burge!" cried Hazel piteously as she rose to her feet.

"Just a minute," he pleaded. "It isn't nothing new. It's been growing ever since you come down here. Don't be offended with me. I know I'm twice as old as you, and more, and I'm very ordinary; but that don't keep me from loving you very, very dear."

"Don't--pray don't say any more, Mr Burge," cried Hazel appealingly. "I--I cannot bear it."

"No, no; don't go yet, my dear," he cried. "If you only knew what a job it has been to work myself up to say this, you wouldn't be so hard as to stop me."

"Hard! Pray don't call it hard, Mr Burge. I grieve to stop you, for you have been so truly kind to me ever since I came."

"Well, that isn't saying much; my dear. Betsey and me was kind--I say that ain't right, is it? I know now--Betsey and I was kind because we always liked you, and I thought it would be so nice if some day or other you could think me good enough to be your husband."

"Dear Mr Burge, you cut me to the heart, for I seem as if I were so ungrateful to you after all that you have done."

"Oh, no!" he said quickly; "you're not ungrateful. You're too pretty and good to do anything unkind."

"Mr Burge!"

"You see, it is like this, my dear. I'm not much of a fellow; I never was."

"You have been the truest and kindest of friends, Mr Burge; and I esteem you very much."

"No! Do you, though?" he cried, brightening up and smiling. "Well, that does me good. I like to hear you say that, because I know you wouldn't say anything that was not true."

"Indeed, I would not Mr Burge," said Hazel, laying her hand upon his arm; and he took it quietly, and held it between both of his.

"All the same, though," he went on dolefully, "I am not much of a fellow, though I've been a very lucky one. I never used to think anything about the gals--the ladies, and they never took no notice of me, and I went on making money quite fast. I used to think of how prime it would be to have a grand house and gardeners down here at Plumton, and how Betsey would enjoy it; and then what a happy time I should have; but somehow it hasn't turned out so well as I thought it would. You see, I've been a butcher--not a killing butcher, you know, but a selling butcher; and though the gentry's very kind and patronising, and make speeches and no end of fuss about everything I do or say, I know all the time that they think I'm a tradesman, and always will be, no matter how rich I am."

"But I'm sure people esteem you very much, Mr Burge."

"No," he said, shaking his head sadly, "they don't. It's the money they think of. You esteem me, my dear, because you've just told me so, and nothing but the truth never came out of those pretty little lips. They don't think much of me. Why should they, seeing what a common-looking sort of fellow I am? No: don't shake your head, because you know it as well as I do. I ain't a gentleman, and if I'd twenty million times as much money it wouldn't make a gentleman of me."

"And I say you are a gentleman, Mr Burge--a true, honest, nature's gentleman, such as no birth, position, or appearance could make."

"No, no, no, my dear," he said sadly; "I'm only a common man, who has been lucky and grown rich--that's all."

"I say that you are a true gentleman, Mr Burge," she cried again, "and that you are showing it by your tender respect and consideration for a poor, helpless, friendless girl."

"No: that you ain't, my dear," he cried with spirit; "not friendless; for as long as God lets William Forth Burge breathe on this earth, with money or without money, you've got a friend as'll never forsake you, or say an unkind--lor', just as if one could say an unkind word to you; I couldn't even give you an unkind look. Why, I don't, even now, when what you've said has cut me to the heart."

"I couldn't--I couldn't help it, Mr Burge," she cried.

"I suppose you couldn't, my dear; but if you could have said _yes_ to me, and been my little wife--it isn't money as I care to talk about to you--but the way in which I'd reglar downright worship you, and care for them as belongs to you, and the way in which you should do everything you liked, and have what you liked--There, I get lost with trying to think about it," he said dolefully, "and I go all awkward over my grammar, as you, being a schoolmistress, must see, and make myself worse and worse in your eyes, and ten times more common than ever."

"No, no, no!" she cried excitedly; "I never, never thought half so much of you before, Mr Burge, as I do now. I never realised how true a gentleman you were, and how painful it would be to say to you what I now say. I do appreciate it--I do know how kind and generous you are to wish to make me your wife--now, in this time of bitter disgrace."

"Tchah!" he cried contemptuously; "who cares for the disgrace? I'd just as soon believe that the sun and moon had run up again' one another in the night as that you had taken the beggarly school pence. Don't say another word about it, my dear: it makes me mad, as I told Miss Rebecca and Miss Beatrice yesterday. I said it was a pack of humbugging lies, and they ought to be ashamed of themselves for believing it. I know who had--"

"Hush! oh, pray hush!" cried Hazel piteously.

"All right, my dear, mum's the word; but don't you never say no word to me again about you having taken the money. It's insulting William Forth Burge, that's what it is."

Hazel looked up sadly in his face, which was now scarlet with excitement.

"I thank you, Mr Burge," she said simply; and then, smiling, "Am I not right in saying that you are a true gentleman?"

"No, no no, my dear; you are not right," he replied sorrowfully.

"But I am!" she cried.

"No, my dear, no; but I know you think you are; and if--if you could go on thinking that I was just a little like a gentleman, you'd make me very happy indeed, for I do think a deal of you."

"It is no thought--no fancy, Mr Burge; but the truth."

"And if some day--say some day ever so far off--though it would be a pity to put it off long, for a fellow at my age don't improve by keeping--I say if by-and-by--"

"Mr Burge--dear Mr Burge--"

"I say--say that again."

"Mr Burge," said Hazel, laying her hands in his; "you have told me you loved me, and asked me to be your wife."

"Yes," he said, kissing her hand reverently, "and it's been like going out of my sphere."

"It would be cruel of me not to speak plainly to you."

"Yes," he said dejectedly, "it would; though it's very hard when a man's been filling himself full of hope to find it all go--right off at once."

"It is my fate to bring misery and trouble amongst people," she sobbed, "and I would have given anything to have spared you this. I respect and esteem you, Mr Burge, more than I can find words to say; but I could never love you as your wife."

He dropped the hand he held, and turned slowly away that she might not see the workings of his face; and then, laying his arms upon the mantelpiece, he let his head go down, and for the next few minutes he stood there, with his chest heaving, crying softly like a broken-hearted child.

"I cannot bear it," muttered Hazel, as she wrung her hands and gazed wildly about the sumptuously furnished room, as if in search of help; for the troubles of the past had told upon her nerves. She felt hysterical, and could not keep back her own tears, which at last burst forth in a wild fit of passionate sobbing, as she sank into the nearest chair and covered her face with her hands.

This roused her suitor, who took out his flaming orange handkerchief, and used it freely and simply, finishing off, after he had wiped his eyes, with a loud and sonorous blow of his nose.

"'Tain't being a man!" he said, in a low tone. "I'm 'bout ashamed of myself. It's weak and stoopid, and what will she think?"

His face was very red now, but a bright, honest glow came into his eyes, and his next act showed how truly Hazel had judged his character and seen beneath the surface of the man. For, giving himself a sounding blow upon the chest, he pulled himself together, and the odd appearance, the vulgarity, all passed away as he crossed to where Hazel sat, weeping and sobbing bitterly.

"Don't you cry, my dear," he said softly, as he stretched out one heavy hand and touched her gently and reverently upon the arm. "I beg your pardon for what I've said, though I'm not sorry; for it's made us understand one another, and wakened me up from a foolish dream."

