CHAPTER XII.

BILL'S FUTURE.

HALF an hour later, the Squire stood before the door of Bill the Kicker's home.

Dick, from his hiding-place behind the hedge, saw him arrive, striking the ground importantly with his cane, and followed by his grandsons.

"Now for it!" thought Dick, and rubbed his hands in glee.

The Squire knocked; but no one answered, so he knocked again. Still no one came.

"Go round to the back," said he to Will.

Will went, and returned with the news that he had tried the wash-house door and found it fast, but through the window he could see a little fire in the grate.

"We'll knock once more," said the Squire.

This time the upper window of the next door cottage opened, and a head was hastily thrust out. "Mrs. Mumby a'n't at home," the neighbour called. Then, seeing who was waiting down below, she humbly begged pardon, and further informed the Squire that Mrs. Mumby had gone up the road to carry home some linen.

The Squire thanked her with his customary courtesy; and having hoped the children were quite well, was going down the pathway, when the good woman called again to say that Mrs. Mumby was in sight.

When she arrived, her honest face was red with toiling through the sun; and it went redder when she saw the Squire at her door. But Mrs. Mumby knew her manners, so she asked him with a curtsey if he wouldn't step inside; and there she dusted chairs for him and the three young gentlemen, and stood up, with a corner of her apron in her hand, to hear what he had come about.

"It's about your boy, Mrs. Mumby," began the Squire, when he had said a pleasant thing or two about the weather and her health. "He isn't in just now, I believe."

"No, sir," said the mother; "he isn't in just now."

"And you couldn't say exactly where he is?"

"I couldn't, sir," said she.

"Can you tell me where he was all the morning, two days ago?" the Squire asked.

"Two days ago?" reflected Mrs. Mumby. "Yes, sir; I believe I can. We did some mangling early, him and me, afore his father comed in to he's breakfast; and Bill went out to take it home. All the morning arter that, sir, he was in the field just by the farm, along o' some strange gent as took a fancy to the looks of him, and wanted for to put him in a pictur' of the church. A pretty bit it is, too, sir. I've often noticed it agoin' 'crost the fields on summer evenings, when the bells was ringing out for service, sir."

"Well, Mrs. Mumby," said the Squire, anxious to recall her to the point.

"Yes, sir; as I was a-saying," continued Bill's mother, "and I wanted him so bad that day to turn the mangle and carry linen home; but of course I naturally thinks, thinks I, 'he'll sure to give him something for his time.' But it's like such folks, sir; ne'er a copper did my Bill get out of him. Come home empty-handed, sir; that he did! And me near dragged to death."

"Did he though!" returned the Squire. "I've heard a different tale to that. The gentleman—a friend of mine, now staying at the Manor House—informs me that he gave the boy a silver sixpence for his time. Now what say you to that?"

"That I'm sorry I should have to tell it of my own, sir," answered Mrs. Mumby, looking down; "but I'm bound to own as Bill is often caught out in untruths. It a'n't for want of bringing up. His father never catches him but what he gets the strap; and so he shall this time, sir, that he shall. His father 'll be right mad to hear of it."

"But that is not all, I'm grieved to say," pursued the Squire, going on to tell her the rest of his charges against her rapscallion son.

Mrs. Mumby's face fell lower and lower.

"It's not for want o' being strict with him," repeated she. "Mumby and me, we're always at him, sir; and, as I say, his father never finds him out but what he straps him well."

But the Squire shook his head. "It isn't strapping that 'll make a boy right-minded," answered he, "any more than cutting back will make a wild plum bear a garden fruit."

"Then what's to do, sir?" said the mother ruefully. "Don't the good book tell us, 'Spare the rod, and spoil the child'?"

"But it also tells us," said the Squire, "that the evil deeds men do proceed out of their evil hearts; and that nothing can effect a change save the Holy Spirit of God, that 'bloweth where it listed' in this world of sin."

Mrs. Mumby was silent. She knew her Bible pretty well, as she had heard the parson read it from the desk; but she had hitherto thought only of the parent's duty of bringing up a child in the way he should go.

This idea that her boy Bill needed a changed heart to make him want less strapping, was new to her. It had never struck her that "bringing up" is only like preparing the heart—as ploughing does the field—and breaking up its hard surface to receive the gospel seed of truth.

"What would you wish us to do, sir?" asked she nervously.

"First of all, to bring the young culprit face to face with me," replied the Squire. "I will question him, and see what argument can do; and if I find him obdurate—well, I shall see what steps to take. There is no doubt about the truth of what the 'wise man' says; and there are many 'rods' that can be used to teach the wholesome lesson how that crooked ways are sure to find their chastisement."

"He'll be in by one, sir, sure," said Mrs. Mumby, half-doubtful whether to be glad or sorry that the Squire agreed with her about the need of punishment. "He never lags behind at dinner-time."

"Then bring him round to me," rejoined the Squire, rising to his feet.

The mother dropped a curtsey.

"But you won't be hard on him, sir?" said she timidly.

The Squire struck his cane upon the ground.

"We have his future to consider, Mrs. Mumby," answered he. "A boy who lies and thieves at his age, must be curbed, or he will end by worse. But we will hope that, by God's grace, we may turn him from his evil ways."

The Squire and his grandsons were no sooner fairly out of sight than Dick came out of hiding, and set off home.

