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Title: Footprints
A story of the snow
Author: Annette Lyster
Illustrator: J. Nash
Release date: May 28, 2025 [eBook #76173]
Language: English
Original publication: London: Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge, 1889
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FOOTPRINTS ***
Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration: "I POINTED OUT THE DRAWER, AND HARPER TOOK THE GOLD."]
FOOTPRINTS.
_A STORY OF THE SNOW._
BY
ANNETTE LYSTER
AUTHOR OF "THE WHITE GIPSY," "A LEAL, LIGHT HEART,"
"FAN'S SILKEN STRING," "ETC."
ILLUSTRATED BY J. NASH.
—————————————
PUBLISHED UNDER THE DIRECTION OF THE COMMITTEE
OF GENERAL LITERATURE AND EDUCATION APPOINTED BY THE
SOCIETY FOR PROMOTING CHRISTIAN KNOWLEDGE.
—————————————
LONDON:
SOCIETY FOR PROMOTING CHRISTIAN KNOWLEDGE
NORTHUMBERLAND AVENUE. W.C.;
43, QUEEN VICTORIA STREET. E.C.
BRIGHTON: 129, NORTH STREET.
NEW YORK: E. & J. B. YOUNG AND CO.
[Illustration]
CONTENTS.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER
I. SNOW AND SNOW-MEN
II. KATIE
III. GROWING UP
IV. OLD ROVER
V. THE THAW
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
FOOTPRINTS.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER I.
SNOW AND SNOW-MEN.
VERY early in the reign of Queen Victoria there lived near a large
town in Devonshire a farmer named Marlowe, a prosperous, well-to-do
man, with a thrifty, good-tempered wife and half a dozen children. Mr.
Marlowe owned his farm, which was a large one; and in those good old
times farmers could live comfortably, and lay by a little money for
their children—a state of things which has well-nigh passed away.
In Devonshire, as perhaps most people know, a heavy fall of snow is
a most unusual thing. The mild, damp climate forbids the snow to lie
long; indeed, it generally melts in the act of falling. But one year,
early in the queen's reign, there was a snowstorm in Devon which would
have been considered heavy in Scotland or Yorkshire; and with the snow
came a hard frost.
Farmer Marlowe's five sons and one daughter were in strange glee. There
was a large grammar-school not far off, which the three elder lads
attended, and some of the boarders who came from colder regions had
often described to them the delights of snow and frost—snow-balling,
sliding, and even skating; but never had the young Marlowes partaken of
those joys. Now they were determined to make the most of them.
In the school playground a large snow-man was built up by the boys
during the play-hours "between schools," and Harry, Hugh, and Frank
Marlowe thought themselves very kind and considerate for their sister
Lucy and the two little boys at home, in that they refused to remain in
the playground in the afternoon to assist in finishing the snow-giant,
and perchance in demolishing him, should the popular fancy turn in that
direction. As they trudged off, Hugh looked back, saying—
"Oh, boys, I can see his head—the snow-man, I mean. I see it over the
wall, and that wall is ten feet high at least. Why, he must be fifteen
or sixteen feet high!"
"Not he," said Harry, the eldest; "not more than ten, if so much. You
forget that we are going uphill."
"No, we are not," said Hugh, who was somewhat famous for contradicting;
"and if we were," he added hastily, "what difference would that make?"
But Harry was not going to be entrapped into an argument with Hugh,
whom their father declared was born half a lawyer, so he only answered—
"Well, if you can't see for yourself, Hugh, 'I' can't make you."
"He sees well enough," said Frank; "only he must be talking. I'm half
sorry, Harry, that we didn't stay, for if Uncle Jasper is as queer as
he was yesterday, ten to one Lucy won't get out at all, and Jim and
Polly are no good."
Polly, I must explain, was a pet name for the youngest boy, whose name
was Paul.
"Well, that may be," Harry answered; "but it would be hard on the
little chaps to get no fun out of the snow. Why, I'm fifteen, and I
never saw a snow like this before. Uncle Jasper may have come all right
again."
"'I' couldn't see a bit of change in him," said Hugh; "only Lucy and
mother made a fuss."
Harry turned sharply, and caught the speaker by the collar of his
jacket.
"Say that again," said he.
"No, I shan't," replied Hugh promptly, and the elder's brief anger
ended in a laugh.
"Well, you 'are' a funny chap, Hugh. Don't you let me hear you saying
anything saucy about mother, mind."
"I shall just turn round and go back to the playground," said Hugh as
soon as he was released. "Because you are big and strong, that's no
reason why you should be a bully. A bully is a disgusting character. I
don't care if Lucy and the two young ones never see snow-balls. What
matter about a girl and a couple of babies? I shan't lose all my fun
for them. I'm going back."
"All right," said Harry composedly; "off you go;" and he trudged along
the beaten track by the side of the road, followed by Frank, who,
however, kept looking back as if divided in his mind.
"Why must we go home, Harry? It was such good fun in the playground."
"So 'twas, Frankie, and we had it for a good long time, and shall have
more to-morrow. But we must not think of no one but ourselves, you
know."
"And Hugh will be sorry by-and-by," said Frank.
"Do you know Hugh no better than that?" Harry asked, with a laugh.
"Come, let us run down this hill. No, Frank; take care—it's too
steep. We couldn't run. I wonder which will be at home first—Hugh or
ourselves?"
They presently turned off the high-road into a lane with high banks
on either side, and great ferns growing all the way from the ground
to the top. These ferns looked so wonderfully beautiful that even a
couple of schoolboys could not pass them without remark. The high banks
had partially sheltered them, and they were not smothered in snow—only
turned into white ferns, every bit of the brown and yellow of their
winter coats being covered.
"Don't they look as if they were cut out in white stone?" said Frank
admiringly. "Well, snow is very pretty! Still, I think I like colours
best, for always."
Harry had reached the gate which shut in his father's house and
garden—a large, formal garden, with one broad walk leading straight
from the gate to the house. He stopped, and made a sign to the other
boy to come on quietly.
"Look there!" said he. "What did I tell you?"
And there, in the middle of the broad walk, was the humble commencement
of a snow-man, and hard at work collecting snow were the two little
boys, Jem and Polly, aged respectively six and four, while busy about
the formation of a pair of shapeless feet was no less a person than
Hugh himself.
"Well, if he isn't a queer fellow!" cried Frank, with his eyes wide
open.
They raised the latch of the gate, and at the sound Jem called out,
"Here's the other two, Hughie."
"At last!" said Hugh. "Never thought of taking a short cut through the
wood, of course! Lucy will be out in a minute or two. I say, Harry,
Uncle Jasper's queerer than ever."
"He's ill, I'm afraid," said Harry. "Here, Frank, give me your books.
I'll carry them in. I'll be back directly; but I want to see about
Lucy."
He went on to the house—a square brick house, with a very pretty old
wooden porch all overgrown with ivy, jasmine, and roses, now looking
like delicate tracery cut in fine white marble. This picturesque,
many-pointed porch was the only pretty thing about the house. The
building was square, with smallish square windows, one on each side of
the hall door, and others above them, for the upper rooms. Over the
porch there was a third window in the upper row. But there was an air
of solid comfort and respectability about the place, and the Marlowes
saw no faults in it.
Harry entered, stamping the snow off his feet in the porch. Passing
through a rather darker hall, he went into a large, comfortable room on
the left side of the hall. Here a fire blazed cheerfully, and here he
found his sister Lucy, a pleasant-faced, blue-eyed girl of sixteen. She
held up her hand in warning, and whispered—
"Don't wake him, Harry dear."
Harry sat down near the door, and pulled off his heavy shoes; then,
coming forward, he looked curiously at an old, old man, who was lying
back in a great armchair placed before the fire; fast asleep, he seemed
to be.
"What is the matter with him, Lucy?"
"I don't know. It seems to me as if the snow frightens him, only that
is absurd, for he is not a bit silly, though he has grown so silent.
But I'm sure it has something to do with the snow, and that he is
always so when snow comes; for I heard father say, 'I wish the poor old
chap could sleep till the thaw.'"
"He looks very weak; don't you think so?—All grey and pinched-up like.
Lucy, can't you come out at all?"
"Oh yes; mother has just got through her work in the kitchen, and then
she'll sit here, and let me go."
"Very good. Go you and get ready, then; I will sit by Uncle Jasper till
mother comes. Put on lots of things, Lucy, for it's stinging cold."
Lucy laid by her needlework and ran lightly off, and for a few moments
all was very quiet. But probably the soft buzz of the young voices
had broken the old man's slumbers, for he soon moved uneasily, and
presently sat up, looking round in a dazed kind of way.
"Where's Harry?" said he.
"Here I am, uncle. Do you mean me or father?"
"Is this Harry? Why—have I been dreaming? Harry was like this once. Oh,
I know. I remember now. You're not 'my' Harry; but you are a good boy.
Mind you always keep so, Harry. Never wander from the right way; never
forget that God sees you always. You don't know what you may come to.
We never know what sin we may commit, if once we go into the wrong way.
Harry, is the snow gone?"
"No, sir," said Harry, a little surprised both at the long warning
and the abrupt question; "no fear of that. We are going to build a
snow-man. You can see a bit of him already from the window."
"Ay, ay—the window. That was the window," Jasper added, pointing to one
at the end of the room, from which, of course, the broad walk and the
snow-man could not be seen.