There was something in his voice that soothed Hazel, and the sobs grew less violent.

"It wasn't natural or right, and I ought to have known better than to have expected it; but they say every man gets his foolish fit some time or other in his life, and though mine was a long time coming, it came very strong at last. It's all quite over, my dear, and I know better now, and I'm going to ask you to say once more that common, vulgar sort of fellow as I am, you are going to look upon me as your friend."

"Common!" cried Hazel hysterically, for the bonds that she had maintained for weeks had given way at last, and her woman's weakness had resulted in tears and sobs. "Common!--vulgar! No, no!"

She caught his hands in hers and pressed them to her lips. Then she would have sunk upon her knees and asked his pardon for the pain she had unwittingly caused, but he caught her in his arms and held her helplessly sobbing to his breast.

They neither of them were aware that the drawing-room door was opened, and that Miss Burge and Rebecca Lambent had entered, the former to look tearfully on, the latter indignant as she muttered, "Shameless creature!" between her teeth.

"What! have you made matters up, then, Bill?" cried Miss Burge excitedly as she ran forward. "Oh, my dear, my dear!"

Her tears were flowing fast as she paused before them, trying to extricate her handkerchief from an awkward pocket and arrested by her brother's words.

"Yes, Betsey, we've made it up all right," he said.

"I--I didn't think it," sobbed Miss Burge.

"No," he said; "and it isn't as you think, for this is our very, very dear young friend, Betsey, and--and as I'm plenty old enough to be her father, Hazel Thorne's going to let me act by her like one, and stand by her through thick and thin, in spite of all that the world may say, including you, Miss Lambent." He spoke proudly, as he drew Hazel closer to his breast, and stood there softly stroking her hair, with so frank and honest a light shining out of his eyes that it brightened the whole man.

"Sir!" exclaimed Rebecca.

"Madam!" he cried, "I don't want to be rude; but, as your company can't be pleasant to Miss Hazel Thorne, I'd take it kindly if you'd go."

"And I was ready to forget my position and marry a man like this," muttered Rebecca as she walked down to the gate. "Oh, that creature! She came upon Plumton like a curse."

"Betsey, my dear," said Mr William Forth Burge, speaking to his sister, but speaking at Hazel, "you and me never had anything kept from one another, and please God we never will, so I'll tell you. I've been asking Miss Hazel Thorne here to be my wife."

"Yes, Bill dear, I know--I know," sobbed little Miss Burge.

"And while I've been asking her, it came over me like that I was wrong to ask her, and that it wouldn't be natural and right."

"Oh, Bill dear!"

"She's been so good and tender, and kind and sensible, that it's been like taking the scales from before my eyes, and been a sort of lesson to me; and somehow, my dear, I feel as if I was a different sort of man to what I was before. I'm not a speaker, and I can't express myself as I should like to; but what I want to say is, that I feel as if I was more of a man and a bit wiser than I was."

"Oh, Bill dear!"

"I'm getting on fast for fifty, Betsey dear, and Miss Thorne here--I should like to say Hazel Thorne here--is only two-and-twenty or thereabouts, and she's going to be like our own child from now, if she will, and we're going to try and keep away troubles for the future till she wants to go away. And now we won't say any more about it, but let things settle down. Stop a minute, though, Hazel Thorne, my dear; you've made me a gentleman, and we shall be friends."

For answer Hazel left Miss Burge, who had been sitting by her with her arm round her waist, and, placing her hand in his, she looked him full in the eyes, seeing no longer the homeliness of the man, hearing no more his illiterate speech, but gazing as it were straight into his simple honest kindly heart. She hesitated for a moment, and then, reaching up she kissed, him as a child would kiss one she loved.

CHAPTER FORTY.

"I WANT TEACHER."

One low, weary, incessant cry in the shabby, sloping-roofed, whitewashed room.

The place was scrupulously clean; there was not so much as a speck upon the windows; but the chamber was miserably bare. One well-worn, damaged rush-chair was beside the worm-eaten, stump bedstead, a box supported a chipped white jug and basin, and an old sack unsewn and opened out formed the carpet. The only other article of furniture was a thin, very old, white scrap of dimity curtain half drawn across the lead lattice-paned window upon a piece of tape.

And from the bed arose that one weary, constant cry from between the fevered, cracked lips, night and day--

"I want teacher to come!"

For there was no mischief dancing in her unnaturally bright eyes; the restless hands were not raised to play some trick; the face was not drawn up in some mocking grimace: all was pitiful, and pinched, and sad; for poor Feelier Potts lay sick unto death, and it seemed as if at any moment the dark shadow would float forth from the open window, bearing one more sleeping spirit away.

"I want teacher!--I want teacher!"--night and day that weary, weary burden, ever in the same unreasoning strain; and it was in vain that the poor rough mother, softened now in face of this terrible trouble, sought to give comfort.

"But she can't come now, my bairn--she can't come. Oh, do be quiet-- do!"

"I want teacher--I want teacher to come."

Unreasoning ever--for poor Feelier was almost beyond reasoning--there was one great want in her shadowed mind, and it found vent between her lips for the first days loudly, then painfully low, and at last in a hoarse murmur, but always the same--

"I want teacher to come."

"I won't come anigh you to speak, miss, for it wouldn't be right," sobbed poor, broken-down Mrs Potts, weak now and worn out, as she stood at the cottage gate, after making signs for Hazel to come to the door. For nights past she had been watching by her child's couch, while her husband had kept watch at the public-house till it was shut, and then he had slept in a barn. For he had only one body, and he was terribly afraid lest it should be stricken by the sore disease.

"I am not afraid of the infection, Mrs Potts," said Hazel kindly. "You look worn out; let me give you a cup of tea."

"My dear Hazel," said Mrs Thorne from the kitchen, where she was seated at the evening meal, "what are you going to do?"

"Good, if I can, mother," said Hazel simply, and she filled a cup and took it out to the half-fainting woman, who looked her thanks, for she could not speak for some minutes.

"There, miss, and God bless you for it," she said, handing back the cup. "I felt I must come and tell you, miss, for--for it seems as if she couldn't die till you had been."

"Does she ask for me so?" said Hazel.

"She asks for nothing else, miss. It's always `I want teacher,' and-- and I thought miss--if you'd come to the house--if it was only to stand on the other side of the road--the window's open, miss, and she could hear you, and if you was just to say, `I'm here, Feelier!' or, `go to sleep, there's a good girl!' it would quiet her like, and then she'd be able to die."

"Oh, pray don't speak like that!" cried Hazel. "Let us hope that she will live."

"I don't know what for, miss," said the wretched woman despondently. "Only to live to have a master who'd beat and ill-use her, and make her slave to keep his bairns. I did think I'd like her to live, but the Lord knows best and He's going to take her away."

"I'll come on and see her," said Hazel quietly. "Poor child! I was in hopes that she was going to amend. Wait for me here till I get my hat, and I will come."

"What are you going to do, my dear?" exclaimed Mrs Thorne as Hazel passed through the room.

"I am going to see one of my children, mother," she replied quietly.

"Not that dreadful Feelier Potts, Hazel?"

"Hush, dear! The child is dangerously ill, and her mother can hear your words."

"But it would be madness to go. It is an infectious disease."

