HENPAN 
 
 : , 
 
 MARY TAYLOR 
 THORNTON
 
 7
 
 When Pan Pipes 
 
 Mary Taylor Thornton
 
 When Pan Pipes 
 
 A Fantastic Romance 
 
 By 
 
 MARY TAYLOR THORNTON 
 
 New York 
 George H. Doran Company
 
 Printed in the V rate A States of America
 
 To My Dear Ones, 
 Here and Elsewhere 
 
 2138610 '
 

 
 Contents 
 
 Part One: Cloudesley 
 
 CHAPTEB PAOK 
 
 I. Jeremy Goes to Fairyland , . . n 
 
 II. The Witch's Cottage 24 
 
 III. Jerry Gets a Charm but Loses the Brownie Fairy 41 
 
 IV. How Jerry Found and Lost a Good Fairy ... 60 
 
 V. Which Introduces a Lord, a Lady, a Fairy God- 
 mother, a Priest, and a Minister, and also Tells 
 of a Letter 79 
 
 VI. The Goose-girl, the Swineherd, a Fairy God- 
 mother, and a Knight 98 
 
 VII. Tells of How the Goose-girl Met the Fairy, and 
 
 of what was in the Pedlar's Pack . . . .118 
 
 VIII. A Kiss for the Goose-girl, a Master for the Witch, 
 
 and a Prison for the Fairy 134 
 
 IX. Of some Odds and Ends which Piece the Story 
 
 Together 157 
 
 X. The Minister Comes to the Cottage and the Knight 
 
 Rides Away 166 
 
 XL How the Goose-girl climbed a Ladder, how the 
 Fairy Godmother made the Swineherd an 
 Offer, and why He Rejected it 179 
 
 XII. The Witch Lifts the Curtain and Lets Jerry Out 
 
 of the Cage ...... v .... 193
 
 viii Contents 
 
 Part Two: London 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. Jhe Swineherd Seeks His Fortune 211 
 
 II. The Swineherd no longer a Swineherd. How the 
 Black Knight Steps into the Story, and the 
 White Knight Seeks the Goose-girl, and of 
 Other Things 232 
 
 III. Which Tells of the Goose-girl and the White 
 
 Knight, and How the Black Knight Fought and 
 was Vanquished 244 
 
 IV. How the Black Knight Fought the White Knight 
 
 and was Vanquished; and How the Goose-girl 
 Cried for the Moon 264 
 
 V. A Bargain with Toby 282 
 
 VI. How the Castle of the Black Knight Grew, and 
 
 How Jerry Found a Fairy 301 
 
 VII. Of the Building of a Castle; and How the 
 
 Brownie Fairy Came Home 314 
 
 VIII. Jerry and the Brownie Fairy Start on a Quest . 327 
 IX. Of Black Clouds and Shadows 345 
 
 X. In Which Shadows are Scattered and Dreams Be^ 
 
 come Realities 361 
 
 XL In Which the Goose-girl Borrows a Silver Gown 379 
 XII. And the Swineherd Comes to His Own . . . 396
 
 Part One: Cloudesley
 
 When Pan Pipes 
 
 Part One: Cloudesley 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 JEREMY GOES TO FAIRYLAND 
 
 JEREMY lay quietly. The white counterpane moved up and 
 down with each long-drawn breath, the white dimity cur- 
 tains fluttered drowsily as the gentle summer breeze stole in. 
 From outside came scents and sounds telling of flowers and 
 fields, of farmyards and stables. Presently the dying man 
 raised himself ; his gaze wandered longingly through the little 
 casement window to meadows and woods stretching far away 
 to the distant horizon, where, caught in the sun's burning em- 
 brace, they mingled and were lost in a haze of heat. The 
 wistful look rested for a time on the beautiful scene, then wan- 
 dered idly back, back to the small room, to the medley of can- 
 vases and easels, of plaster casts, clay images, finished and 
 unfinished, brushes, modelling tools, and all the paraphernalia 
 of an artist's studio. Yet, in them there was something differ- 
 ent from the ordinary workshop. The canvases packed closely 
 together, the folded easel, the tidy arrangement of odds and 
 ends, told their own tale. Never again would their owner 
 disarrange them, and Jeremy sighed as his gaze travelled on. 
 This time it rested lovingly on a group of figures carved in 
 purest white marble. 
 
 It represented Pan, seated on a bank of deep bracken, pip- 
 ing to fairies and goblins who danced around him. The 
 
 11
 
 12 When Pan Pipes 
 
 god, with his goat legs crossed and his long ears pricked, 
 wore the usual cruel, satyr-like expression, but with it went 
 a look, half merry, half wistful and wholly gentle. It would 
 have been a puzzle to anyone to say which predominated. 
 The artist himself was wont to declare that it depended upon 
 the mood of the observer, and that only he himself saw both 
 sides. 
 
 In the noontide glare, the figures stood out life-like, yet 
 only as figures carved in stone. But there were times when 
 the winter firelight played on them, or the harvest moon 
 peeped in at the window and turned the marble to a purer 
 whiteness, and Jeremy saw them come to life, these creatures 
 of his imagining, when Pan's pipe played a mystical merry 
 air, when the mossy banks sent out a perfume of meadow- 
 sweet and new mown hay, when the forget-me-nots by the 
 enchanted pool glowed deeply blue, when fairies tripped 
 lightly, and fauns and satyrs stepped clumsily round, keeping 
 time to the magic music and beckoning the sick man to come 
 out to the moonlit glade, where Nature held high revels. 
 