"No, not that—the front one," said Harry, a good deal puzzled.
"No! Do you think 'I' can forget?" old Jasper said, half-angrily.
"It was the end window. That's the same bureau. It stood near the
fireplace in those days, and old Rover was lying on the sheepskin rug.
Ah me—it's a long, long time ago! When I get to heaven, I may forget,
but not here, and the snow wakes it all to life. I know I am forgiven,
but I never can forget. Uncle Hugh said just the same—he never could
forget—and what was his sin to mine?"
"What is it that you cannot forget—and who was Uncle Hugh?" said Harry.
Old Jasper considered for a moment.
"Katie was his daughter, and she was your grandmother—so he was your
great-grandfather. Oh, how long I have lived—they are all gone but me.
Uncle Hugh—Harry—young Hugh—all gone. He was not really my uncle, only
a cousin, but we called him uncle, Harry and I did."
"Harry—that's my father?" questioned the boy.
But he got no answer, for old Jasper had risen and gone to the front
window.
"All white and pure," he said, "but treacherous too. Hiding things
sometimes, and then—But the fault was not in the snow, it was all my
own. Well, well! I'm forgiven, I know that. 'I have blotted out as a
cloud'—eh, what's the rest of that, now? My head's going I doubt—I
can't remember even that."
Harry came over to him and repeated the verse,—
"'I have blotted out, as a thick cloud, thy transgressions, and, as a
cloud, thy sins.'
"But, 'indeed,' Uncle Jasper, I don't think you ever did anything very
bad. You've always been so good, as long as I can remember anything."
Jasper took a long look at the dazzling whiteness—made more dazzling
just then by a sudden burst of sunshine. He shivered and said in a low
voice—
"When the snow melts you will know all about it."
"Oh, he's going crazy!" muttered the boy, sincerely frightened—so
frightened that it was a great relief to hear his mother's step in the
hall.
"Mother!" he said, running to the door. "Come to Uncle Jasper—I don't
think he is quite well."
"Why, Lucy said he was asleep! What is it, Jasper? What's making you
shiver? Are you cold?"
"Cold at heart—a coward, Mary, always a coward. When the snow melts—and
look at the sun now!—then all the world will know what I am. And I
cannot bear it; I always said so. I can't bear it!"
"Run away, Harry; Lucy is ready now. Now, Jasper, dear heart, listen to
me. Don't be gazing out at the snow, but turn this way and look at me,
and put your mind to what I'm going to say."
She took his hand, and whenever his eyes began to wander from her face
she pressed his poor old withered hand gently, and recalled him to
attention.
"Jasper," she said, "whatever misery comes back to you with the snow,
there is no one living who knows aught about it. My good-man himself
only knows that you are always ill and unhappy whenever snow comes; I'm
thankful that it does not often happen here. I suppose something was
done when there was snow long ago; but all that knew it have passed
away: and when this snow melts we shall know no more than we do now,
unless you tell us yourself."
"I am always afraid I shall tell when there is snow," he said.
"And, in my opinion, you would be happier if you did tell," Mary
Marlowe answered. "I don't mean, tell me, or tell every one; but my
husband is a good, wise man, and, if you have a burden on your mind,
he'd give you help and comfort."
Old Jasper was attentive enough now. His face was quite changed; all
the look of vacant, anxious unrest had left it, and he looked many
years younger and more like his former self.
"Tell the whole story!" he cried. "Why, Mary, Heaven forgive me! I
remember feeling a little bit of comfort when those I truly loved were
taken from us, because I could not help saying, 'Now no one living
knows of my sin.'"
"Well, and has it made you happy, Jasper? Sure, I know it hasn't."
"But," he answered anxiously, "I've repented, Mary, long ago—bitterly
repented! I am forgiven! Oh, surely, Mary, you think I am forgiven—and
when I meet them again there will be no cloud between us."
"And what was the cloud, Jasper? I know enough of the
Marlowes—open-hearted, kindly souls—to know that if they forgave, they
did it heartily. So what was the cloud between you?"
"Shame," he answered.
Mary shook her head.
"Well," he went on, "if it was not that, what was it?"
"If you ask my opinion, Jasper, I'd say it was pride. When we've done
wrong, and been forgiven, it is my mind that we should just make no
concealments and keepings back, but stand fair out in the sight of man
as we stand in the sight of God. I am sure of this—a concealed sin does
our own lives more injury than any shame or any sorrow. Being hidden,
it lives and gnaws at us; drag it out into the light of day, and you
will kill it. All your life, ever since I came home to Marlowe Hay,
you've been a gentle, loving-hearted, good man, a good friend to my
children, as you were to their father before them, and to his father,
as I have often been told. And yet you are not a happy man; though I
know you are a true Christian, yet you are never happy. I have wanted
to say this to you ever since a talk we had last summer—that there
'must' be some reason for this in yourself, for well you know there is
no religious reason. He forgives freely, and puts the sin away; but you
keep it to think about and grieve over—while all the time you care more
that no one should know it than for anything else."
"Oh, Mary, you are hard upon me!"
"I don't mean to be hard, indeed; but I am all for being above-board
and true. And don't I know that half your misery is, 'If they knew what
I once did, they would never love me'? And I am very sure that that is
a mistake. You are a real self-tormentor, Jasper, and always were."
"Why, that's what Harry—'my' Harry, as I call him—said to me when he
was dying. He said,—
"'We never told the little lad, Jasper; and when I am gone there will
be no one but poor Katie who knows a word about it, and you know she
will keep your secret. This was your wish, and we have done so; but
you'd be a better and a happier man if you could make up your mind to
have no concealments. You will only torment yourself all your life, as
you have done these many years; and though I cannot bear to vex you, I
must say, once for all, that I think God means us to bear the shame of
our deeds.'
"But I never had the courage to do it."
"And what a deal of sorrow and fretting you've made for yourself by
it," Mary said gently.
"He added, 'And God will bring you to see it before you die,'" the old
man went on thoughtfully.
He spoke no more, and Mary led him over to his chair, and made him
comfortable in it. Then she took out her needlework, and a long time
passed in silence, during which her mind had gone off to other matters,
when suddenly the old man spoke again.
"This is 1840, is it not? Then am I ninety-five years old. And my Harry
died at fifty, and his son died young, and there's no one living now
that I knew when I was young. Why am I left, I wonder? Maybe, I am
spared so long just to give me another chance to do what I ought. 'Tis
pride. I thought it was shame and humility, but I see now 'tis just
pride. And to think of such as I being proud! Well, I will give it
up; I will tell it all. They'll shrink from me—the lads that I love,
because they are so like my Harry. And Lucy, when she laughs, she minds
me so much of Katie. She'll hardly bear the sight of me again. But I
deserve it all. And when it's done, maybe God will take me home. Maybe,
this is the last thing I have to do in this world. I'll do it, Lord.
This very evening, if I live to see it, I will do it."
He got up slowly, took up a crutch-handle stick that lay near him, and
left the room. Mary heard him cross the hall and enter his own room.
She looked after him pityingly; he had a deformed foot, and walked very
feebly.
"Poor old man!" she said. "I wonder will he remember? He'll be twice as
easy in his mind if he keeps to his resolution; and I dare say 'twas
nothing so very dreadful, after all."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER II.
KATIE.
THE young Marlowes built up not only a snow-man, but a house of snow.
Not that they finished it that day, but they began it in an empty
corner of the rick-yard. When it grew too dark for even Hugh to declare
that it was still quite light, and that they were all very lazy to
talk of going in, the party ran off, warm with hard work and hungry
as hunters. Frank and Hugh reached the porch first, and there waited
for the two elders, who came ploughing through the snow, Lucy carrying
little Paul, and Jem mounted on Harry's back.
"There 'll be more snow to-night," said Frank gleefully. "Look how grey
and low the sky is."
"That's for a thaw," said Hugh. "We shall never finish the house,
you'll see. Well, I never was so hungry in my life! Polly, if you trot
into the parlour with your boots in that state, mother will be glad to
see you, no doubt!"
Polly turned and scampered upstairs, followed by the rest with
shouts and calls, and presently they all came down again with
well-brushed hair, clean hands, clean shoes, and splendid appetites.
Bread-and-cheese disappeared before them almost as if they had been
made of snow, and the rosy young faces were so many suns.
Mr. Marlowe—the master, as he was usually called—sat at one end of the
big table, and his pleasant-looking wife at the other. Beside her sat
old Jasper, for whom a nice bowl of good soup was provided; but he did
not take much of it this evening, and looked very grave and thoughtful.
For a long time a kind of quiet indifference had been growing on the
old man, but to-night every trace of this had disappeared, and he
looked at the children from time to time with somewhat sad affection.
They had been cautioned not to speak before him of the snow, or of
their games in the garden and rick-yard, but he began the subject
himself.
"You've been making a snow-man, boys. I saw him from my window."
"Yes, and a house, too," cried little Jem—"such a lovely house as it
will be, with a window and a roof; only Hugh says it is going to thaw.
Will it thaw to-night, Uncle Jasper?"
The elders looked a little anxious, but Jasper answered calmly—
"Not to-night, I hope, Jemmy. Now, if you've all had your supper, come
and sit by the fire. I've a story to tell you—a story of the snow."