"I feel, dear, as if it is my duty to go," replied Hazel, with a curious, far-off look in her eyes; and without another word she followed to the little low cottage by the side of the road.

"There, miss, if you'd stand there I think you could hear her. You see the window's open. I'll go upstairs and stir her up like, and then you speak, and--"

"I want teacher! When will she come?"

The words came in a low, harsh tone plainly to Hazel's ears, and with a sigh she walked straight up to the door. "But you hadn't better go anigh her. The doctor said--"

"It will not hurt me," said Hazel quietly.

"Well, miss, if you wouldn't mind, it would do her a power of good, I'm sure. This way, miss," and she led her visitor through the room where she had been washing, to the awkward, well-worn staircase, and up this to poor Feelier's blank-looking room.

"I want teacher!--I want teacher!" came the weary burden as Hazel walked up to the bedside, shocked at the way in which the poor girl had changed.

"I want teacher! When will she come?" came again from the cracked lips as Hazel sank upon her knees by the bedside.

"I am here, my child," she said softly, as the burning head was tossed wearily from side to side.

The effect was electrical. The thin arms that had been lying upon the coverlet were raised, and with one ejaculation they were flung round the visitor's neck, the poor child nestling to her with a cry of joy.

"My poor child!" cried Hazel tenderly. And the weary iteration was heard no more.

"She never made that ado over me," said the mother discontentedly; but no one seemed to heed her, and she stole downstairs to her work, but came up from time to time to find poor Feelier sleeping softly in Hazel's arms, her head upon her breast. And when Mrs Potts attempted to unloose the clinging hands that were about "teacher's neck," the girl uttered a passionate, impatient cry, and clung the tighter to one who seemed to have come to bring her hope of life.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

"It was very imprudent of you to come, Miss Thorne," said the doctor. "I heard you were here from Mr William Forth Burge. He is waiting below. Suppose you try to lay her down; she seems to be asleep."

Asleep or awake, poor Feelier would not be separated from her friend, and the doctor unwillingly owned at last that it would be undoing a great deal of good to force her away.

"You have given her a calm sense of rest, for which in her delirium she has been so long striving. I must confess that you have done her more good than I."

"She will go to sleep soon, perhaps," said Hazel, "and then leave me of her own accord."

"And then?" said the doctor.

"I can return home, and come again when she asks for me."

"I'm afraid, Miss Thorne, that you have not thought of the probable consequences of returning home," said the doctor. "You have young sisters there, and your mother. My dear young lady, it would be exceedingly imprudent to go."

For the first time the consequences of her step occurred to Hazel, and she looked aghast at the speaker.

"Then there is the school, Miss Thorne. I think, as a medical man, it is my duty to forbid your going there again for some time to come. Yes, I see you look at me, but I am only a hardened medical man. I go everywhere, and somehow one escapes a great portion of the ills one goes to cure."

There was no help for it, and after coming as an act of kindness to see the poor girl who had cried for her so incessantly, Hazel found herself literally a prisoner, and duly installed in the bedroom as her sick scholar's nurse.

CHAPTER FORTY ONE.

BROTHER AND SISTERS--REFINED.

There was a good deal of conversation about it at the Vicarage, where it became known through a visit paid by Rebecca and Beatrice to the school, and their coming back scandalised at finding it in charge only of the pupil-teachers, who explained the reason of Hazel's absence, and that she had sent a message to Mr Chute, asking him if he would raise one of the shutters, and give an eye occasionally to the girls' school, which was, however, in so high a state of discipline now that the pupil-teachers were able to carry it on passably well.

"And of course Mr Chute has done so?" said Miss Lambent.

"No, please 'm; he said he had plenty to do with his own school," replied one pupil-teacher.

"And he wouldn't do anything of the sort," said the other.

"What a disgraceful state of affairs, Beatrice!" exclaimed Miss Lambent; and the sisters hurried away to acquaint their brother with the last piece of news.

"I suppose, with a person of her class, one can only expect the same conduct that one would receive from a servant," said Beatrice acidly.

"I do not understand you, Beatrice," said her brother.

"I mean, Henry, that now she has resigned or received her dismissal, we shall only get the same amount of inattention that one would from a discharged servant."

"For my part," said the vicar, "I think that Miss Thorne is being hardly dealt with."

"Absurd, Henry!" said Miss Lambent. "We cannot say a word to you but you take Miss Thorne's part."

"Why not, when I see her treated with injustice!"

"Injustice, Henry!" cried Beatrice. "Is it injustice to speak against a young person who behaves like an unjust steward?"

The vicar was silent.

"For my part," said Rebecca, "I think she should have been dismissed at once; and she would have been, but for the opposition offered by you, Henry, and Mr Burge."

"For my part," continued the vicar, ignoring the past speeches, "I can see nothing more touching, more beautiful, and Christian-like than Miss Thorne's behaviour to this child--one of the sick lambs of her fold."

"We are sorry, of course, for Ophelia Potts," said Rebecca; "but she is a dreadful child."

"A fact, I grant," said the vicar; "and one that makes Miss Thorne's conduct shine out the more."

"Henry!" exclaimed his sisters in a breath.

"We are not doing wrong in staying here, Rebecca," said Beatrice haughtily. "I do not believe in witchcraft or such follies, but it is as though this woman had bewitched our brother, and as if he were shaping himself in accordance with her plans."

"I do not understand you, Beatrice," said the vicar sternly.

"I will be plainer, then, Henry. It seems to me that you are offering yourself a willing victim to the wiles of an artful woman; and the next thing will be, I suppose, that you intend bringing her here as mistress of the Vicarage."

"I quite agree with Beatrice," cried Rebecca. "It is time we left you, Henry, to the devices and desires of your own heart."

The vicar was stern of aspect now, as he paced the library, and hot words of anger were upon his lips, but he stayed them there, and looked from face to face as if seeking sympathy where there was none.

He knew that his sisters were right, and that in following out the dictates of his own heart he would gladly ask Hazel Thorne to be his wife; but he was weak, and the more so that she had given him no hope. His was not the nature that would have made him a martyr to his faith; neither could he be one for his unrequited love. He loved Hazel Thorne; but she did not care for him--he could see it plainly enough; and even had she loved him in return, he was not one who could have braved public opinion for her sake. For the trouble connected with that money was always in his mind. Then there was the society to which he belonged. What would they say if he, the Reverend Henry Lambent, Master of Arts, and on visiting terms with the highest county families, were to enter into a matrimonial alliance with the daughter of a bankrupt stockbroker--one who was only the new mistress!

Then there were his sisters. If he married Hazel, always supposing she would accept him, he should have to break with them; and this he was too weak to do. In imagination he had been the stern ruler of Plumton All Saints' Vicarage for many years, and head of the parish. But it was a mistake: the real captain had been Beatrice, his younger sister; and Rebecca, though the elder, had been first lieutenant. The vicar had only been a private in the ranks.

"Now we are upon this theme," Beatrice went on, "it would be better, Henry, that the unpleasant feeling that has existed should come to an end."

"Surely there has been no unpleasant feeling between us," said the vicar.

"I quite agree with Beatrice--unpleasant feeling," said Rebecca.

"We are sisters and brother," continued Beatrice, "and we must remain so."

"Most assuredly," said the vicar, smiling.

"I am speaking for Rebecca as well as for myself, then, Henry, when I tell you that we have concluded that the only way in which our old happy relations can be continued will be by separating."