 But no more would they call never again and Jeremy 
 turned his head away with a sigh. His eyes rested on a 
 small, solemn-faced boy sitting on the bed, very busily en- 
 gaged with a piece of clay, twisting and turning it with fat 
 dimpled fingers, and wholly absorbed in his task. Jeremy's 
 hand stroked a chubby leg lovingly. 
 
 "What are you doing, Jerry boy ?" 
 
 Without looking up the small one answered, "Making a 
 horse, daddy." 
 
 Jeremy smiled, then sighed again, and thoughtfully gazed 
 at the long thin fingers, contrasting in their whiteness with 
 the brown, firm skin they touched. Presently he spoke again. 
 
 "Jerry boy, when I've gone away, will you try and remem- 
 ber me? Will you try to think what I looked like, how I 
 spoke, and all that I said to you ? And will you remember how 
 I loved you ? Ah, Jerry boy, how I loved you ! Will you try, 
 sonnie? Promise me."
 
 Jeremy Goes to Fairyland 13 
 
 The child paused in his work, lifted serious brown eyes and 
 nodded gravely. 
 
 "I promise, daddy." Then, as though struck by a sudden 
 thought, "Are you going away, daddy?" 
 
 "Yes, Jerry." 
 
 The scarlet lips drooped piteously; into the round brown 
 eyes came presently a mistiness, changing, as the sense of 
 the words fully dawned, to big tears. Slowly they welled 
 up, brimmed over and fell. Dropping the piece of sticky clay, 
 Jerry crept close. 
 
 "Daddy, daddy, don't go, don't leave Jerry." 
 
 The encircling arms drew him closer closer. 
 
 "Jerry, old man, don't cry. Daddy must go ; but you'll have 
 Margery, you know. You love Margie." 
 
 "Don't want Margie I want my daddy." 
 
 "Oh, Jerry boy, it's hard, so hard. But you must be good. 
 Jerry, be good always. Never forget; and sometime some- 
 time you'll come and find me." 
 
 "Shall I?" The brown eyes, so full of trouble, brightened 
 a little. "Where's you going, daddy?" 
 
 Jeremy smiled and kissed the broad, white forehead. 
 
 "Jerry, I'm going to tell you something; try to remember 
 what daddy tells you. Once, Jerry, long ago, ah, so long 
 ago it seems to me, before you came at all, I was ill and 
 tired, Jerry, and so miserable. Everything went wrong. I 
 had no little boy to love or to love me, and I was very lonely. 
 Then, do you know, Jerry, suddenly I turned a corner, and 
 what do you think I found ?" 
 
 "A fairy," answered Jerry promptly. 
 
 "Yes, a fairy, all in white. And she smiled at me, and 
 at once everything seemed right. There was the beautiful 
 warm sun shining, and the sky was so blue, and a little lark 
 went singing, singing, away and away. Then the fairy took 
 my hand, Jerry, and I felt so strong, I could do just any- 
 thing in the world. So I asked the fairy if she would stay 
 with me and help me always."
 
 14 When Pan Pipes 
 
 "And did she?" asked Jerry eagerly. 
 
 Jeremy nodded. "Yes. She came with me and lived with 
 me, and gave me everything I wanted. Jerry, she gave me 
 what do you think?" 
 
 "I dunno." The voice was tense with interest. 
 
 "Well, one day she gave me a little warm bundle, all wrapped 
 in a shawl, and when I opened the shawl and peeped in it was 
 you." 
 
 "Was it?" 
 
 "Yes. And then, Jerry, very soon after, the fairy told 
 me that she had to leave me, just as I'm telling you that 
 I must go. She said they had only lent her for a little 
 while. But I knew that they couldn't spare her any longer, 
 for, Jerry, she was the loveliest fairy that ever came out of 
 fairyland, and she loved me so very much and just as she 
 loved me, she loved you. And so, she went away. Yet 
 soon," the voice died almost to a whisper, "soon I shall see 
 her, my dearest, my dearest very soon now." 
 . Jerry raised his head ; a new thought had struck him. 
 
 "Daddy, are you going to find the fairy?" 
 
 "Yes, Jerry." 
 
 "Are you going to fairyland?" 
 
 Jeremy paused. His glance wandered from the child to 
 the figure of the god. 
 
 "What's in a name?" he murmured. "Heaven, Walhalla, 
 fairyland it's all the same. Yes, sonnie," he turned again, 
 "I'm going to fairyland, and I shall find the fairy, never fear. 
 Wherever she is, wherever I go I shall find her." 
 
 Jerry nodded, then cuddled down again. 
 
 "Will you bring the fairy to see me, daddy?" 
 
 "No, Jerry. They won't let us out of fairyland, once they 
 get us." 
 
 "Won't they?" 
 
 The tears began to gather afresh, and Jeremy hastened to 
 repair the error. 
 