"A story!" said Lucy. "Why, that's nice, uncle. It will be like old
times again. I always loved your stories."
"Old times?" Jasper repeated. "No, Lucy, it may never be like old times
any more."
Mr. and Mrs. Marlowe glanced at each other, and the master said—
"You must not put yourself about, Uncle Jasper. You'll maybe do
yourself harm."
"My mind is made up to it," the old man said. "I've been wrong this
long time. I'll lay down my pride now, God helping me."
He rose, and Lucy ran to help him to his warm corner by the fire.
"Ah, little Lucy!" he muttered. "Maybe this is the last time."
The girl looked startled, but said nothing.
Uncle Jasper had until lately been a wonderful "story-teller," so the
young people were not surprised, though much pleased, at his offering
to tell them one now. The table was cleared, and then each took his
favourite seat—Paul perched on his father's knee, Jem nestled close to
his mother on a low stool, Harry and Frank together on an old-fashioned
settle, and Hugh lying on his back on the rug. Lucy and her mother had
their needlework, and the master had a book; but he did not open it,
for he was somewhat curious, as well as anxious, wondering whether
Jasper's long-kept secret were really about to be told, and wondering,
too, if it were well for the children to hear it.
"Uncle Jasper," said he, "shall I send the boys to bed? Would you
rather I did?"
"Why, he promised us a story!" cried little Paul, looking up.
"No; I wish them to hear. 'Twill be a lesson for them."
"Now I know 'twill be a stupid story," muttered Hugh. "Stories to do
you good I hate! I shall go to sleep," and he closed his eyes.
"It's a long story," said old Jasper; "I shall hardly get through it
to-night; but, if I'm spared, I'll tell it all—before the thaw. It
happened when I was fifteen, and that is eighty years ago."
"My stars!" exclaimed Hugh, who was not asleep just yet.
"But I must begin even earlier than that, if I am to make my story
plain—and I want to tell it all, plain and true. Well, this house and
farm of Marlowe Hay belonged to Hugh Marlowe, whose name you've all
seen on the monument over our pew in church. He was the last of the
old Marlowes to whom this place had belonged for many generations.
He married young, and his wife never had a child until they had been
years and years married, and then she had a little girl, and died soon
afterwards. He never married again, and so he got on in life; and being
by nature a masterful man, and rough in his ways, he got to be more
so, of course, with only farm-servants about him, and a child whom
he spoiled a good bit. Well, at last he had a bad illness—a kind of
rheumatic-fever—and he never was quite the same man again. And constant
pain makes even good-tempered people crusty sometimes.
"However, he began to think that he ought to settle his worldly
affairs. He was very rich, for his station in life; he could leave his
daughter a good portion, even if he left Marlowe Hay away from her;
and he bethought himself that he would like to adopt an heir who could
take his name, and in due time marry Katie, if all went well. He had
two cousins, and they were both married and had families: one was Mrs.
Franks, and the other was Mrs. Helps. Mrs. Helps was my mother; she
was a widow, and I was the only boy, and the youngest of the family. I
remember the day his letter came as if it had been only yesterday—ay,
maybe better."
"Why, Uncle Jasper! Your name is Marlowe," cried Frank.
"I've always borne that name—but my own right name was Helps. The
letter was welcome enough, to my mother. I had been a sickly child,
and, with my bad foot, would never be fit for much; and she was poor.
She read me the letter. I was then twelve, and had never done a day's
work in my life—I had been too often bad with my foot. But now my foot
was well—it has never troubled me since, indeed—and I was running idle
about the streets, making friends and learning habits that were not
good for me. I got a taste for bad company, which you will see led me
into harm afterwards."
"Were you lame then, Uncle Jasper?" inquired little Jemmy.
"Yes, even lamer than I am now; though, of course, I was stronger too.
The letter said that Hugh Marlowe meant to adopt two boys. Harry Franks
was to be one, and, if my mother liked, I should be the other. He said
he knew that I had been a sickly child, but was better now, and the
country life would make a man of me. He would provide for both boys;
one should be his heir, and the other take place as a younger son; but
both should be fairly provided for, even if he did not like either of
them enough to leave Marlowe Hay to him.
"Says my poor mother, 'You're a handsome boy, Jasper, far handsomer
than Ellen Franks's boy; but, then, he's an active, strong fellow, you
know. Still, you're twice as clever as he, and if you use your brains,
you'll be the heir. You'll have to be cautious, though, and make
everybody fond of you; but I trust to you to use your brains and oust
that big yellow-haired lad before long.'
"Now, I'm very sure my mother would never have said all this if she had
known how I would take it all up, quite seriously,—I am sure of that.
I knew Harry Franks a little. I had met him more than once, and liked
him. And if I had been let alone, maybe Harry would have led me right—I
might have been a different boy, and never had this story to tell at
all."
"But who was Harry Franks?" asked young Harry Marlowe. "Were there
three boys? You know I have heard about Hugh Marlowe adopting my
grandfather before—but surely he was Harry Marlowe?"
"Mr. Marlowe said in his letter that both boys—if he liked them—were to
take his name, and be in all respects as his own sons."
"So our name is really Franks," cried the boys. "How 'very' queer!"
"No, no; your name is Marlowe," said the old man testily. "Mr. Marlowe
gave Harry his name. Well, where was I? Oh ay—I was sent off from
Rochdale, where we lived, to Devonshire, and my mother took great pains
to get me ready quickly, because she wished me to be 'first in the
field,' she said. Not a word did Hugh Marlowe say in his letter about
his daughter. So when I arrived here—it was in May, and the orchard
was a sight the like of which I had never seen before—I was finely
surprised when in the porch I met a little lass, with her hair hanging
over her eyes and her lap full of flowers—such a pretty little lass!
She stood in the porch with the house door open behind her—and says
she,—
"'Are you one of my new brothers?'
"'I don't know,' said I. 'Who are you?'
"'I'm Katie Marlowe, of course—what a fool you must be! I shan't like
'you,' at all events. Why do you walk lame?'
"By this time the old man who had met me at the end of the lane—I came
by coach, you know—had come into the porch, and he said,—
"'That's bad manners, Miss Kate. Take the lad to your father.'
"'Take him yourself,' says she, with a toss of her head that set her
wild curls flying till her head looked something like my mother's mop
when she twirled it; and she ran off into the house.
"'I mun take the powny round,' said old Jacob. 'You follow after she,
lad; the master's in the parlour.'
"So I went in. I heard Katie's voice saying,—
"'He's lame, father—he has a crooked foot.'
"And then I pushed the door open and went in. Old Hugh Marlowe—I
thought him wondrous old then, but I might have a son older than he
was, at my present age—he was sitting in this very chair, over by the
window yonder.
"And he said, 'Come here, boy.'
"So I went up to him.
"'A cripple!' says he. 'I ought to have been told of it. Which are you,
now—Harry Franks or Jasper Helps?'
"Jasper Helps, sir,' said I; 'and I am not a cripple, indeed. I had
something the matter with my foot, and it grew crooked; but I am well
of it this long time.'
"'Ah, well!' said he. 'The deed is done now, and it was not your fault,
so you shall have your chance fairly. Dost thou like him, Katie?'
"'No,' says Katie, 'I don't! I didn't ask you to catch any brothers for
me—I did very well without any, and I don't like this one a bit.'
"'You'll have to put up with him,' he answered, with a laugh; 'and mind
now, lassie, none of your tantrums before him. He'd think thee a wild
savage if he saw thee dancing with rage as I saw thee this morning!'
"Well, we were soon friendly enough, the child and I. Ah, if I had
only come here with no hidden thought in my mind, how happy I might
have been! For Mr. Marlowe was not unkind, though rough in his manner,
and if I hadn't been in such a hurry to please him, he'd have liked me
better. I think he partly saw through me, but he never allowed it to
make him unkind to me. And the little lass was one that any one must
have loved, in spite of her wild ways and her bit of a temper. For she
had a temper—many a red cheek and hot ear did her little hand give
me, and she must be obeyed in all things. Well, a boy should be ready
to give up to a girl, particularly a big boy to a little girl, and if
I had done it without any secret plan, it would have been all right
enough. But my whole aim was to make her so fond of me before Harry
came, that she should think nothing of him.
"It was a fortnight, I think, before Harry came, and I believe he had
been waiting to know when I was to go, that we might travel together.
Katie and I were here, in this parlour, at our supper, when the door
opened and in came Harry. And if you want to know what he looked like,
just look at Frank; he's the most like him of any of you—more like him
than his own son ever was. Only Harry looked grave and a trifle shy.
"'I am Harry Franks, sir,' said he to Mr. Marlowe, 'and my mother
desires her best respects.'
"'Oh ho! So you're Harry, are you? Harry Marlowe from this time, mind
you, boy. You're like your mother, and she was as honest-faced a lass
as I ever saw. Show us your feet—ah! All right. You're welcome, Harry.
Katie, you little goose, don't frown so—here's another playfellow for
you.'
"But Katie had seen me turn red when her father said that about Harry's
feet, and she only puckered her pretty forehead into a frown more than
before, and made answer—
"'I shan't play with him. I don't like him. I like Jasper—I like his
foot! I hate that great, big, yellow-haired boy! Send him away, father.'