"Parting?" said the vicar, in dismay.

"Yes, Henry; by parting. Rebecca and I have a sufficiency, by clubbing together our slender resources, to enable us to live a life of content. A life of usefulness, we fear, will no longer be within our reach, for we shall have to leave our poor behind. But that we must be resigned to lose, for it is time, Henry, that we left you free and were--"

"No longer a tax upon you and an obstacle in the path of your inclinations," said Rebecca.

"But surely--you do not mean--you would not leave the Vicarage?"

"We have carefully weighed the matter over, Henry," said Rebecca, "and I do not see how, under the circumstances, you could wish us to do otherwise."

"No, no, it is impossible!" cried the vicar, who seemed deeply moved. "Beatrice--Rebecca, of what are you thinking?"

"Of our duty and your happiness," said Beatrice firmly.

"At the expense of your own," exclaimed the vicar.

"We must do our duty," said Rebecca with a sigh, and the sisters rose and left the room, like clever diplomatists, content with the impression they had made, and feeling that by a bold stroke they had completely riveted their old mastery.

CHAPTER FORTY TWO.

BAD NEWS.

The news of Hazel Thorne's imprisonment, for it could be called little else, was not long in reaching Ardley, and Mrs Canninge watched her son's countenance to see what effect it had. There had been an increasing coolness between mother and son, and it seemed as if it were rapidly approaching estrangement. Their old affectionate intercourse had given place to a chilling politeness, and though, time after time, in the bitter annoyance she felt, Mrs Canninge had felt disposed to ask her son how soon it would be necessary for her to vacate her position of mistress of the old hall, she had never been guilty of the meanness, but waited her time.

"He shall never marry her," she said over and over again; and in spite of her better self, the news of the money trouble had been like balm to her wounded spirit. Now, then, the tidings of Hazel's visit to the sick child had come, and again, in spite of herself, she felt a sensation akin to satisfaction, for this seemed as if it might act as a safeguard to her son.

It was a flimsy one, she knew--a broken reed upon which to lean; but it was something, and every trifle that appeared likely to keep George Canninge and Hazel apart, if it were only for a few days longer, was like a reprieve, and might result in something better to her mind.

The matter was not discussed, but Mrs Canninge noted that her son rode over to the town every morning, and found afterwards that he called at the Burges' day after day, where he incidentally learned that Hazel was still nursing the fever-stricken child.

It was pleasant to him at this juncture to talk to little Miss Burge, and to listen to her simple prattle about Hazel, and what trouble she and her brother took in sending down everything that was necessary for the invalid and her nurse, so that Hazel might be comfortable.

"It is very kind of you and Mr Burge," said Canninge one day.

"Oh, I don't know, Mr Canninge," she replied; "we want to do all the good we can, and one can't help loving Miss Thorne."

"No," said George Canninge quietly; and as he rode home he repeated little Miss Burge's words to himself over and over again--"One can't help loving Miss Thorne."

But he made no further advances--he did not go to the schoolhouse to make inquiries, nor yet ask at the cottage where Hazel was a prisoner; he contented himself with visiting the Burges day by day, to start back almost in alarm one morning as he saw a look of trouble in little Miss Burge's face, and before he could ask what was wrong the little woman burst out with--

"Oh, Mr Canninge, that poor, dear girl!"

"What?" he said excitedly. "She has not--"

"Yes, sir, and badly. My brother has been down there this morning, and she is delirious. And oh, poor girl! poor girl! I cannot let her lie there alone. I'm dreadfully afraid of the fever, Mr Canninge; but I shall have to go."

"You? What! to nurse her?" said George Canninge, with a face now ghastly.

"Yes, sir; I must go. My brother has been down every day, and I've never been once!" she cried, bursting into a fit of sobbing. "It's dreadful cowardly, I know; but I could not help it then."

"And she may die!" said George Canninge as he rode slowly home; "and I have never told her I loved her. Dare I go to see her now?"

He asked himself that question many times, and again many times on the succeeding days; but he did not go near the place where Hazel Thorne lay now, in the shabby room, upon the bed roughly made up for her by Mrs Potts; while Feelier, the very shadow of herself, lay watching "teacher," and the tears stole down her wasted cheeks as she listened to Hazel Thorne's excited talking, for the most part incoherent; but here and there a word came to Feelier's ears, and she wept again, because she was too weak to get up and wait upon "teacher," whose attack was rapidly assuming a serious form.

By special arrangement with the doctor, the news as to Hazel's state was sent to the Burges' after every visit. Not that this was held to suffice, for little Miss Burge was constantly calling at the doctor's house, and asking for fresh information when there was none to give.

"I can't bear this no longer, Bill dear," said Miss Burge one morning. "There's that poor girl lying there in that wretched place, and no one but strangers to tend her; and it seems as if all her friends had left her now she is in distress."

"Not all," said Burge, raising his drooping head. "I'm down there every day; only I can't be admitted to her room, poor dear! I wish I might be."

"And I've been holding back," sobbed little Miss Burge, "because I felt afraid of catching the complaint, and the doctor said it would be madness for me to go; but I'm going down this morning, Bill dear, and if I die for it I won't mind--at least not very much--for I'm sure I shouldn't be any good to live if I couldn't help at a time like this. Hasn't her poor ma been to her yet?"

"No; she isn't fit to go," said Burge. "She is ill, and weak, and foolish, and the doctor told her that if she went she would only take the disease home to the little girls. She would only have worried her poor child and been in the way."

"I'm glad I've never been a mother, Bill, to turn out no more use than that in trouble," sobbed the little woman. "Now, do drink your tea, dear; it will do you good."

"Nothing won't do me no good, Betsey," said the poor fellow dejectedly.

"But it looks so bad, dear, to see you like this. I declare you haven't washed and shaved this mornings and your hair ain't been brushed."

"No," he said drearily; "I forgot Betsey--I forgot."

"Why, Bill!" she exclaimed, looking at him scrutinisingly.

"Yes, dear."

"Why, you haven't been to bed all night!"

"No, dear."

"Why, if you haven't been watching down there by that cottage!" she cried.

"Yes, dear," he said quietly. "It seemed to do me good like."

"Oh, Bill!"

"And then I went to the post-office, and I've telegraphed for Sir Henry Venner to come down by special train."

"You have, Bill dear! Why, that's the Queen's doctor, ain't it."

"Yes, dear."

"But won't it cost a heap of money?"

"I'd give every penny I've got and sell myself too," he said, with a ring of simple pathos in his voice, "if it would bring that poor darling back to herself."

He laid his arms upon the table, and his forehead went down upon them, as he said softly, as if to himself--

"I don't want any return--I'm not selfish--and I'd ask nothing back. I could go on loving her always, and be glad to see her happy, only please God to let her live--please God let her live!"

Little Miss Burge, with the tears streaming down her honest round face, rose from her seat at the breakfast-table, and went down upon her knees beside her brother, to lay her cheek against one of his hands.

"I'm going down to her now, Bill dear," she said softly; "and I'll watch by her night and day; for I think I love her, poor dear! as much as you."

"God bless you, Betsey dear!" he said, drawing her to his breast, and speaking now with energy. "I couldn't ask you to go, for it seemed like sending you where I daren't go myself; but if you could go, dear, I should be a happier man!"