 "But, Jerry, though you can't see the fairy, though they
 
 Jeremy Goes to Fairyland 15 
 
 won't let her come through the curtain which hangs between 
 us and fairyland, she's always near, always looking after us. 
 And^ when I go through the curtain, I, too, shall always be 
 near you, so near that sometimes you'll hear my voice. And 
 some day, Jerry, when you are a big, grown-up man, if you 
 are good, and always try to help people, you'll turn a corner, 
 and you'll find a fairy, I hope, all in white, with a little hand 
 stretched out to take yours. But you must be sure it's the 
 right fairy, because there are lots of imitation fairies in the 
 world." 
 
 "Are there, daddy?" 
 
 "Yes, Jerry. And I'll tell you one thing to know her by; 
 her name must begin with an M. All good fairies' names 
 begin with an M. There's Mollie and Meg; they're gay, 
 laughing fairies, who'll lead you through a world of mirth. 
 Then there's Martha and Matilda; they're brownie fairies, 
 who sew, and cook, and make the world a home. Mar- 
 garet and Maud are tall and queenly, and I'll whisper it, 
 Jerry sometimes we're just a little wee bit afraid of them. 
 But," the laughing voice grew soft, "there's one name; the 
 best of all, and it belongs to a fairy ah, Jerry, such a fairy. 
 I can't describe her; she is beautiful, though, maybe, not as 
 the world sees beauty. She is gentle, pure, loving; gay when 
 you are gay, sad when you are sad, yet with a sadness which 
 comforts. She is quiet, like a little soft mouse, yet never 
 dull. Busy, like a little brown bee, yet always ready to listen. 
 Her voice, like a little singing cricket's, tells of home and 
 bright fires and warm comforts. Her tiny feet, like a bird's, 
 run up and down, here and there, for everyone. Her pretty 
 hands, not always white, flash like a swallow's wing as they 
 do their work. And she's soft and warm, Jerry, like a little 
 kitten, and her eyes are deep, dark pools, and her lips are like 
 crimson berries, and her name is the most beautiful name in 
 the world, for it means all that is holy, all that is divine. It 
 is Mary." 
 
 "Oh " the voice was slightly mystified. Jeremy had flown
 
 16 When Pan Pipes 
 
 higher than the child could follow, though he grasped the main 
 idea. 
 
 "Daddy " after a short pause, "what do witches' names 
 begin with?" 
 
 Jerry laughed. If he had not bargained for the question, 
 he was ready. 
 
 "H., Jerry, H. Helle, Hecate Hebe, Helen; though they 
 were witches of another sort. You'll know some day." 
 
 Jerry sat quite still, thinking it over. Jeremy watched him 
 lovingly. Presently the eyelids drooped ; the child crept closer, 
 burrowing a warm dark head among the pillows. 
 
 "I'm tired, daddy." 
 
 Jeremy drew him near, looking down with a tender, wistful 
 smile at the drowsy brown eyes, and the curling eyelashes 
 lying against a soft brown cheek. In a few minutes there 
 was silence, only broken by the sick man's heavy breathing, 
 and the low, gentle murmur of a sleeping child. 
 
 The drowsy summer morning droned on. Shadows of 
 trees grew short and shorter; birds twittered idly; a cock 
 crowed a lazy crow in the distance. From far off came 
 the sound of scythes, the hum of workers. Monthly roses 
 on the walls pushed their inquisitive pink faces round the 
 window, the breath of summer crept in, stirring Jerry's dark 
 curls, moist with heat, bringing to Jeremy memories of by- 
 gone days, of happy hours when Pan piped and fairies danced ; 
 when all the world was young and gay, and life was some- 
 times a dragon to be conquered, sometimes a syren to be 
 wooed, sometimes a mocking, laughing nymph, who beck- 
 oned and gave chase, yet was always just a little ahead. And 
 Pan kept his goat legs hidden in deep grasses and mossy banks, 
 while fauns and satyrs lurked unseen behind trees, and over 
 all hung enchantment like a hazy, golden mist; the enchant- 
 ment, the magic of youth. 
 
 There was a little stir on the flagged path below. Girlish 
 voices, hushed because of the sick man above, made a soft 
 sound, broken ever and anon by a ripple of uncontrollable
 
 Jeremy Goes to Fairyland 17 
 
 laughter. And again Jeremy smiled. Long ago, before Art 
 called him, he, too, had worked beneath the dear summer 
 sun, had listened to the melodious song of the scythes as they 
 swung to and fro, flashing silver in the fierce light which drank 
 up all color, turning things to shadowy white and brown. 
 How he had listened for the church clock striking, the laugh- 
 ing voices of maids in fresh print frocks and sunbonnets, who 
 brought the "elevenses" mugs of home brewed ale, cakes of 
 spicy, curranty bread new baked. How it came back the 
 glory of work, the joy of life; and as the voices receded in 
 the distance, the drone of summer again fell unbroken. 
 
 The maids returned ; Jeremy's thoughts grew longer, further 
 apart. Jerry's gentler breathing mingled with them. Fairies, 
 flowers, art, nature, jumbled and jostled each other in a con- 
 fused medley, then the door handle turned softly. 
 