"I felt full of triumph and satisfaction; but Mr. Marlowe only laughed
and said—
"'All right, lassie; we'll see if you're of the same mind ten years
hence. Never mind her, Harry; she said she hated Jasper when he first
came, and she soon couldn't get on without him—she'll take to you soon
enough.'
"With that, Katie got up and walked round the table to where Harry had
taken a seat, and gave him a hearty box on the ear.
"'That's the way I shall take to him,' said she.
"Harry looked surprised, and then laughed and said, 'It is well for me
that you have but a small hand, Cousin Katie.'
"'Don't call me cousin!' said Katie. 'Jasper may; but you must call me
"Miss" Katie.'
"'Nonsense, girl!' said Mr. Marlowe. 'I'll have nothing of that kind
here. Let me hear no more folly of this sort.'
"Katie knew better than to be saucy when her father spoke like that, so
we finished our supper in silence; and then Mr. Marlowe sent Harry and
me to our room, for Harry was falling asleep, he was so tired, and I
might as well go too. Sleepy as he was, I saw Harry kneel down and say
his prayers before he undressed, and when he was in bed, (we had the
room over the porch), he said, 'Good night, Jasper. I hope we shall be
good friends.'
"'We can't!' said I. 'We are rivals.'
"Harry stared at me. 'I don't understand,' said he; 'but maybe I shall
when I am not so sleepy.' And he was sound asleep in a minute.
"I lay thinking, 'I was a fool to say that! I must keep friendly with
him, for it is plain enough that Mr. Marlowe will be on his side.' Ah,
dear! how plain it all comes back to me!"
"Indeed," said the master, "it's simply wonderful how you remember
so well; and hearing it here, where it all happened, makes it better
than a printed book. But, for all that, sir, we must not sit up all
night—Jem and Paul are asleep, and it is getting late. You must go on
with it to-morrow night, Uncle Jasper—that is, if you're inclined to
do so; for you must remember that not one of us wants to hear another
word, unless you wish to say it."
"Go to the door," said old Jasper, "and tell me is it freezing."
The master looked surprised; but, laying Paul on his mother's lap, he
went out into the hall. Coming back, he said—
"Snowing hard and freezing too, uncle."
"Very good—then I can wait. I need not finish till the thaw comes."
The boys were looking at him in great surprise, for his strange manner
almost frightened them.
He looked at them, and seemed to wake up.
"Go to bed, lads," he said, "and think over what I've told you, for I
want you to remember this story as long as you live. Now answer me,
boys. So far as we have gone, what was my fault, do you think? Speak
out, mind—I want to hear your real thoughts."
"I don't think you had 'done' anything wrong," said Frank; "only
thought it."
"And you, Hugh?"
"I couldn't say," answered Hugh gruffly.
"Was it that you were selfish, uncle?" said young Harry. "Was it wrong
to want all for yourself?"
"What do you say, Lucy?" said old Jasper, turning to his favourite.
"It was very long ago," Lucy said, "and you are so different now that I
can't quite believe that this boy ever was really you. But—was it that
he was not quite true and honest?"
"I think it was," he said. "I think Lucy is right. Good night,
children—I am tired with so much talking."
He left the room, leaning on the master, who always helped him to
undress.
"Mother," said Harry, "is it all true?"
"I am sure it is; but I never heard the whole story before. I declare
it is like a story in a book."
"Only, when a story is in a book one can read the whole of it," said
Hugh, "and I know we shall never hear any more of this. He'll forget
it, or he'll change his mind; and it's too bad, for, in spite of being
for our good, I like the story—though I think he was a young sneak. And
Katie was our grandmother, wasn't she?"
"Great-grandmother, to you. Your father's grandmother—he remembers her
well. Off to bed now, boys, and mind you get up when the bell rings in
the morning."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER III.
GROWING UP.
ALL that night the snow fell thick and fast, and by the time the boys
got up, on the ringing of the usual bell, every trace of walk and
flower-bed was covered up deep in the garden, where even large bushes
showed only as low hillocks of pure whiteness. The snow had drifted up
to the level of the broad window-seats of the parlour; and, what was
still more interesting, their father said that the roads were not safe,
the snow lying in great drifts, and so the boys must have a holiday.
To keep them out of mischief he provided them with shovels and brush,
desiring them to clear a path down the broad walk and a space round the
gate, to enable it to open. This, however, did not take very long, and
then the snow-man was rescued from destruction—heaps of new-fallen snow
having covered his head and shoulders, while his legs were covered to
the knees, or where his knees would have been if he had had any; but,
to tell the truth, he was as Hugh declared, "all made in one piece."
However, such as he was, they restored him to his pristine beauty,
repairing him wherever little bits were knocked off in the process.
By this time Lucy and the two little ones joined the party, and
they all went to the rick-yard to finish their house. It proved so
delightful an occupation that it was difficult to get them in for their
meals; though, once in, I cannot say that anxiety to be out again
destroyed their appetites. The walls rose to a respectable height, and
were of more than respectable thickness. Some long branches were placed
over the top to form a foundation for the roof; and then a step-ladder
and some stable-buckets were procured, and they proceeded to fling
bucketsful of snow on the top of the branches—a piece of work which
they found very fatiguing. Presently Hugh flung away his bucket with a
clatter, and cried aloud—
"What a pack of donkeys we are!"
"What do you mean?" inquired Harry from the top of the ladder.
"Why, look at the sky! It's sure to snow again soon, and then the roof
will make itself—nice and smooth, too, not like 'that,' all anyhow."
"Well, I never thought of that!" cried Harry. "But you are quite right,
Hugh. Besides, I declare I am tired out—my bones ache with all the work
we've done. It's getting dark, too; let us put everything back in its
place, and go in. Lucy, I wonder could you and mother have supper a
little earlier, that we may hear more of Uncle Jasper's story?"
"Well, I dare say she would not mind; but Uncle Jasper has been very
strange all day. When I read him his chapter in the morning he seemed
hardly to listen, and he kept muttering, 'Ay, that's how 'twas,' or, 'I
remember that well,' and things like that. And he asked me every moment
if the thaw had come."
"We shall never hear the end of that story," said Hugh doggedly.
"You'll see, now—he will be ill, or he'll forget it, or something."
However, as soon as supper was over, old Jasper looked over at the
master and said—
"I'm ready to go on, Harry, if you all wish it."
And in a few minutes they were all seated by the fire, and the old man
began at once.
"I could not tell every little thing that happened, as I did last
night, for my memory would not always serve me; and, besides, it would
take too long. It is only some things—a day here and a day there—that
are burned into my heart, so that I seem to hear the words said by
myself or others, just in the old voices.
"I did my very best to keep Katie from making friends with Harry, and
I succeeded for a time. He had a dull time enough, and, coming from a
happy home, he must have felt it; but he never complained, let us do or
say what we might. And Katie was very saucy to him, and I was cold and
unfriendly.
"But one day Katie and I had been out in the lanes after flowers, and
we were nearing home, when we met a tipsy man—a sailor who had lost
a leg in one of our sea-fights, and who stumped about the country on
a wooden leg, begging mostly, though he sometimes did odd jobs very
handily. He was often at Marlowe Hay, and Katie was partial to him—he
told such fine stories about storms and battles, and strange things he
had seen. But this day he was very drunk, and not a bit like himself.
Katie, poor little maid, did not understand, and stopped as usual to
talk to him, and he began telling her a long story, swearing in a
frightful way—almost every second word an oath. Then, too, he sang
scraps of songs that I didn't half understand; but I knew very well
he ought not to sing the like before the child. And Katie herself got
frightened, and bid him 'go away—she didn't like him at all to-day.'
"'Not like me!' he roared out. 'Oh, that's all my eye! Every lassie
loves a sailor. Come, little one, give me a kiss, for I must be jogging
on.'
"And he caught her and pulled her over to him, though she struggled
hard, kicking and resisting with all her might.
"'Jasper, Jasper!' she cried. 'Help me—pull me away—don't let him kiss
me—don't let him!'
"For I must tell you she was a queer, shy little soul, and not ready
with a kiss for every one, as some children are. But Jack was a strong
man—a great big fellow; and I was not a very brave boy. I was—to my
shame I say it—as afraid of getting hurt as any girl. So I tried to
laugh, and said, 'Never mind, Katie! He'll do you no harm,' And then I
said to Jack, 'Let the child go, you are frightening her.'
"' I'm not frightened!' she cried. 'I'm angry!'
"And she closed her little hand and pummelled Jack's red face as hard
as she could, he laughing and she screaming. I heard some one running
up the lane fast, and in a moment I saw that it was Harry. He had not
seen Jack before, and he fancied that the man was wanting to carry
Katie off. He ran up, with a stick in his hand; he gave Jack a stinging
blow on the face, and dragged Katie away from him.
"'Run away, Katie,' he said; 'I'll keep him back as long as I can.'
"Katie ran, and so did I, for Jack was half mad with anger; but when I
had got some way off—you know I could not go very fast—I turned and saw
Harry knocked down, and Jack beating him with his crutch. Katie found
her father near the gate, and brought him with me, and he soon made
Jack behave himself.
"Harry was bruised and stiff, but he had done more to make Katie fond
of him by that one act than I had done in all the weeks when I thought
I had everything my own way. She said—
"'Harry came to save me, though I had been very bad to him; but I'm
afraid, Jasper, that you're a coward.'