"And go I will, Bill; and I will do my best."

"And look here, dear!" he cried, quite excitedly now, "you don't know how you're helping me, for now I can do what I want."

"What's that, dear?"

"Why, I thought, dear, if the big doctor would give leave, we might bring the poor girl on here; but I daren't even think of it before, on account of you. You, see, dear, I could send away the servants, and get a nurse to come."

"Oh yes; do, Bill dear!" cried the little body eagerly. "We'd put her in the west room, which would be so bright and cheerful, and--There, I'm standing talking when I ought to go."

In fact, within five minutes little Miss Burge was ready, with her luggage on her arm; the said luggage consisting of a clean night-dress, "ditto" cap, a cake of soap, and a brush and comb; with which easily portable impedimenta she was soon after settled in Mrs Potts's dreary low-roofed room.

"No, miss," whispered the rough woman, "never slep' a wink all night; but kep' on talk, talk, talk, talking about her mother and father, and Squire Canninge, and the school pence, and that she was in disgrace."

"And teacher kep' saying Mr William Forth Burge was her dearest friend," put in Feelier, in a shrill, weak voice.

"Hush!" whispered little Miss Burge, for their voices had disturbed Hazel, who, till then, had been lying in a kind of stupor.

She opened her eyes widely, and stared straight before her.

"Are you there, Mr Burge?--are you there?" she said in a quick, excited whisper.

"No, my dear; it's me, Betsey Burge. I've come to stop with you."

"I didn't know how good and kind you were then--when I spoke as I did. I was very blind then--I was very blind then," sighed Hazel wearily.

"And you'll soon be better now," said little Miss Burge in a soft, cheery way. "There--let me turn your pillow; it's all so hot, and--Mrs Potts, send up for two pillows out of our best room directly."

"Yes, mum; I'll go myself;" and Mrs Potts hurried away.

"There, my dear, you'll be nicer and cooler now, and--Oh, dear me, what a lot of things I do want! Mrs Potts, call at the druggist's for some eau-de-cologne--a big bottle mind."

"Yes, mum," came from below.

"Her poor head's like fire. There, dear--there, my poor dear, let me lay your hair away from you; it will cool your head."

"Please, Miss Burge, don't let them cut off all teacher's hair," whispered Feelier from the other bed.

"No, my dear; not if I can help it."

"I want to tell you I was so ungrateful when you spoke to me as you did, Mr Burge," said Hazel in her low excited whisper.

"No, no, my darling, not ungrateful," said little Miss Burge, in the soothing voice any one would adopt to a child.--"Poor dear, she don't know what she's saying."

"I have lain here and thought of what you have done," continued Hazel, "and how self-denying you have always been to me; and I was ungrateful for it all. I know now I was ungrateful."

"She is wandering, poor girl!" said little Miss Burge, with a sob, as she busied herself in making the room more comfortable, after she had smoothed Hazel's pillow and opened the window wide to give her more air. After this she turned her attention to poor Feelier, rearranging her pillow, and ending by bathing her face and hands, the poor girl uttering a sigh of relief and pleasure, sinking back afterwards upon her cool pillow, too weak almost to raise her arm.

"There, now you feel more comfortable, don't you, my dear?" whispered the busy little woman.

"Oh, yes, and--and--and--please--please I'll never do so no more."

Poor Feelier burst into a passionate fit of tearful remorse, sobbing wildly in spite of little Miss Burge's efforts to calm her.

"Oh! hush, hush, my dear; pray be still."

"I--I--I used to make faces at you in school," sobbed Feelier.

"Yes, yes, yes; but hush my dear. You only did it in fun."

"N-no, I didn't," sobbed Feelier; "I did it to make--make the other girls laugh."

"But hush, pray hush, or you'll hurt poor Miss Thorne."

Feelier's sobs ended in one large gulp, as if by magic, and she lay perfectly still, staring at the other bed.

"Please, Miss Burge," she whispered, "will you bring some of your roses and put in water by teacher's pillow?"

"Yes, my dear, that I will," said the little lady, patting Feelier's hand. "And now lie still, and don't talk; let's keep the room quiet, and try to make her better."

"Yes, Miss Burge; but please will teacher get well?"

"Why, surely, my dear; and very soon."

"Because mother said I was a little wretch and gave teacher the fever, and I wish I may die instead."

"But you shall both get well, my dear, very soon; and then you shall both go down to the sea, and you shall be Miss Thorne's little maid."

"Shall I?" cried the girl, with her eyes sparkling and a flush coming into her thin, sunken cheeks.

"Yes, that you shall, my dear; only lie very still, and don't talk."

"Please, Miss Burge," whispered Feelier, "let me tell you this."

"Well, only this one thing, and then you must be very quiet, my dear."

"Yes, I will," whispered Feelier, in a quiet, old-fashioned way; "but that's how teacher keeps on all night and all day; she keeps on wanting Mr William Forth Burge to come to her, and mother says I kep' on just the same, asking for teacher to come, and I was quiet when she did, and then"--sob--"she caught the fever too."

"Yes, yes, my dear; but you'll soon do better now."

"But you'd better let old Billy Burge--"

Feelier stopped short, conscious of the slip of her guilty tongue, and looked up at her gentle attendant as if she expected a blow.

"I won't call him that name agen," she said demurely, "but if he come he'd do teacher good; only if he did come, he'd ketch the fever too, and I don't know what's best, only we mustn't let teacher die."

"No, no, my dear; of course not," whispered little Miss Burge hastily.

"But if she did die I know what I should do," said Feelier dreamily, and with a drowsy look in her eyes, the effect of being washed and the cooler atmosphere of the room inducing sleep.

"What should you do, my dear?" said Miss Burge, pressing down the pillow to let the cool air blow upon her cheek.

"I should set violets and primroses all over her grave; and if any of the other girls was to pick any of 'em, oh, I would give 'em such a banging! And then--then--then--"

And then poor, weak Ophelia Potts sank into a profound sleep, and little Miss Burge wiped her eyes and sat and watched Hazel's weary, restless head; listening to her broken sentences and the incoherent mutterings, all of which were to the same tune--that she had been weak and cruel and ungrateful to one who had been all devotion to her, and that she would never rest till she had tried to make him some amends.

"Poor Bill, if he could only hear her now, how glad he'd be!" sighed the watcher; "but this will all pass away, and when she gets well she'll never know she said a word. Poor Bill; it won't never--it couldn't ever be!"

"I want Mr Burge," cried Hazel suddenly, and her voice sounded hard and strange. "Tell him to come to me--tell him to come."

"Yes, yes, yes, my darling; he shall come soon."

"He would catch the fever, do you say? No no; I could not give it to him; he is so kind and good. Tell Mr Geringer, mother, it is impossible; I could not be his wife."

"Oh, my poor dear!" whispered Miss Burge, bathing Hazel's burning forehead with the eau-de-cologne that Mrs Potts had now brought; "that poor, poor, burning, wandering brain. Why don't the doctor come?"

CHAPTER FORTY THREE.

THE QUEEN'S PHYSICIAN.

It was many hours yet before the doctor came, for the life of one patient is no more to a medical man than that of another, and the great physician had several urgent cases to see before he could use the special train placed at his disposal by Hazel's elderly lover, who had never left the station all the morning, and had given instructions that the starting of the train should be telegraphed to him from the terminus in town.