 Slowly, very slowly, the door opened, and a little woman 
 peeped round it a little, smiling, round-faced, apple-cheeked 
 woman, dressed in brown linsey, with a white fichu and mob 
 cap, and hands wrinkled and gnarled with work, yet with 
 a look in them that made you long to take them in yours, 
 and kiss the dear fingers which had worked for everyone 
 all their days. She tip-toed across the snow-white boards, 
 across the tiny square of carpet, and leaned over the bed; 
 then, with a beaming nod of approval, tip-toed back, and 
 drawing a chair to the window, sat down to work. Now to 
 Nature's drowsy sounds was added another the sound of 
 human work. Click click went the busy needles. One 
 two purl and plain the smiling lips moved as they counted. 
 Yet, now and then, she would lay down her needles and 
 glance towards the bed. Then the smile would vanish at 
 least, as far as it was possible for a smile to vanish from such 
 a face and the lips, instead of counting, would sigh. 
 
 Once or twice she tip-toed to the bedside, and shook her 
 head doubtfully as she settled to work again. Click click 
 one-two purl-plain-increase-decrease turn and change the 
 shining needles. The little white sock was growing. Church
 
 When Pan Pipes 
 
 Clock, watching over the busy workers in the fields, the quiet 
 sleepers in their green beds below, struck noon. 
 
 The workers stirred the sleepers slept on. Not yet would 
 they awaken. Busy housewives fetched down shining steel- 
 pronged forks and horn-handled knives, and drew settles 
 closer. In the red-tiled, oak-panelled kitchens the wenches 
 lowered huge cranes, and served steaming bacon and sweet 
 green peas into platters set on the long wooden tables. All 
 was cheerful bustle and orderly confusion; brawny, weather- 
 beaten, sun-dried men trooped in; the lassies fetched ale and 
 supplied their wants, then drew a breath of relief, for the sun 
 stood at its zenith ; its beams fell almost straight, and with 
 noon and the mid-day dinner the height of the working day 
 was reached. 
 
 Jeremy opened his eyes, and the little apple-cheeked woman, 
 ever on the watch, nodded mysteriously, pursed her lips, and 
 went out of the room. Presently she returned, bearing a cup 
 of steaming beef tea. Jeremy softly drew his arm away, and 
 turned the sleeping child from him. 
 
 "Needn't be afraid, master he won't wake yet awhiles. 
 Sit up and eat something." The voice was gentle and soft, 
 with a marked suggestion of Scottish birth, shown more 
 in the inflexion and burr than in the words themselves. In 
 moments of agitation it became more noticeable, broadening 
 out at times to a decided accent. 
 
 She propped him with pillows, and putting the basin before 
 him, watched him eat with anxious concern. Then, seeing 
 him well launched, she trotted back to her chair. Presently 
 she glanced up and caught his eye. He was looking at her 
 with a comical expression of fear. 
 
 "Margie, I'm so sorry. I can't manage it." 
 
 The smiling lips fell; the tiny feet trotted across the room 
 again. She peered into the basin and her face fell lower. 
 
 "Oh, master, you haven't touched it hardly, and I made it 
 all myself. Mrs. Chubbe scolded, but I thought I'd make it
 
 Jeremy Goes to Fairyland 19 
 
 just this once. Come, Master Jeremy, try again." She lifted 
 the spoon to his lips, feeding him like a baby, but after the 
 second mouthful, placed the cup on a table with a sigh, and, 
 moving the pillows, let him lie back. 
 
 "So sorry, Margie. And it was such good beef tea, too. 
 Never mind, I shan't trouble you much longer." 
 
 She was busy with the basin, and made no answer, but he 
 saw her lift her skirt, draw out a handkerchief from the petti- 
 coat pocket, and with her back to him, lift it to her eyes. 
 
 "Sit down, Margie," he said presently, "I won't vex you 
 again. I want to talk to you. To make sure I've left every- 
 thing right. Ah" he was musing again "I ought to be con- 
 tent ; I've had happiness such as few men have. I've worked, 
 I've lived, I've loved. Not enough of each to feel satiation, 
 but enough to know the beauty of life. And yet yet but 
 for going to seek her, I'd like to live on, to see her child grow 
 up; to teach him to work, to live, to love, to watch Nature 
 as I've watched her, to see sun settings and sun risings; the 
 procession of the year; blue skies for joy, grey skies for peace, 
 black skies for storm. Seas, rivers, countryside, moorland 
 to see and love them all, as I have seen and loved them. Well, 
 I must be content to die peacefully, with all I love around me 
 Jerry, you, Margery, my work, and the glorious summer. 
 And somewhere, not far off, just behind the curtain which 
 hangs between us and fairyland, she's waiting so near so 
 near I can almost feel her hand." 
 
 He paused then, with a quick glance at the little figure 
 by the window, came back to earth. "Margie " 
 
 She turned, no longer attempting to hide the tears which 
 fell thick and fast as she leaned over him. 
 
 "Margie " his voice was low and sweet, "don't fret for 
 me. Think, if I find her, behind the curtain. Dry your tears, 
 nursie, and listen." She smoothed the damp hair back with 
 those tender loving fingers, and Jeremy went on. 
 
 "Margery, you'll come back, won't you?"
 
 20 When Pan Pipes 
 
 "Yes, master, I'll come back just as soon as ever I can. 
 I'll see them settled, and then I'll take the next boat back; 
 I'll be back in a year an' that'll soon pass." 
 