"And in my perversity, I thought that Harry had said this to her—a
thing he never did, for he had a good word for most, and if he could
say no good, he held his tongue."
"But," burst in Hugh, "you were 'not' a coward, Uncle Jasper?"
"Well—I don't know, Hugh. You must remember, I was very lame, and I had
suffered a cruel deal of pain with my foot. And I think that somehow
took the pluck out of me. I would not say I was a regular coward, when
I had time to think, but I often did cowardly things if you took me by
surprise.
"Time went on, and we went to school, just as you do; and we grew
taller, and Katie grew prettier, every day. Mr. Marlowe was stern in
his manner to both of us boys, yet kind in his own way—yet I knew
well that Harry was his favourite. And Katie was fond of us both;
but she, too, was fonder of Harry. I thought this very unfair. I
never asked myself why every one liked Harry best, as every man and
maid about the place did—ay, and every dog too, for old Rover, the
cross old sheep-dog, who would never let me touch him, would wag his
tail and lift his head when Harry stooped to pet him. I never let
myself see that all loved Harry because he was a fine, open-hearted,
kindly-tempered lad, and only half liked me because I was envious and
selfish.
"Boys! When you find out, if you ever do, that people don't like you,
don't go thinking how unkind and unfair they are. Just look at home,
and ask yourself why they should like you."
Jasper stopped short, and looked puzzled.
"Where was I?" he said. "I have forgotten."
"Ah! I knew he would," muttered Hugh.
But Lucy said—
"You were saying that old Rover loved Harry."
"Ay, ay; and Rover was a great favourite with Mr. Marlowe. His wife had
reared the creature from a little blind pup, that the mother deserted.
She nursed the little beast through the distemper, and he grew up a
fine dog; and when she died, Rover laid himself down on her grave, and
would not leave it for days. So Hugh Marlowe loved him, and, now that
he was old and past his work, he was allowed to lie on the rug in this
room. But he always growled at me, and I did not like it.
"When I look back upon those days, and see how happy we might have
been, we three young people, and how little happiness we really had—and
how it was all my fault—Ah, well! They forgave me heartily. But I used
to say things against Harry to Katie: tell her he said he didn't like
her rough ways, or that he said she had a terrible temper; and then
she would run off to him and ask him if he thought so and so; and he
could not quite deny it, for she had been left to run wild, and she was
rough sometimes, and she 'had' a hot temper; but Harry never said a
word of all this to any one, unless to herself. But she fancied he had,
and sometimes for days together she would not speak to him, and I was
triumphant in those days. But she had too much good sense not to know
that Harry was a true friend to her, and it always ended in her crying
and begging his pardon.
"So things went on until we were fifteen, and Katie ten, or
thereabouts. Then Mr. Marlowe took us boys from school, and began to
make us useful on the farm, that we might learn our business. We had
always helped him a little, but now we were to be regularly under him;
and he was a hard master in some ways, for his temper was hard with
every one except Katie. Still, I knew well that he loved Harry dearly,
and only liked me after a fashion; but he was kind in most things,
and fair to us in all. I did not think then that he was fair, but now
I know that he was. I was lazy, and hated the rough work: I always
tried to do as little as I could, and he saw this, and was often down
upon me. Harry liked the open-air life, and loved every creature about
the place, so he got on well. And I began to think that life was very
dull, and that every one was unfair—determined to make much of Harry
and little of me; and so it came about that I began to make friends
elsewhere. Nice friends I chose, too!
"Not being able to do much hard work, it often fell to me to ride into
T— to buy anything that was wanted, or to go to the bank with money for
Mr. Marlowe. I used to gallop along the roads, get my business done as
soon as possible, and then I was off to a tavern in the suburbs, where
I had made acquaintances, and there I would play cards, smoke, and
drink, and spend every penny I had. I never had much money, of course;
and so as time went on I lost more than I could manage to pay, and had
to ask the men to wait, and then I lived in continual fear lest some
of them should keep their word and come to speak to Uncle Hugh about
it—not that they really meant to do so, for they must have known that
they would make nothing by it, and that I should be kept at home if
Mr. Marlowe knew how I was going on. But I did not understand this so
well then, and I fretted and fretted about it. And often when I was
very low, the mistress of the house would ask me to 'Have a drop of
something to put heart in me,' and, as I had no money, I ran in debt
for that too.
"But the worst thing I did was that I used Harry's name. I always gave
my name as Harry Franks. I had no bad intention in so doing beyond
this: that if my frequenting the tavern came to be talked of, I wished
Harry to get the credit of it. I had no plan for anything worse—but the
devil had! And you will see how he used that very thing afterwards. If
once we begin to do his work, he'll take care that we do more than we
intended at first.
"This went on for what seemed to me a long time, but I believe it was
really about six months; and at the end of that time I owed nine or ten
pounds, lost at cards, and two or three more at the bar of the tavern.
Not that I had drunk so much myself, but others persuaded me to treat
them when they found that I could get credit."
He paused for a few moments, and then said, "I'm coming to the snow.
Boys, is it thawing yet?"
"No, uncle, freezing lovely hard!" said Frank.
"It will last out my story, then. It was spring, much later than it is
now—the lambing-season had begun. It was not like this snow. It would
be all white one day and nearly gone the next, and then snow again, and
thaw a little when the sun came out, and freeze again in the evening;
so that it got very slippery everywhere. It was a bad season for the
lambs, they died in great numbers, and even some of the sheep died too.
Mr. Marlowe tired himself out toiling through the snow after them, and
at last he got a heavy fall down in the Long Pasture, and was a good
deal bruised and shaken. Nor was that the worst of it, for he lay there
unable to get up for some time, until Katie found him, and then his
rheumatism came on very badly, so that he was confined to his bed for
some days, and to the house for a long time. And still the snow went
on, lying thick to-day, and melted to-morrow—such weather no one in
these parts remembered.
"We young ones had a hard enough time of it, for Mr. Marlowe was very
ill to please. Katie nursed him tenderly; indeed, it was a wonder to
see how the wild little thing, used to have her own way with all of
us, grew gentle and tender and forbearing in her love for her father.
Harry worked like a grown man to keep things going straight, and I did
mighty little but sit by the fire and shiver! But when Mr. Marlowe came
downstairs, he soon put an end to all that! It seemed to me that he
took a special delight in finding hard things for me to do.
"Katie saw how this angered me, and she spoke to me and said that I
must try to forget it all. 'Tis his illness, not himself, Jasper,' she
said, 'for you know he is not like this always. Don't brood over it; I
hate to see you look at him as you do sometimes.'
"Harry was present, and he said that she was mistaken, surely. 'No one
could take offence at what a man said or did when he was beside himself
with pain. Jasper's not such a baby,' said he.
"And I, as usual, did not believe that the poor fellow spoke in the
honest kindliness of his heart, but thought that he knew what I really
felt, and said this to vex me. So I laid up that offence in my heart,
along with a whole lot of others just as real.
"Now I am coming to the part of my story that is of consequence, and
you must listen very attentively, for if you do not, you will not
understand it."
"Well, then, uncle," said the master, "suppose we have it to-morrow
night? For these young ones are tired, and I see heads beginning to
nod."
The boys all sat up in positions of extreme alertness, each asserting
that he never in his life felt less sleepy. Hugh begged hard for the
rest of the story, whispering to his father—
"Only suppose he forgets the end, father."
But, to his amazement, old Jasper heard him.
"Forget the end!" he cried. "Ah, Hugh there's no danger of that. The
part I'm coming to now is burnt in. There has never been a moment since
it happened that I couldn't have told it every word, and so it will
be till God takes me home. Much of what I have told you I had partly
forgotten, until I began to think it over, but what is to come I have
never been able to leave off thinking of all my life."
"Oh, that sounds dreadful!" cried Hugh, rather frightened.
"It 'is' so. Maybe if I had made no secret of it all, but lived my life
in the light of day—Your mother thinks so. But the light is coming. It
will come with the thaw."
The boys stole off to bed, Hugh undressing in dead silence. When he had
said his prayers, he looked at the other two boys and said—
"Do you know, I almost wish Uncle Jasper 'would' forget the rest of the
story? I don't like it—not this part of it. I don't feel as if things
will be the same again, after we've heard it."
"Oh, nonsense! I'm longing to know what he really did," cried Harry;
"and I'm very sure it was nothing so dreadful, after all."
"Then I don't agree with you!" said Hugh.
But, as he was seldom known to agree with any one, this remark failed
to impress his brothers as much as it ought to have done.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER IV.
OLD ROVER.
IT froze hard all night, and the boys were able to go to school next
day, their father desiring them to keep together, not to leave the
road, and to come home at once when school was over. The country looked
so strange and so lovely in its pure shroud, and when the sun came out
a thousand tiny sparkles were lighted up here and there, while the
shadows were as blue as the distant hills in summer.
The house in the rick-yard received some improvements during the
afternoon, though Lucy could not be there to help; for Jasper seemed
low and poorly, and the kind girl would not leave him alone, it was a
busy day with her mother.
When story-time came, Jasper began thus:
"I said last night, and I had better say again, that you must attend
carefully to all I say, or you won't see how this was all brought
about. It was not a snow like this—a winter snow that lies long, day
after day the same. It was spring then, and the sun had more power; and
altogether it never was as deep as it is now—not nearly.