In addition, he had a messenger, in the shape of Feelier's brother, who came to and fro every hour to where Mr William Forth Burge was walking up and down the platform, to deliver a report from Miss Burge on the patient's state.

One of these messages was to the effect that the local doctor had been, and said that there was no change; and that he was stopping at home on purpose to meet the great physician when he came.

So was Mr William Forth Burge's carriage, and so was a group of the tradespeople and others, for in the easy-going life of a little country town the loss of a day was as nothing compared to the chance of seeing the Queen's own physician when he came down.

At last, but not till far in the afternoon, came the lightning message speeding along the wires, "Special left King's Cross 3:30;" and then how slow seemed the rapid special, and by comparison how it lagged upon its way, for it would be quite an hour and a half, the station-master said, perhaps two hours, even at express speed.

And all this time William Forth Burge waited, and would have taken nothing but for the thoughtfulness of the station-master's wife, who brought him some tea.

"No, six, not yet; that's the fast down." Or, "No sir, not yet; that's only the afternoon goods." Or again, "No sir; that's only the slow local. They'll wire me from Marshton when she passes."

This from the chief official; and at last the wired message came, and after what seemed to be an interminable time, a fast engine, tender, one saloon carriage, and brake steamed into the station, and a little, quiet dark man stepped out as the door was held open by the station-master, waiting ready to do honour to the man greater in his power than the magician kings of old, but very weak even then.

"Mr William Forth Burge? Thanks. Carriage waiting. Thanks. Now tell me a little of the case."

This was mastered principally by questions as they drove to the cottage.

"Yes," said the great man. "I see. The old thing, my dear sir. What can you expect with sanitary arrangements such as these?"

He pointed right and left as they drove along, Mr William Forth Burge suddenly checking the driver, as they were about halfway, to pick up Doctor Bartlett, the resident medical man.

Next followed a consultation in the wretched keeping-room of the cottage, the great doctor treating his humble brother with the most profound respect, and then they went up to the bedroom, and little Miss Burge came down to her brother with her handkerchief to her eyes.

A dreary half-hour followed before the doctors came down, the two occupants of the room gazing up at them with appeal in their eyes as they vacated their chairs in the great man's favour.

"I can only say, Mr William Forth Burge, that we must hope," said the great baronet. "It is the most ordinary form of typhoid fever, and must have its course. I may add that I almost regret that you should have called me down, unless my opinion is any comfort to you; for I can neither add to nor detract from the skilful treatment adopted by my _confrere_, Doctor Bartlett, who is carefully watching the case. What we want is the best of nursing; and, at any cost, let the poor girl be taken to some light, wholesome, airy room."

"Might we risk moving her?" panted Mr Burge.

"It is a grave risk; but it must be ventured, with the greatest care, under Doctor Bartlett's instructions; for I have no hesitation in saying that if our patient stays here she will die."

"God bless you, Sir Henry; I'd have given all I possess for that!" gasped Burge, as he placed a slip of paper in the doctor's hands.

There was the drive back to the station, the little train steamed out, and that evening, while poor Feelier Potts slept, Hazel Thorne was carried down to the Burges' carriage, and lay that night in the west room, to keep on talking incessantly of her cruelty to one who had been so noble, so true, and good, and to make appeals to him for his forgiveness, as she now knew how to value his honest love.

CHAPTER FORTY FOUR.

MRS THORNE RECEIVES.

Hazel Thorne's illness came like a shock to Plumton All Saints, and the opposing members of the committee, who had been instrumental in gaining her dismissal, looked angrily one at the other, as if that other one was specially to blame. The Reverend Henry Lambent sent down messengers to know how Miss Thorne was progressing, and later on sent the same messengers to the Burges' for news.

"Will you not go down and see Mrs Thorne, Rebecca--Beatrice?" he said, one day, appealingly. "This is a troublous time."

"We had already felt it to be a duty, Henry, and we will run all risks in such a cause."

There was not the slightest risk in going to the schoolmistress's cottage, and the sisters went down, to find Mrs Thorne weak and almost prostrate with illness and anxiety, but ready to draw herself up stiffly to receive her visitors.

"Cissy, Mabel, place chairs for these ladies," she said. "Miss Lambent will perhaps excuse my rising. I am an invalid."

Rebecca bowed and glanced at her sister, who made her a sign to proceed.

"We have called, Mrs Thorne, knowing you to be in so sad a state of affliction--"

"To offer a few words of condolence," said Mrs Thorne, interrupting her. "It is very neighbourly and kind, I am sure I am sorry poor Hazel is too unwell to be here to receive you as well."

"What insolence!" muttered Beatrice.

"Condolence is hardly the word," said Rebecca stiffly. "We are very much grieved about Miss Thorne, especially as her illness has come almost like a chastisement for her weakness in her discharge of her scholastic trust."

"Oh! You are alluding to the school trifle she did not pay over to the collector at the time," said Mrs Thorne haughtily. "It is a pity that so much should have been made of so trivial a matter."

"Trivial, Mrs Thorne! Your daughter's conduct--"

"Has always been that of a lady, Miss Lambent. Ah! you single ladies don't know, and of course never will know, the necessities of housekeeping."

Beatrice winced.

"I used that money as I would small change, and I must say I am surprised at Mr Lambent or his sisters, or the school committee, or whoever it is, being so absurdly particular."

"Particular, Mrs Thorne!" cried Rebecca, aghast.

"Yes; it is very absurd. By-the-way, I may as well observe that I have this morning received a letter from my late husband's solicitor, telling me that fifteen hundred pounds, the result of some business arrangement of his, are now lying at my disposal at the bank; and if you will send the properly authorised person down I will give him a cheque."

"Mrs Thorne!" exclaimed Rebecca, whom this assumption of perfect equality--at times even of superiority--galled terribly, "we came down here to give you a little good advice--to say a few words of sympathy, and to bring you two or three books to read, and ponder over their contents. I am surprised and grieved that you should have taken such a tone."

"I beg your pardon, Miss Lambent," retorted Mrs Thorne, who was very pale and much excited; "allow me to tell you that you are making a mistake. I am not in the habit of receiving parochial visits. They may be very acceptable to the poor of your district, but, as a lady, when another lady calls upon me, I look upon it as a visit of ceremony. You will excuse me, but I am not well. My daughter's illness--my own-- rather tells upon me. You will excuse my rising. I beg your pardon, you are forgetting your little books."

She picked them up from the table, and held them out; the top one was "The Dairyman's Daughter," in paper cover.

The Lambent sisters had risen, and were darting indignant looks at Hazel's mother before she drew their attention to the books they were leaving upon the table; now their anger was hot indeed.

"We brought them for you to read," cried Rebecca indignantly. "They were for your good. Mrs Thorne, your conduct is insolent in the extreme."

"Insolent in the extreme," assented Beatrice.

"I am too unwell to argue with you, ladies," said Mrs Thorne loftily. "Cissy, my child, take those into the kitchen, and give them to one of the school children as they come by. Mabel, my dear, bring mamma a glass of water."

She took not the slightest further notice of her visitors, who looked at one another for a few moments, and then left the house, marching by the window with stately stride, while Mrs Thorne leant back in her chair, saying to herself--

"Next time they call I hope they will remember that I am a lady."