 "And in the meantime, Margie," the voice grew practical, 
 "who is it to be Mrs. Chubbe?" 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "Sir, don't let him go to her; she's hard an' she's got 
 a scolding tongue. That little Betty, I hear her screaming 
 sometimes, she speaks that sharp to her." 
 
 "Betty's a naughty child, you know, Margie." 
 
 "She's high spirited, sir, an' mischievous, but I shouldn't 
 like to hear " she broke off, with an explicit nod of the 
 head. "No, Master Jeremy, let Widow Hagges take him. 
 She's kind an' she's religious though not, 'tis true, of the 
 true faith. But he'll be well looked after." 
 
 "Well, then, so be it," he answered, after a minute's hesi- 
 tation. "You know the people better than I do. And you 
 quite understand about the money, Margery. There's a thou- 
 sand pounds. Gardiner and Gardiner will see that three 
 pounds are paid every month to Mrs. Hagges. When you 
 come back, you'll have him, you know. You can manage, 
 Margie, on fifty pounds a year, can't you?" he added anx- 
 iously. 
 
 "Manage, sir, an' I live in luxury. I only wish my young 
 sister had chosen a working man in England, 'stead of going 
 trapesing into them wilds, with Indians, and scalps, and you 
 don't know what. It'll be a glad day when I get back, though 
 I couldn't leave my little girl, who's only had me to look to." 
 
 "Of course you couldn't, Margie," he sighed gently. "Ah, 
 if there had only been someone else besides." For answer the 
 little woman flung herself on her knees beside the bed. 
 
 "Ah, Master Jeremy, for the last time I beg of you let 
 me take him to Ardelimar. He'll be in safe keeping an' 
 he'll be loved so dearly. For his ain sake, and for the sake 
 o* the wee bairn who was loved sae mony years ago. Ah, 
 master, dinna say me nay."
 
 Jeremy Goes to Fairyland 21 
 
 "No, Margie " the gentle lips closed firmly. "I'll not 
 have my boy taught to hate to despise her. Nor shall he 
 be taught that wealth and position are worth more than hon- 
 est hard work. But one day, when he has made himself a 
 man, then take him to Ardelimar, and show him the old 
 home; for, after all, it is his inheritance. Margie " he was 
 away in the past, "do you remember the old garden? My 
 lady's garden we used to call it. The gilliflowers and forget- 
 me-nots in the spring, the roses and lilies in the summer-time, 
 and the long apple walk where the ground is thickly white 
 with fallen blooms. Do you remember the arch which I built, 
 and the sun-dial on the house, and the peace of it all oh, the 
 wondrous peace, the peace of heaven. And I shall never see 
 it again in this life. After who knows?" 
 
 There was a silence, broken only by a catch in the old 
 woman's breath. Presently he spoke again. 
 
 "Margie, when afterwards, you know there'll be those 
 things," he gave a comprehensive wave towards the casts 
 and pieces of sculpture. "Send them to Gallagher. He'll 
 know what to do with them. He's an old friend, and though 
 a bit of a rascal, he'll treat you fairly, for my sake. But 
 remember, Margie, they're not to be sold unless Jerry really 
 wants the money, whatever Gallagher may say. A man's 
 not celebrated till he's dead, and the longer he's dead, the 
 better for his work, that is, if he's a genius and I'm that, 
 Yes, if I could only have had a few more years, I'd have 
 made my name ring through Christendom. Ah me Ars 
 longa, vita brevis est. Never were truer words." Another 
 pause, and again the eager voice, weaker now, went on. 
 "Above all, Margie the Pan isn't to be sold till Jerry's twenty. 
 Gallagher knows ; he's got all instructions. But jog his mem- 
 ory, when the time comes. You know which I mean the 
 one you don't like. Margery," he spoke curiously, "why 
 don't you like it? It's my best, far and away." 
 
 He waited for the answer; the woman gaused, unable to 
 find words of explanation.
 
 22 When Pan Pipes 
 
 "I don't know, Master Jerry, not exactly why. There's a 
 something in the creature's face for all his gentle kind look 
 a something " she hesitated. "Something cruel-like sort 
 of obstinate." He raised himself, almost triumphantly. 
 
 "Did you see it, Margery, did you? Then I've got what 
 I wanted, the 'sweep away all obstacles never mind the means 
 for the end.' That's what I wanted, that's Nature. Stern, 
 relentless, inexorable. That's why there's sorrow and trou- 
 ble, Margie, which will all come right in the end." 
 
 "Aye, Master Jerry, I know that. Our Lady an' the Blessed 
 Saints will see to it." He made an impatient gesture. 
 
 "No, no, Margery, they're only part of the means. There's 
 something more, greater, nobler, more glorious even than those. 
 Death's nothing only a change in the great scheme. Sun, 
 moon, stars, our little world all nothing nothing alone, yet 
 part of the whole. Life that's more for it's a common 
 gift for all to use." 
 
 Margery shook her head doubtfully. She was used to these 
 flights of fancy, to her they were mere words. The light 
 treatment of the saints grated on her, but she had long ago 
 given up argument. She put him back like a little child, draw- 
 ing the coverings over him, and bidding him sleep. But 
 Jeremy had more to say. 
 