"One evening Harry and I came in from our work. Mr. Marlowe was here,
in this room; he was getting better, and could walk with a stick, but
couldn't put on his boots yet.
"He was sitting at the old French bureau yonder, and had it open; on
the flat desk there lay some money, mostly in gold. He counted the
money; there were twenty sovereigns and some notes, and he said—
"'Michael Hurst came over and paid me for the pony. Now, if it wasn't
so bad for travelling, this should go to the bank to-morrow, for I've
no fancy for keeping much money in the house.'
"Now, I did not much like the notion of a ride in the snow, so, as he
mostly contradicted anything that was said to him, I said—
"'You'd better let me take it in to-morrow, sir; or Harry could go
better than me,' I added in a hurry, because, if any one had to go, I
had a private reason for wishing it to be myself.
"'I shan't send it at all,' he answered. 'I don't want my horse lost in
the snow.'
"And he locked the bureau. I went out, and wandered down to the gate.
I was in great fear and trouble. Only the day before a strange boy had
met me in the lane and given me a letter from the man I owed the most
money to, saying times were bad and he was in want—could I let him have
the money? He would be near Marlowe Hay some time soon, and would wait
about and try to see me. And there I saw him now, a little bit down the
lane.
"My heart stood still with fright! Suppose Katie should see him—and I
knew that she was out; he might ask for Harry, meaning me, and then all
would come out. I ran to meet him as fast as I could. I reproached him
for coming here, putting me in danger. I said that if my uncle ever
knew about my goings on, I should be sent away, and then he'd never get
the money at all.
"He said he didn't care what became of me, but that he wanted the money
and would have it. 'Or money's worth,' he said; 'surely in yonder house
there's silver or something that you could give me, and it wouldn't
be missed for a long time, nor set down to you by any one. It's not
stealing—it's only taking what will be your own one day; for I've been
asking, and I find that Harry is the favourite—the other lad hasn't a
chance.'
"Every bit of evil that was in me was stirred up at that. I was
frightened too; for though I knew that I had little chance of marrying
Katie, and being master of Marlowe Hay, I also knew that Hugh Marlowe
would act fairly by me. But if he found out all this, he would pack me
home to my sister (my poor mother was dead). I don't know how I began
to speak of the money I had seen—but I did speak of it.
"'If I'm sent into T— with it to-morrow,' I said, 'I'll pay you out of
it, Harper, and run the risk.'
"'Well, now,' said he, 'if you do that, you'll have to run off. Mr.
Marlowe is a very hard, unforgiving man, by what I hear of him. He
might not send you to jail—if he did, you'd be hanged—but there's
always the chance that he might; and, anyhow, he'd punish you somehow.
You help me to-night, and I'll pay myself, and give you a fair share
too, so that you can pay all you owe, all round.'
"I refused at first, of course; but where is the use of making a long
story of it? I gave in at last. It was going to snow again, so that all
traces of his steps would be covered, he said. I was to get up and go
to the parlour, open the window, and let him in. Harry slept soundly—I
had no fear of awaking him."
Here old Jasper paused, and glanced round at the horror-stricken young
faces. Lucy's eyes were full of tears, and the boys were white with
excitement. Not one of them spoke; but Mrs. Marlowe said gently—
"Tell us no more, Jasper! It is too much for you."
He started as if the sound of her voice awoke him, and took up his
story again; he had not taken in the meaning of her words.
"I went to bed as usual, but not to sleep. I lay listening to the clock
ticking on the stairs—usually I did not hear the tick, but it sounded
loud that night. It struck eleven—twelve—one. I was to go at two, and
not before, because by that time the moon would be gone down. I did not
dare to move till the time came, and there I lay, hearing nothing but
my own heart beating and the clock ticking. But before two struck Harry
woke and sat up in his bed.
"'Jasper,' says he presently, 'are you awake? I'm uneasy about the
sheep. It's snowing again, and any lambs born to-night will have a bad
chance, unless some one goes down to help old Willy with them. I think
I'll go.'
"'Oh, go to sleep!' said I. 'And don't be such a fool. Little thanks
you'll get for your trouble.'
"'I don't want thanks for doing my work,' he said. 'I'll go.' And he
got up and dressed quickly. He took his shoes in his hand, and stole
downstairs, opening the hall door so gently that, although I was on the
watch, I did not hear it.
"Now, indeed, I was terrified. Suppose Harper thought it was I who
was at the door—suppose Harry saw him lurking about! But as a little
time passed, I began to breathe again—all seemed safe so far. When two
struck, I got up, dressed, took my shoes, as Harry had done, and stole
downstairs.
"I had been wondering how Harry intended to get in again. I found that
he had contrived to chain the door from the outside, and had left it
ajar. I hesitated. Should I go out to meet Harper, using the hall door,
or should I keep to our plan, and go to the window? It seemed to me
that to go out to him was the best plan—there would be no noise at all
if we came in by the hall door.
"I found Harper under the window—that window at the end of the room.
"'You young fool!' said he. 'Why have you come out? Your footsteps will
betray you.'
"'The snow will cover them,' I said.
"'Don't you see that it is hardly snowing now? Just my cursed luck—it
will be quite clear in half an hour, and my steps, as well as yours,
will be seen! But I suppose yours don't matter—probably you are often
round here.'
"'No,' I whispered, 'I am not—the path leads to nothing. Oh, Harper, go
away—it is too dangerous now to do anything!'
"'You made the danger by coming out—I mean, the danger for yourself—and
you may take the consequences! Get in again and open this window.'
"'The hall door is open,' I told him; 'come in by it. It will be
quieter and easier.'
"'Well,' he said, 'of all the fools I ever met, give me Harry Franks!
Can't you see, you donkey, that I might break in by a window without
your help, but could hardly unlock the hall door? Get in and open this
window at once.'
"I was so frightened that I really was a fool for the time at least. I
never tried to explain that I had not opened the door myself, but went
in again as I was bid. I opened the window, and he broke some of the
glass, and scratched the paint of the shutters, to make it look as if
he had broken in; then he set to work to pick the lock of the bureau.
The strange, pale light of the snow had been enough for him until now,
but he lighted a lantern when he began upon the lock.
"I went wandering about the room in as great misery as I deserved to
be, and presently I stumbled over something soft and warm—something
alive. I very nearly cried out in my terror. It was poor old Rover; he
generally slept in the kitchen, but had got shut in here that night by
mischance. The poor old dog was stupid with age, and stone deaf; but
my touch roused him, and he had sense enough left to know that we were
up to no good. He growled and ran at Harper—I after him, just going to
call to him, when Harper said in a low voice—
"'Silence, you fool! A sound now might hang us both.'
"And he seized up the poker from the fireplace and gave the old dog a
blow on the head. He never stirred after it.
"I was so sick; the blow seemed to fall on my heart. I have heard it in
my dreams many a time.
"But I had little time to think of it then—the bureau was open. I
pointed out the drawer, and Harper took the gold. He fingered the notes
greedily, but muttered, 'Not safe; I dare not take those.' He thrust
something into my pockets, saying—
"'Here, Harry, that's your share, and you're out of my debt besides.'
"'I won't have any of it,' I was just saying, when we heard a sound
that drove everything else out of our heads. We heard a heavy step
in the room overhead—Mr. Marlowe's room. Before we could collect our
senses, he was on the stairs. Harper had got his tools together before;
he seized his bag, blew out his lantern, and sprang out through the
window, leaving me alone in the room with the dead body of poor Rover
to face Mr. Marlowe alone.
"I heard Mr. Marlowe coming down in his slippers, for he could not get
on his boots yet. He paused in the hall, and said—
"'Who's there? Who is at the door?' Then he went into the porch. Next
moment I heard him under the front window—that one—" and the old man
pointed. "Those shutters, of course, were shut. He stood there for a
few moments. I opened the parlour door softly, closed it again, and
flew upstairs, lame as I was—fear gave strength, and I seemed to fly. I
reached my room, flung off my clothes, and jumped into bed. I heard Mr.
Marlowe shut and lock the hall door, and just as I was in bed, he came
upstairs. He opened the door of our room and came in.
"'Boys, are you here?' said he.
"'Oh, sir,' said I, sitting up, 'what's the matter?'
"'That's Jasper. Yes; I see you.'
"He crossed over to Harry's bed.
"'Ha!' said he, 'so it's you, Harry. Left the hall door wide open, too.
Jasper, where is Harry?'
"'I—I've been asleep!' I said. 'I don't know. Isn't he in his bed?'
"'Not he!' said Mr. Marlowe. 'But never mind; I'll find out all about
it in the morning. Since he's so fond of the fresh air, he may stay out
now till the maids are up.'
"And he went back to his room.
"I got up and looked anxiously from the window. It was not snowing;
our footsteps would tell the whole story in the morning. I wished and
wished that it might snow. I would have prayed for it if I had dared,
but I did not dare. I watched till I saw a black thing moving over the
snow. Harry coming up the walk. I was wondering how I could let him in,
when suddenly it struck me that if he was wandering about all the rest
of the night, he might happen to trample out my footprints; he might
even get the blame of having broken the window. I had not time to think
it all out. I went back to bed, and was hardly in when Harry was at the
window, having climbed up by the ivy. He opened the window and came in.
"'Harry,' I said, 'is it going to snow?'