"Bill's well out of that," said he to himself as he thrust his hands down in his trousers pockets, and set up whistling. Then, recollecting the price he had paid to get Bill off, he broke off his tune to add—"And I'm well rid of him." And for all the scarcity of sixpences with Dick, he even went so far as to count himself cheaply rid of Bill. "I wouldn't care to have the Squire looking after my future," said Dick.

Meantime, young Grantley's brushes worked busily at the picture of the church, whilst the Squire and his grandsons made their way across the fields and by the river to the wood; and having ascertained that the repairs were progressing satisfactorily, they returned to lunch.

Then the Squire sat down in his study to await the arrival of Mrs. Mumby and her scapegrace son; and the boys went out of doors to play about the plantation, taking care to keep well within sight of the gate, so that they might see when Bill arrived. But the afternoon wore on. Mumby came in to his dinner, and went back to work; and his wife put aside the plateful she had reserved for Bill. Then she went upstairs and cleaned herself against his coming in, so as to be ready to go up to the Manor House with him.

"I durstn't breathe a word of it till I've got my bonnet on," said she, "else he'd be off like a shot."

But Mrs. Mumby tidied up, and came downstairs again with her best bonnet in her hand; and still she found the plate untouched. And all the afternoon she worked away at her shirt-fronts; but still no Bill came in.

Presently she made the tea, and had a cup, setting the pot to keep warm on the hob. And six o'clock brought Mumby home; but still no Bill.

"It's just like he's got scent of it," said she. "A boy like him won't stand to be corrected while he got legs to run away."

Up at the Manor House they were so less perplexed.

Young Grantley had stowed his easel at the farm, and hurried in to dinner, all anxiety to hear what had been done. But all the Squire could tell him, was that neither Mrs. Mumby nor the boy had been.

"It's my opinion, grandfather," said Will, "that Mrs. Mumby has changed her mind. She's like a silly mother; doesn't want him punished. That's the fact of it."

"You oughtn't to have spoken out so plain," said Sigismund. "You've frightened her. You take my word; she's hiding Bill."

In this conviction, they all retired for the night.

Next morning, just as breakfast was concluded, a servant came to say that, "Mrs. Mumby, from the cottages beyond the Manor Farm," was waiting in the hall.

Mrs. Mumby's face was drowned in tears.

"Bill's gone and drowned hisself, or run away," she sobbed. "He knew he'd catch it extra hard; and I shall never see my boy again—my only boy."

"My good woman," said the Squire soothingly, "you may be quite sure your boy has too much respect for his own life, to do anything so foolish as jump into the river. Far more likely he is hiding somewhere near about, until the storm is past; so dry your eyes, and tell me what you can."

Mrs. Mumby obeyed.

"He's took a lot o' food out o' the cupboard," said she, choking down her sobs, and speaking through her apron. "Pretty nigh a half a quartern loaf, he did. I always have 'em in a day before, to get 'em stale."

"Proof positive," said Will, "he's run away."

"What should he want with bread in the river, I wonder!" giggled Sigismund, snacking at the flies with a bit of whip-cord, and half thinking of Bill the whole time.

"He may have gone into the woods," observed the Squire, half to himself.

"Picnicking," put in Will.

"Has any search been made?" continued his grandfather aloud to Mrs. Mumby.

The mother answered tearfully that all the neighbours had turned out with lanterns after dark, on hearing that the boy had not come home; and many people in the village street had joined the search. Every outhouse and haystack in the neighbourhood had been ransacked; and many of the searchers had not given up till dawn.

"They reckoned, you see, sir, that he was bound to drop asleep somewheres, if so be he was alive," explained Mrs. Mumby; "and they'd liker hit upon him in the dark than by broad daylight, when he'd be upon the tramp."

"It looked remarkably as if he had made off," the Squire thought. "Well, well," said he, "the way will be to telegraph the fact to Scotland Yard. A thorough search will soon be set on foot." So, repairing to the study, a description of the runaway was written out, and a man on horseback forthwith despatched with it to the town.

Whilst this was being arranged, Hal had slipped round to Mrs. Mumby's side. "I think, you know," said he, "if I could get hold of Bill, and talk to him, it might do good; but then, you see, you don't know where he is."

The mother shook her head. "I wish I did," said she.

"I wish you did," echoed Hal. "When you don't know where a person is, it makes you feel so bad. You see, he'll soon eat up that bread. It wouldn't last me long; and everybody says I eat so little, for a growing boy."

"And he eats such a lot," rejoined Bill's mother, comforted by the interest Hal seemed to take in her boy's fate. "Bless you, sir! You need to be poor people, like Mumby and me," she added, "to know how much he does eat."

"And the question is," said Hal reflectively, "what will he do when that's gone?"

Dick also had heard of the great stir caused by Bill's disappearance.

"There was pretty near a score on us," old Kirkin told him when he ran down the garden, early that morning. "We didn't put our lanterns out till four; and up again at six. I can tell 'ee, I ha'n't had a wink o' sleep."

"I wonder you didn't stay in bed to-day," said Dick.

But Kirkin shook his head. He had been a gardener in his prime, but now had to get his living by odd jobs as best he could.

"Sleep or no sleep, can't afford to throw up work," said he. "But when a lad's missing, so that no one knows what's come of him, a man can't stay in bed to sleep. His mother's like to kill herself."

"I wonder where he's gone," said Dick, which was quite true, so far as it went. Nevertheless, he felt very uncomfortable, sitting down to breakfast with the secret of Bill's disappearance on his mind.

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