 "Margery," and the voice was very weak now, each word 
 was an effort; "tell him to be strong, to help the weak, to be 
 chivalrous to all women for her sake ; to be a staunch friend, 
 a true gentleman, and above all, a man. Teach him that, 
 Margie, will you?" 
 
 She kissed the long thin fingers the fingers of the idealist, 
 the artist. "I will, Master Jeremy so help me, God." 
 Jeremy lay back contentedly. 
 
 "That's good," he said, and Church Clock struck one. 
 
 Jerry stirred, roused, rubbed his eyes with chubby knuckles, 
 and lay drowsily staring at the dancing flies on the ceiling. 
 Margery trotted round. 
 
 "Come along, Master Jerry. Come and see Betty, and
 
 Jeremy Goes to Fairyland 23 
 
 have your dinner. You've had a nice long sleep, and it's get- 
 ting late." 
 
 Jerry waved a chubby fist, and Jeremy from the bed-clothes 
 responded in like manner. Then, as the door shut, he closed 
 his eyes wearily. He was very, very tired. 
 
 Church Clock struck two and three. Margie stole in; her 
 needles sang their song of industry. The sun sank from its 
 height ; shadows grew longer. Church Clock struck four, and 
 old Anthony, the sexton, rang the gleaners' bell. Down the 
 village street they trooped, mothers looking forward to the 
 bin of flour gathered and stored for the winter; children, with 
 joyous thoughts of unchecked wanderings over stubbly fields, 
 and possible small adventures. Maidens hurried to glean 
 where their lovers worked, and with them came damsels from 
 the farms around, bearing cans of ale and cakes, called this 
 time "fourses." 
 
 The sun sank behind the busy fields, flooding all with a 
 crimson glory; high up, Church Clock peeped into odd cor- 
 ners, and saw all sorts of things ; so he moved his hands very 
 slowly, and time lagged behind, loath to let the pretty scene 
 slip into the past. 
 
 Regretfully, lingeringly, Church Clock, struck five. Mar- 
 gery tip-toed across the room, gave one look at the peaceful 
 sleeping face, then flung up her arms with a sobbing cry. 
 
 "Oh, master, master I hadna thocht 'twould be sae sune." 
 
 A little hand had lifted the shadowy, misty curtain which 
 hangs between us and fairyland, and grasping Jeremy's in 
 its cool gentle clasp, had drawn him in. The curtain fell 
 the quiet face wore a look of radiant happiness, for he had 
 found the beautiful Fairy.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 THE WITCH'S COTTAGE 
 
 THE big farm kitchen was cleared for the afternoon. Red 
 tiles, newly "slurried," blushed rosily; bright dish cov- 
 ers, copper kettles, the brass "kitty" by the fireside, the copper 
 warming-pan on the wall, grinned cheerily. Great beams, 
 hung with hams and sides of bacon, wore a solemn expression, 
 as though conscious of their own dignity. The diamond-paned 
 casements were merely graceful and decorative, and the chim- 
 ney corner, with its pewter spittoons, well worn cushions, 
 churchwarden pipes, and bowl of paper spills, spoke of com- 
 fort earned after labour. A fire, despite the heat, burned in 
 the huge grate. Over it hung the crane, now bearing a mon- 
 ster kettle, a kettle which sang merrily a song of the fragrant 
 leaf, of cream and home-made bread, of cheese and rusks, of 
 honey and new baked cakes, of pink and white ham, of rasp- 
 berry pies, and all the good things of a farmhouse tea. And 
 over all hung that peculiar odour, a mixture of roses, hot 
 bread, damp bricks, hams, and summer heat. 
 
 On a settle sat Jerry, and beside him, brown linsey frock 
 turned up, knelt Margery, endeavouring to squeeze a fat foot 
 into a somewhat tight shoe. Over the edge of a clean starched 
 pinny Jerry watched the process with solemn brown eyes. 
 Others were watching. Where time moves slowly, small 
 things are of great account. Sally, the kitchen wench, leaned 
 on her broom with a broad smile on her equally broad face, 
 a face which, when scoured for the afternoon with yellow soap 
 and much vigour, bore a striking resemblance to the warming- 
 pan. 
 
 At the end of the settle hung a small child, impish, elfish, 
 pixie like; a mouth, with scarlet lips, reached half across 
 
 24
 
 The Witch's Cottage 25 
 
 her face; two eyes, dark almost to blackness, sparkled and 
 gleamed like gems. A freckled nose turned up from a 
 freckled, clearly pale face, giving it a roguish expression, and 
 over the small dainty head clustered curls of a deep, reddish 
 brown, which curls, instead of hanging in long graceful spirals, 
 were short and uneven. Two days ago, they had been all 
 that the heart of a mother could desire, but Miss Betty pre- 
 ferred coolness, and in the privacy of the orchard, with stolen 
 scissors and only Jerry for witness, had sheared the unneces- 
 sary adornment to suit her own convenience. 
 
 She was dressed in a short-waisted pink frock, from be- 
 neath which emerged legs clad in pantaloons, and terminating 
 in white socks and tiny feet cased in sandals. She was utterly 
 absorbed in watching the performance, but the restless brown 
 fingers busily snapped the elastic which held the shoes. Mrs. 
 Chubbe broke the silence. 
 