"'No,' he answered, 'it's freezing hard now. Who shut the hall door,
Jasp?'
"'I don't know,' I said; 'I've been asleep.'
"He went to bed, and was soon fast asleep.
"Oh, what a night that was! It must have been three o'clock then, at
least, yet it seemed to me hours and hours before it struck five;
somehow I did not hear it at four. At five I went to the window again,
and I saw that it was snowing. I was quite spent and weary. I crept
back to bed and fell asleep, muttering over and over, 'I'm saved, I'm
saved; it's snowing at last.'
"All that is clear in my mind; but the horror of the next day has never
been clear. It has always been like a dreadful dream to me.
"Of course Betty and Milly, the two maids, no sooner entered the
parlour in the morning, but the alarm was raised. Their cries woke me;
but what I did, or what any one did, I don't remember clearly. 'Twas
the killing of the old dog that made Hugh Marlowe so furious. He swore
solemnly that he would never rest till the thief was found out and
hanged; ay, if it was the nearest and dearest to him, he should hang,
for killing the faithful, harmless old creature that his Katherine had
loved.
"But when or how suspicion fell on Harry I don't know; of course, it
was because he had been out; but I cannot remember, and I never could
rightly understand—partly, no doubt, because I never could bear to talk
of it. I think three or four days passed before they became sure that
it was Harry. They discovered the debts in T—, really mine, but in his
name. This seemed to supply a reason for the theft, and when our room
was searched, the few sovereigns Harper had given me were found hidden
in a chink in the floor.
"Harry was like one distracted when he understood that he was
suspected. He appealed to me to say that I knew he had gone to the Long
Pasture, but I stuck to what I had said to Mr. Marlowe. I had been
asleep, and knew nothing. Harry had found all well, and old Willy, the
shepherd, fast asleep in the shed—and had not roused him. So the old
man could not prove that he had been there.
"Mr. Marlowe was like a madman, between horror and illness; his pain
was very bad, for he had taken a bad chill, that night. He would say
nothing but, 'I'll keep my oath. I could forgive the deceit and the
debts, ay, and the theft; but that you should kill the old dog—you,
that made believe to be fond of him—that I'll 'never' forgive! Off
with him, constable; take him to the lock-up, and if the raising of my
finger would save him, I wouldn't raise it.'
"Harry was as white as death; but he stood firm and spoke up clearly.
"'Listen to me, Uncle Hugh,' he said; 'the truth will come out when I
am tried, if not before. I am not much afraid. But you have been so
good to me, and I love you and yours so well, that this is hard to
bear. Why should I have hurt old Rover, if I were the thief? Don't you
know that he never would have meddled with me? He knew me, and loved
me. I only ask you to wait, sir; surely the truth must come out. Don't
put such a shame upon me as to send me to T— jail, among all the rogues
and vagabonds of the county. If you once do that, you couldn't save
me, suppose I fail to prove my innocence, even if you were sure of it
yourself.'
"'You may as well stop there,' Hugh Marlowe said; 'I'm not listening to
you.'
"Harry turned to me.
"'You could prove something, Jasper. You know that I went out, saying
that I was going to the Long Pasture. I have always been kind to you,
Jasper. Why do you refuse to help me?'
"More than one in the room looked hard at me. I felt my hands grow cold
and my head begin to swim. I said angrily—
"'I know naught about it.' And then I slunk away and fell into a chair,
nearly fainting.
"But I heard Katie's voice, clear and high, as she ran to Harry's side,
crying—
"'I don't believe it of you, Harry; I never will! Don't be afraid, dear
Harry; God loves you—surely He does; you are so good, and He will bring
the truth to light.'
"Those were the only words of comfort poor Harry heard, and he slept
that night in T—jail, and, I doubt, slept sounder and more sweetly than
I did in my comfortable bed here. In a day or two I felt so strange;
I began to feel sure that I should betray myself if I stayed here,
seeing Katie so miserable, and I made up my mind to run away. I wrote
a letter to Mr. Marlowe, saying that I could not bear the notion that
Harry might call me as a witness—and that was very true, for if he did,
I knew the lawyers would get the truth out of me. I had once been in
the court-house to see a trial. I begged that I might not be searched
for. I went off in the night and wandered away, I don't know whither. I
remember very little about it.
"What happened here, and how the truth came out almost, one may say, by
a miracle, I did not see for myself; but Katie told me afterwards."
"I think, sir," said the master, "that my grandmother's story may as
well wait till to-morrow."
"Very well, Harry," said the old man. And then he looked at them all
sadly, wistfully, and said—
"You know me now; but I will say one word more. I truly did believe
that when he was tried, Harry would be able to prove his innocence. I
persuaded myself that I was the one really in danger. But it appeared
that I was mistaken in this. Hugh Marlowe sent a lawyer to Harry to get
up a defence for him, and the lawyer had very little hope of being able
to clear him, or, at least, he said so to Harry. It may have been only
to make him speak out plainly, which Harry would not do. Of course, he
knew very well who it was who had used his name and got into debt, and
this made him suspect that I was the thief, only he did not believe
that I would have killed old Rover. He made up his mind not to say a
word that could turn suspicion on me. For this, he himself told me his
reason afterwards. What do you think it was? Why, that in his heart he
could not quite forgive me for having so used his name, and so he felt
the more bound to do nothing that could injure me. 'Twould be revenge,
he said, and God's law forbade us to revenge ourselves. His mother,
who was a saint, if ever one lived on earth, had taught him this.
Boys—children—have you no word to say to me?"
The lads sat silent. At last young Harry blurted out—
"You—you repented, Uncle Jasper. Oh, but I am proud of my
great-grandfather!"
But Lucy stole to the old man's side and kissed him, whispering softly—
"I love you, Uncle Jasper; we all love you."
"God bless you, Lucy!" he said.
And then he rose up and went away to his own room.
The boys went to theirs, where Hugh burst out fiercely—
"It was so sneaking! It was so cowardly! That's what I can't get over."
"Yet Harry and Katie forgave him," said little Frank.
"Yes," said young Harry; "and it is like God to forgive. I am so glad I
bear his name; I do hope I may be a good man, like him."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER V.
THE THAW.
THE snow still lay deep all over the country next day, but it was hard
and dry, so the boys went to school as usual. When they assembled in
the evening for supper, old Jasper was not in his usual place; he had
not left his room all day. Lucy seemed frightened about him, but Mrs.
Marlowe said he did not complain of being weaker than usual, and that
as the cold was so piercing, perhaps he was better in bed. But the
boys were wild to hear the end of the story, and Hugh actually worked
himself into what his family called "one of his states" about it.
However, before supper was quite over, Jasper came in and took his
usual seat by the fire. They were soon all ready to hear; but young
Harry had a question to ask first.
"Father," said he, "we want to know how it happened that Harry Franks
was in any danger of being hanged? Because he was so young, and it was
only stealing, not murder. Killing the poor dog could not be called
murder."
"I think, my boy, that the laws have been altered since those days."
"You are right," said Jasper; "in those old times the laws were
fearfully severe—very cruel. Only a year before this happened, a young
woman, very little older than Harry, was hanged at T— for stealing five
shillings' worth of ribbon from a shop counter. She had a baby in her
arms. I saw her tried. I wonder what became of the baby. Harry might
have been spared on account of his youth and good character; but it
would depend very much on the character of the judge that was to try
him. I remember one of the judges who used to come to T— was called the
'hanging judge;' but I don't know whether he was the one who would have
tried Harry or not.
"Now I am going to tell you how he was saved—how the very snow that I
thought had covered my sin for ever, bore witness to my guilt and his
innocence. 'Twas Katie told me afterwards.
"I've told you before that the snow was not like this snow; it never
was very deep, and it would thaw one hour and freeze the next, and so
on. It was seldom the same for long, except for about a fortnight at
this very time; the longest spell of frost they had had kept the ground
like iron. Poor Harry was in T— jail all the time; it may have been
three weeks, and I knew the assizes were coming very near. He was quite
calm and quiet; he was one of the bravest creatures, boy and man, that
ever I knew. It's easy to be brave when one is excited; but to sit in a
prison-room day after day watching death drawing near—'such' a death,
too! Yet I heard afterwards he was quite quiet, and never made any
complaint.
"But Katie was most miserable. She could not bear to be still a moment.
And her father was as bad. He had hardly sent Harry off to jail before
he'd have given all he possessed to undo his work; for though he
believed Harry to be guilty, he could not bear to think what might be
the end of it. Katie at last saw how it was with him, and though he was
very stern with her, she bore it patiently, and was generally with him,
for she was frightened about him.
"One morning she heard him get up very early—it was only just daylight.
She got up too, dressed quickly, and followed him down to this room.
She found him sitting by the ashes of the last night's fire, looking
very grey and ill, and with something in his face that startled her,
she did not know why. She said—
"'Father, 'tis too cold for you to be up; you will have the pains worse
than ever. I'll light the fire, though—that will be the best way.'
"She soon had it blazing; she had the handiest ways, and could do
anything, if she only cared to try. He sat silent while she worked; but
when she stopped blowing with the bellows and looked at him again, she
was more frightened than ever at the look on his face.
"'Father, dear father,' she cried, 'is there anything new? Oh, why do
you look like that? Do speak to me, and tell me what ails you. You look
so much more unhappy than even yesterday.'