That same evening, as she sat alone, she drew the letter of which she had spoken from her pocket, and read it through again, the second perusal giving her fresh strength and increasing dignity.

"I shall certainly insist now," she said musingly, as she refolded the letter and tapped her left forefinger with the edge, "upon Hazel entering into a matrimonial alliance with Edward Geringer. He is older, certainly; but what of that? He is rich and loves her, and will make her an admirable husband; and when, by-and-by he leaves her, she will still be young and handsome, and, what is better, rich, and not left, as I have been, at the mercy of the world--Lambents and people of that class. Yes, I am in a position now to insist, and I shall write to Edward Geringer at once. Perhaps his coming would have a favourable effect upon Hazel's illness--a foolish, weak girl, to persist in going to that house when I so strongly advised her not."

Mrs Thorne sat musing and building her _chateaux en Espagne_, while the children amused themselves in the garden.

"Yes," she continued, "I am once more, I am thankful to say, no longer dependent upon charity, nor yet upon poor Hazel--weak, foolish child! It is a pity she should have grown so conceited and arbitrary on finding herself at the head of affairs. Ah, these young people--these young people! But I will not blame her, for a great deal was due to the teachings of that training institution. I noticed the change in her directly. It did so put me in mind of young Penton, when he received his commission of ensign in the 200th Foot. He had just the same short, sharp, haughty way that my Hazel assumed, poor child! Ah, well! we have nearly got to the end of the school teaching, and it will be a lesson for us all. It was against my wishes that she took it up--that I will say; and it has been very hard upon me to bring me down to the companionship of such a woman as Mrs Chute. I wish I had never seen her, for I should never have thought of using those school pence if it had not been for her."

Mrs Thorne smoothed down her black silk apron, and sat thinking for some time before exclaiming--

"Yes, I will write a cheque for the amount and send it in a note, with my compliments, to Mr Lambent. It will be the most ladylike way of proceeding. The children shall put on their best hats and take it up. It will be better than trusting the money to the school children or the post. I will do it at once."

The poor, weak woman smiled with satisfaction as she took out the thin oblong book that had been sent to her that morning, and wrote out a cheque for the amount due for the children's school pence, carefully blotting and folding it, and placing it in a sheet of note-paper inscribed, "With Mrs Thorne's compliments."

"Of course it ought to go to Mr Piper; but I shall send it to the vicar, and he must pay it himself. Good gracious!"

She had just directed the envelope to the Reverend Henry Lambent, when she saw him pass the window; and as she sat listening, her heart beating heavily the while, there was a gentle tap at the door, which was standing open, and the vicar's voice said softly--"May I come in?"

"Yes; I--that is--Yes, pray come--in, Mr Lambent; but if you have called on account of your sisters' visit to me this morning, I--"

"My visit was to you alone, Mrs Thorne," said the vicar gravely.

"But I must protest against any such visits as your sisters'!"

"My dear Mrs Thorne," said the vicar sadly, "I have come to you, a lady who has known great trouble, as a friend. My dear madam, I have a very painful communication to make. Your daughter--"

"Not worse, Mr Lambent?" cried Mrs Thorne piteously. "Don't say she's worse!"

There was a painful silence, and then the vicar sighed heavily as he said--

"Her state is very dangerous indeed."

CHAPTER FORTY FIVE.

A BREACH OF PROMISE OF MARRIAGE.

Hazel seemed to have borne the moving well, and the doctor smiled his satisfaction at seeing his patient in such light and cheerful quarters; but the days had gone on without change. Night and day there had been the same weary, restless wandering of the fevered brain--the same constant talking of the troubles of the past; and little Miss Burge sobbed aloud sometimes as she listened to some of the revelations of Hazel's breast.

"Poor dear!" she said, and she strove to give the sufferer the rest and ease that would not come, as hour by hour she watched the terrible inroads the fever made in her care-worn face.

"She's getting that thin, doctor, it's quite pitiful," she said; but only to receive the same answer.

"Wait till the fever has exhausted itself, my dear madam, and we will soon build up fresh tissue, and you shall see her gain strength every hour."

But the fever did not exhaust itself, and in spite of every care Hazel's state grew critical indeed.

"If I might only see her, dear," said Mr William Forth Burge; "if I might only speak to her once. I wouldn't want to come in."

"No, Bill dear," said the little woman firmly; "not yet. The doctor says it is best not, and you must wait."

"Does--does she ever in her wanderings--a--a--does she ever speak about me, Betsey?"

"Yes; sometimes she says you have been very kind."

"She has said that?"

"Yes, dear; but she is not herself, Bill dear. She's quite off her head. I wouldn't build up any hopes upon that."

"No, I won't," he said hastily. "I don't expect anything--I don't want anything, only to see her well again. But it does me good to think she can think of me ever so little while she is ill."

"You see, dear, it's her wandering," said his sister; "that's all."

"But tell me, Betsey, tell me again, do you think she will get over it?" he said imploringly.

She looked at him with the tears trickling down her face, but she did not answer.

"He comes, you see, and smiles and rubs his hands, and says, `She's no worse--she's no worse, Mr William Forth Burge, sir;' but I can't trust him, Betsey, like I can you. There," he cried, "see: I'm quite calm, and I'll bear it like a man. Tell me, do you think she'll get over it?"

"Bill dear, I can't tell you a lie, but I don't think there's any present danger. I do think, though, you ought to send for the poor girl's brother, and let him be down."

William Forth Burge uttered a low groan, for he read the worst in his sister's eyes.

"I'll send for him directly, dear," he said; and he rose and staggered from the room.

It was in the morning, and the message for Percy to come down at once was sent; after which, in a dull, heavy way, Burge stood staring before him, trying to get his brain to act clearly, as he asked himself what he ought to do next.

"I think I ought to go down to her mother," he said softly; "and I will."

In this intent he went softly out into the hall, when little Miss Burge came hastily down the stairs, and her brother gasped as he placed one hand upon his side.

"Bill--Bill," she whispered excitedly, "she is talking sensibly, and she wants to see you."

"Wants to see me?" he panted. "No, no; she is wandering, poor girl!"

"No, no, dear," cried little Miss Burge, clinging to his arm; "she has asked for you hundreds of times when she was wandering, and I wouldn't tell you--I thought it wouldn't be right. But now she's quite herself, and she's asking for you to come."

"But ought I," he said, "in my own house?"

"Yes--now," whispered back his sister. "But Bill dear, she's wasted away to a shadow, she's weak as weak, and you must not say a word more to her than if she was a friend or you were her brother."

"No, no," he said hoarsely.

"Come, then. She wants to speak to you, and it may do her good."

Trembling with excitement, William Forth Burge softly followed his sister up the stairs, trying to smile and look composed, so as to present an encouraging aspect to the invalid, telling himself, heartsore though he was, that it was his duty, and that it would have a good effect; but as he entered the room and saw the change that had taken place, he uttered a low groan, and stood as if nailed to the floor.

For Hazel was changed indeed. Her cheeks were sunken and her eyes looked unnaturally large, but the restless, pained expression had passed away, and the light of recognition was in her eyes, as she tried to raise one hand, which fell back upon the coverlet.

He saw her lips part, and she smiled at him as he stood there by the door. This brought him back to himself, and he went hurriedly towards the bedside.

"It was selfish of me to ask you to come," she said softly; "but you have both shown that you do not fear the fever."