 "Them shoes's too tight, mistress; best get another pair." 
 A sharp snap from behind caused her to look round suddenly. 
 "Stop pulling your elastic, Betty, naughty gal." 
 
 The child looked up, shot a daring glance at the faces round, 
 and defiantly snapped the elastic again. Mrs. Chubbe stretched 
 out a long arm. "There then take that." A stinging slap 
 on the brown knuckles sent the blood rushing scarlet to the 
 tiny face. The black eyes gleamed fiercely, the red lips shut 
 firmly. For a moment Betty looked down at her fingers, put 
 them into her mouth for comfort, then deliberately tweaked 
 the elastic again, quietly, half frightened at her own audacity. 
 
 "There if you ever saw the likes of that? Take your fin- 
 gers off, miss, or to bed you go." 
 
 Betty glanced through the casement, then at Jerry, weigh- 
 ing the pros and cons. Bed on a hot August afternoon, with 
 bread and water for tea, was unpleasant, but to give in was 
 worse. She gave the elastic a sounding thwack as well be 
 hung for a sheep as a lamb. Mrs. Chubbe pounced upon her. 
 
 "You naughty, disobedient gal. What will become of you 
 when you die ? To bed you go, this very minute."
 
 26 When Pan Pipes 
 
 But Betty had no intention of going martyr-like to the 
 stake. With the ease of long habit she stiffened every muscle 
 in her little body, at the same time emitting a continuous 
 scream, which caused Margery to stop her ears, and sit back 
 on her heels. 
 
 "Lord-a-mussey !" she ejaculated, and Jerry's brown eyes 
 filled with amazement. 
 
 "Yes, Mistress Marvin, now you see what she is, a naughty, 
 disobedient child as ever I see. I've kept her quiet, let her 
 have her own way, for fear of disturbing the poor gentleman. 
 But now there's no need, and, well, you can see for yourself. 
 Now, Miss " 
 
 Mrs. Chubbe stooped over the rigid form, and with long lean 
 arms lifted her bodily. The naughty legs relaxed, for pur- 
 poses of their own; the tiny fingers nipped and pinched till 
 they were pinioned in a firm grasp. Kicking, struggling, she 
 was carried away, two frilly legs dangling busily under Mrs. 
 Chubbe's arm, the brown curly head hanging low in front. 
 At the door came an interlude ; a loud cry from the captor, a 
 final, but unsuccessful attempt for freedom from the victim, 
 followed by the sound of a stinging slap. 
 
 "You bad, wicked gal. Biting! Fie, for shame on you." 
 
 The footsteps receded up the wooden staircase; there was 
 silence in the kitchen, only broken by Margery's "Well, I 
 never," and a giggle from Sally as she slipped away. 
 
 Mrs. Chubbe returned, triumphantly victorious, tying a rag 
 round the wounded finger. 
 
 "Such a piece I never did see," she said; "but we'll see 
 who'll be master. Spare the rod and spoil the child, say I, 
 an' she's got a slipperin' to-day that'll cool her down for a 
 time. The saucy puss!" A grim smile stole over the hard 
 features. "For the life of me I can't help loving the child, 
 though she's no kith nor kin of mine." 
 
 Margery Marvin looked up in surprise. "No kith nor kin ?" 
 
 The landlady shook her head. 
 
 "No, though how't slipped out, I can't say. Like as not
 
 The Witch's Cottage 27 
 
 'twas meant to be told, and 'tis a relief to be sure. You're 
 going away, an' you're a trusty sort o' body, an' somehow 
 I feel 'twould be a comfort to tell what no one but me'n my 
 husband know." Margery, her eyes fixed on the speaker's 
 face, listened, slightly wondering at the trust reposed in her. 
 Mrs. Chubbe, dropping her voice, spoke rapidly. 
 
 "Seven years ago, one cruel cold winter night, snowin', 
 an' the ice on the horse pond three inches thick, an' icicles 
 hangin' a foot long from the eaves, there came a little whinin' 
 cry. 'What's that, master?' says I, for my hearin's good. 
 'What's what?' says he. 'You're always hearin' summat, 
 missis ghosts an' sperrits, an' such like.' 'That's no ghost/ 
 says I, whereupon it came again sich a little pitiful cry, 
 Matthew, he hears it that time, an' we went together to the 
 back'us door. An' there, if you believe me, was a baby 
 wrapped in blankets, an' tied round wi' a broad red sash, so 
 soft an' silky you could have drawn it through my weddin' 
 ring. We took it in an' gave it milk. 'Now what's to be 
 done?' says I. 'Well, there's only one thing,' says Matthew, 
 'send it to Channington work'us to-morrow. It's market day, 
 an' I'll take it along in the cart/ I just gave him a look. 
 'That you won't,' says I, 'when you know that for eight years 
 we've been longin' for a child of our own. We'll keep it 
 an' that settles it.' 'Just as you like, missis/ says he, an' I 
 mind me now he gave a chuckle. Since then he's told me he 
 only said it o' purpose, knowin' I was given to contrariness, 
 an' wantin' the child as much as ever as I did. An' so we've 
 kept her folk think she's my sister's child an' here she is, 
 as big a handful as a family. An' now, Mrs. Marvin, about 
 them shoes. That child's 'Patience on a monument' an' no 
 mistake. They're too tight, I tell you." 
 