"'Yes,' he said, 'and so I am, Katie. Yesterday I was mad, I think; and
when one is mad one does not feel so much. But I've come to myself now.
And I see now that Harry never did this thing. It's fairly impossible;
he was always straightforward and true, always kind to every beast
about the place; he couldn't have changed so much all in a moment. It's
hard to understand. I'm all at sea as to who did it; but I feel in my
heart that it was not Harry.'
"Poor Katie! She gave a great cry of joy, and ran into his arms.
"'Oh, father, thank God for this! It was well to get up early. Now
we'll go, you and me, and bring poor Harry home. I'll get you some
breakfast, and then we'll go.'
"'My poor little maid!' he said, laying his hand on her head. 'If I
could do that, Katie, do you think I should look so sad? No; he said
himself that I would be sorry when it was too late, and I would not
mind him. He must be tried now; and the evidence is all against him. I
love that lad next to you, Katie; and I've murdered him!'
"It took some time to make Katie understand that her father could not
save Harry by declaring that he was convinced of his innocence; but
when she did understand, she said—
"'Don't fret so dreadfully, father. God will save Harry, though you
cannot. I am not afraid for Harry—not much.'
"And she turned away that he might not see her crying. She went over
and opened the shutters, just for something to do; but he heard a sob
or two, and, getting up, he came after her to the window, took her in
his arms and kissed her; and he stood there with her for some little
time, both of them crying so that they could see nothing.
"Presently Hugh Marlowe turned away and said, with a groan—
"'Katie, I think you and I will hate the sight of snow as long as we
live.'
"And as he spoke, he cleared the tears out of his eyes and looked down
at the narrow path there, under the window.
"Now, it had thawed during the early part of that night, and now it
was freezing again; and a wonderful thing had happened. All the snow
that had fallen since that dreadful night when Harper and I robbed Mr.
Marlowe had melted clean away, and the footsteps upon the snow that had
been there before had come out as clear as if they had been printed
there only the day before. Hugh Marlowe gazed at them for a moment
without taking it in. I mean, he did not understand the story that lay
written before him. But suddenly he gave a shout.
"'Look there, Katie! Look there!' he cried.
"'Why, that is Jasper's step!' said she. 'He must have come back.'
"'No, that print was not made last night; and see, there's my mark too,
in my slippers. Yes; I stopped under this window—I remember that well.'
"He walked quickly over to the end window and opened the shutters.
"'See, a strange man's step, and Jasper's; then Jasper went back to
the door, and no doubt opened the window, and the man got in. And the
stranger jumped out again; I see the prints. Oh, Katie, don't stop to
question me! This may mean life and safety for Harry. Don't you see,
child, 'twas 'Jasper'—Jasper, who robbed me—not alone, though. Run,
run! Call James and Humphrey. We must have witnesses; and when the sun
gets at it, it will all melt; it's thawing even now.'
"Katie only half understood, but she lost no time; she flew to the back
door and called up the men, who slept over the stable. Then the whole
place was carefully examined, and the snow told the whole story. *
"There were my steps—not to be mistaken; there were Harper's, both
coming and going, from a corner of the rick-yard where he had hidden
himself after parting with me in the lane. There were poor Harry's
footprints, going straight down to the gate, and back again—nay, they
traced the few steps he made round the porch, to where the ivy gave
him a firmer hold to climb up. They intended to trace him across the
fields to the Long Pasture, but before they could do so, the whole had
vanished away—the sun came out warm and bright, and very soon the snow
was utterly gone. If Hugh Marlowe had stayed in bed until his usual
time that day, my story might have been a much more sorrowful one. But
God was merciful to him—and even to me—and he was making the best of
his way to T—, through the mud and water, to see Harry's lawyer, and
find out what ought to be done, his heart so full of thanks and praise
that, as he said afterwards, he hardly knew where he was."
* I wish to state that the incident of the snow concealing for a time,
and then by a partial thaw laying bare again, the footsteps of one who
had passed the place three weeks before the thaw, is true.—A. LYSTER.
"Hurrah! hurrah!" cried the three boys, quite unable to restrain
themselves any longer; and Jem and Polly must needs cheer too, though
they had very little notion why.
When quiet was restored, Hugh looked up in old Jasper's face and said—
"I'm sorry 'twasn't you that told. I'm sure you would have. I'm sorry
for you, Uncle Jasper."
Jasper covered his face with his withered hands for a moment.
"Hugh," he said, "I couldn't have told. No—not if Harry had been tried,
condemned, and hanged for my crime—though I might have had that awful
load to bear all my life, I couldn't have said one word to save him.
For I was lying in a raging fever, in a hospital in London. I had made
my way to London, I don't know how. I remember nothing of it, and I
do truly think I was not in my right mind. I got better after a long
time—better in body, but my mind was all astray. I remembered nothing—I
knew nothing. I suppose I was able to answer when spoken to, for they
let me leave the hospital when I was cured of my fever; but I know
nothing of what I did, or where I went, for a long time. I suppose I
begged—but I don't remember anything clearly.
"Somehow—by no design of my own—I wandered back to the place which had
been my home so long, and Harry found me hiding about in the fields.
Ay, and brought me in, and persuaded Hugh Marlowe to have pity on me,
saying 'twas plain I had not been in my right mind when I did it. They
paid a doctor in Exeter to keep me for a time, finding it was my only
chance of recovery, and in a couple of years I was myself again. Then
Harry brought me here: he persuaded Mr. Marlowe to forgive me—ah,
what Harry did for me, no words of mine can tell! He taught me how to
repent; he told me of the full and free forgiveness that the Lord Jesus
had won for me; and I could believe in it, seeing how he forgave me
himself. He was so tender over me that, when his boy was growing up, he
kept the knowledge of this story from him, because I shrank from the
notion of his knowing it. And so, by never being talked of, it came
to be forgotten; my life has been so long, so very long! That, except
myself, there is no one alive now who could tell how it happened.
"But I see now that I should have been a better man and a
happier—though I have been far happier than I deserved—if I had never
cloaked my sin—never let you all think that my life had been fair and
spotless, like my dear Harry's. Now I have told all, as well as I can
remember it. The snow seemed to bring it all back. Now I have nothing
hidden—it may thaw as soon as it likes. The sooner the better, for I'm
very old and very tired, and Harry and Katie must be wondering why I'm
so long here. I have wondered why myself, sometimes; but I know now.
"And boys—Lucy—all of you, when you think of my sin, think, too, that
I loved you very much. I don't ask you to think well of me—that you
cannot do. But say, 'He loved us dearly—God has forgiven him, so we'll
forgive him too.'"
The boys, to their own great astonishment, were crying; as for Lucy,
she had cried nearly all that evening. Mrs. Marlowe kept her face
turned away, and the master got up abruptly and left the room.
When he returned, he found the children all crowding round old Jasper:
Harry with his hand laid on the old man's shoulder, Hugh holding his
hand, Frank kneeling beside him. Jasper seemed soothed and comforted,
but he looked up and said—
"The thaw has come, Harry, hasn't it?"
"Well, you are right, sir," said the master somewhat unwillingly; "it
is thawing fast."
"Well, I'll go to bed. Good night all—good-bye, and God bless you,
every one!"
He paused at the door as he blessed them, raising his hand solemnly,
and looking at them long and lovingly.
All night long the thaw continued. In the morning the world was
no longer shrouded in dazzling white, only here and there a patch
lingered. But there was no shouting or noisy rejoicing at Marlowe Hay,
for old Jasper was passing away with the snow.
When Mrs. Marlowe went to his room that morning, he was awake, and
quite himself; but he said he felt weak, and would lie quiet.
The boys had been out very early, and had gone to visit their house
in the rick-yard. The roof was already gone, the rough branches they
had used for rafters showing bare and black, thoroughly soaked by the
melting snow. But what interested them far more than the condition of
the roof was that various footsteps which had been completely covered
had reappeared—not in a very sharp and perfect condition, for the thaw
was a very rapid one—but still there were the footsteps, even the patch
on Frank's shoe coming out in one or two places, where the snow had
been beaten down hard. The boys rushed off to the house to summon Lucy
to behold this marvel; but Lucy was sitting in the parlour, crying
bitterly.
"Oh, Harry!" she cried. "Father has gone for the doctor. Uncle Jasper
has gone asleep, and mother says he will never wake any more."
Mrs. Marlowe was right. Old Jasper slept—if this were really sleep—for
some hours, then gently ceased to breathe.
"Oh, I wish—I wish he might have stayed with us a little while," cried
Hugh passionately, "that we might have showed him that we loved him,
even though he 'had' done wrong."
"He knew that last night," said Harry; "and now he is with his own
old friends—Hugh Marlowe, and Harry, and Katie. Oh, Hugh, it is much
happier for him. Where they are, is his real home."
"Yes, my boy," said Mrs. Marlowe, drying her eyes. "'In My Father's
house,' the Saviour said, 'there are many mansions; I go to prepare
a place for you;' and we are prepared here on earth for the place
prepared for us in heaven. It was no easy task for Jasper to lay bare
before us all the sin of his youth; but it was, as he said, the laying
down, once for all, of pride: and then he was ready. Oh, children dear!
Whether our lives are to be long, like his, or short, like theirs who
were young with him so long ago, God grant that every one of us may be
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