"Fear it, my dear? No!" he said, taking her thin white hand, kissing it, and making as if to lay it reverently back upon the coverlet; but the fingers closed round his, and a thrill of joy shot through his breast, as it seemed for the moment that she was clinging to him.

"How am I ever to thank you enough?" she said, in a faint whisper. "Why have you brought me here? It troubles me. I feel as if I should make you suffer."

"But you mustn't talk now, my darling," whispered little Miss Burge. "Wait till the doctor has been, and only lie still now and rest your poor self."

"Yes--rest," she said feebly--"rest. I feel so easy now. All that dreadful pain has gone."

"Thank God!"

She turned her eyes upon the speaker with a grateful look and smiled faintly, motioning to him to take the chair by the bedside.

"Don't leave me," she whispered. "Yes; keep hold of my hand. You have been so kind, and I seem to see it all now so plainly."

"But my darling, you must not talk. There, just say a word or two to him, and then he must go. I'm going to ask the doctor to come and see you now."

"No: let him wait. I must talk now. Perhaps to-night my senses will go again, and I shall be wandering on and on amongst the troubles once more."

"Then you will be very still, dear."

"Yes; I only want to lie and rest. Don't leave me, Mr Burge. Hold my hand."

There was a sweet, calm look upon her face as she lay there, holding feebly by the hand that tenderly grasped hers, and her eyes half-closed as if in sleep.

From time to time William Forth Burge exchanged glances with his sister, but the looks he received in return were always encouraging, and he sat there, care-worn and anxious, but at the same time feeling supremely happy.

An hour had passed before Hazel spoke again, and then it was in a dreamy, thoughtful whisper.

"I've been thinking about the past," she said, "and recalling all that has been done for me. I cannot talk much; but, Mr Burge, I can feel it all. Don't--don't think me ungrateful."

"No, no," he whispered, as he bent down and kissed her hand; "I never could."

"I was thinking about--about when you asked me--to be your wife."

"Yes, yes, my dear!" he said eagerly; "but I was mad then. It was only an old fellow's fancy. I could not help it. It was foolish, and I ought to have known better. But we know one another now, and all you've got to do, my dear, is to grow well and strong, and find out that William Burge is man enough to do what's right."

She lay thinking for some little time, and then he felt that a feeble effort was being made to draw his hand closer to her face, and yielding it, once more a wild throb ran through his nerves, for she feebly drew his hand to her cheek and held it there.

"I was very blind then," she said in a whisper; "but I am not blind now."

She spoke with her eyes closed, the restful look intensifying as the time glided on.

After a while the woman who had acted as nurse announced the coming of the doctor, who brightened and looked pleased as he saw the change.

"Yes," he said; "the fever has left her. Now we must build her up again."

And after satisfying himself about his patient's state, he beckoned Miss Burge from the room, and gave the fullest instructions as to the course to be pursued, promised to come in again that evening, and went away.

The day glided on, and William Forth Burge kept his place by the bedside, feeling that it was his by right; and then, at times, suffering from a terrible depression, as he told himself that he ought to go, and not presume upon the weakness of one who was in his charge. Hazel lay with her eyes half-closed, apparently in a restful, dreamy state, rousing herself a little when her tender nurse administered to her food or medicine, and then turning her eyes for a few moments to the occupant of the chair by the bedside, smiling at him sadly, afterwards, with a restful sigh, letting her cheek lie against his hand.

"I should like to have seen my little sisters," she said once softly, "and my poor mother; but it would be cruel to bring them here. I should like to kiss poor Ophelia too." She laughed faintly here, as if amused. "Poor child!--so good at heart. Poor child!"

There was another long interval of genuine sleep now, which lasted until evening, when Hazel awoke with a frightened start crying out painfully.

"What is it, my pet?" whispered little Miss Burge, bending over the bed, and parting the hair from Hazel's hot wet brow. "There--there; you're better now."

The light of recognition came, and she darted a swift, clear look at the speaker, then turned excitedly to the bedside where William Forth Burge still sat holding her hand.

The peaceful smile came back as she saw him there, and she began speaking in a quick, excited way:--

"I have been dreaming--I thought I had told him it was impossible again--that I could not; for I loved some one else. But I do not. It was a weak girl's fancy. Miss Burge, I should like to kiss you, dear; but it would be unkind. Touch my face--my lips with your fingers."

"My darling, I have no fear," sobbed the little woman; and she bent down and kissed the poor girl passionately, but only to rise in alarm, and make a sign to her brother, which he interpreted aright, and was about to rise and seek for help; but Hazel clung to his hand in alarm.

"No, no! don't go!" she said hoarsely. "I could not bear it now."

"I'll run, Bill!" panted Miss Burge; but a word from Hazel stayed her.

"No; stop!" she whispered. "God knows best, Miss Burge. Lift me a little more. Let my head rest on your shoulder--so!"

William Forth Burge raised the thin, slight form tenderly and reverently, till Hazel's head rested upon his broad shoulder, and he held her there; but she was not satisfied till he had placed her arm so that it half embraced his neck, and there she lay, gazing with her unnaturally bright, wistful eyes in his, while the great tears slowly welled over their bounds and trickled down his heavy face.

"Miss Burge," she said again, and there was something very strange and wild in her voice, "I was weak and foolish once; but now it is too late, I have grown wiser--just at last. This is going to be my husband. In his dear memory I shall be his wife, for I love him now--with all my heart!"

She closed her eyes for a few moments, and without a sound little Miss Burge stretched out one hand to the bell, making a sign to the nurse who answered, and then glided away.

There was a long, deep silence then, broken only by a sob from Miss Burge, who now sank upon her knees by the bedside.

Hazel's eyes opened again, and she gazed about her wildly, and as if in fear; but the restful smile came back, and she sighed as if relieved; and again there was a long silence, during which the watchers waited impatiently for the doctor's step.

And so the minutes glided by, and the night came on apace--a night they felt would be black and deep, for all hope was gone.

Then Hazel spoke again, and her voice sounded clearer and more distinct--

"I shall not hurt you now," she said softly, and her thin, wasted hand rose from the counterpane, seemed to tremble in the air for a moment, and then nestled in William Forth Burge's breast. "Kiss me," she said softly; "think that--at last--I loved you. So tired--let me sleep!"

Is there truth in the old superstitious stories that we hear? True in their spiritual sense or no, just then a black pigeon that had hovered about the house for days alighted upon the window-sill, and the rustle of its wings sounded loud and painful in the oppressive stillness of that evening.

From the fields the soft lowing of the kine came mellowed and sweet, and from the wood behind the house a thrush sang its evening hymn to the passing day, while, as the west grew less ruddy, the soft dawn-like light intensified in the north.

It needed but one sound to add to the solemnity of the time, and that was the heavy knoll of the church bell, which rang out the curfew, as it had announced the hour from the far-back days when it was cast and blessed, and holy hands first hung it there.

Just then little Miss Burge uttered a faint ejaculation of relief, for there was a quick step upon the gravel; but ere it reached the door there was a deep sigh in the shadowed room, Hazel's large, soft eyes grew dilate, and their light was for ever gone; another bridegroom had snatched her from her simple-hearted lover's arms--and that bridegroom was Death!

The End.

End of Project Gutenberg's The New Mistress, by George Manville Fenn