 "I don't like to put on his old ones to go in," answered the 
 nurse, "they're shabby. Try again, Master Jerry." A good 
 push, a slap on the sole, and the wilful foot was in. 
 
 "That's right," cried Margie. "An* now I'll put on my 
 bonnet, an' we'll go."
 
 28 When Pan Pipes 
 
 She lifted the child to his feet and crossed the room. Jerry 
 followed slowly. What with running wild in meadows, dab- 
 bling in brooks, and being used as assistants when climbing 
 trees, his feet were swollen much beyond best shoes. He 
 struck out bravely, however, with only an occasional flinch. 
 But the vision of the long walk down the lane to the Widow 
 Hagges' cottage rose up, and involuntarily a little sigh es- 
 caped. Mrs. Chubbe, still watching, turned sharply. 
 
 "Mrs. Marvin, I'd be ashamed of myself, lettin' that child 
 walk in them shoes. Two sizes too small they be." 
 
 Margery turned, saw the wistful beseeching look on the 
 small face, and, with a cry, caught him up, hugging, kissing 
 and self -reproaching. "Did they hurt the nasty shoes ! An' 
 Margie's a cruel nurse." 
 
 "Best take them off, mistress," said Mrs. Chubbe drily. 
 She obeyed, and Jerry breathed a deep sigh of relief. 
 
 "They didn't hurt, Margie; at least, not so very much, but 
 I like the old ones best." 
 
 "An' he shall have them too. Nasty tight things, we'll burn 
 them." 
 
 "No don't do that," said the farmer's wife, "there's many 
 a child 'ud be glad enough of them." Margery nodded and 
 rose. Jerry trotted over to Mrs. Chubbe and touched her 
 hand. 
 
 "Mrs. Chubbe may I go and say good-bye to Betty? I'm 
 sure she's good now." 
 
 She looked down and smiled at the earnest face. "Yes, 
 child, go, an' you may tell Betty, if she's good, she may get 
 up for tea." 
 
 Jerry's face brightened, even sparkled, as he scudded across 
 the kitchen and climbed the wooden stairs outside. 
 
 Margery reached for her neat brown bonnet and tippet, a 
 doubtful expression on her smiling face. 
 
 "Mrs. Chubbe," she began, in a hesitating tone, "I'm thinkin' 
 perhaps I've done you an injustice. You see, there's been 
 little time to do aught but cook an' nurse, an' so on an' some-
 
 The Witch's Cottage 29 
 
 how, it seems to me, p'raps we haven't got to know each other 
 not rightly. I thought you were hard on the child." Mar- 
 gery stroked the linsey gown absently. "You mustn't mind 
 me sayin' it but I thought you'd a sharp tongue an' the 
 widow spoke fair an' an' she's got religion, yet, somehow, 
 now, I wish I was leavin' him with you." Mrs. Chubbe's face, 
 darkening at the beginning of Margery's speech, cleared. 
 
 "Well," said she, "that's straight spoken. As to my tongue, 
 I own 'tis sharp, but when you come to have charge of a 
 house an' dairy, to say nothing o' the poultry an' pigs, which 
 are enough to turn a body's hair grey, an' a pack o' idle 
 gigglin' hussies always runnin' after the men an' Lord knows, 
 they're little better besides a husband, an' a mischievous piece 
 like that," she gave an expressive jerk upwards, "well, then, 
 Mistress Marvin, you'll know that a soft tongue an' gentle 
 ways ar'n't no manner o' use. But I'd like to ha' had the 
 child," she added thoughtfully. "He'd have had to fare like 
 our Betty, whippin's an' all," with a grim smile ; "not that he's 
 a child to want much o' that, though I think he's got a mind 
 o' his own, an' likely he'd ha' done her good. Yes, I'm sorry, 
 but I'll keep him in mind, Mistress Marvin, an' if I didn't, 
 I know someone who will, an' that's Betty." 
 
 The dot-and-go-one footsteps were coming downstairs-. 
 Margery picked up her tippet and turned. 
 
 "Thank you kindly, Mrs. Chubbe. I meant no harm, an' 
 you've taken it as 'twas meant. 'Tis too late to alter now. 
 I've given my word, an', after all, 'tisn't for long. You'll 
 give him an eye, won't you?" 
 
 "That I will," answered the farmer's wife reassuringly. 
 
 "Then we'll be going. Come, Master Jerry, say good-bye." 
 
 The child lifted his face, and Mrs. Chubbe gave him a sound- 
 ing kiss. "Good-bye, child, an' if Mrs. Hagges'll spare you, 
 you're to come up on Sunday for the day." 
 
 "Thank you very much, Mrs. Chubbe," said Jerry, gravely 
 slipping his hand into Margery's. "An* please, Betty's good 
 now, an' she's coming down to tea."
 
 30 When Pan Pipes 
 
 Mrs. Chubbe accompanied them to the door, then across 
 the stackyard to the stile. Lifting Jerry over, she stood 
 shading her eyes from the afternoon sun and watched the 
 two figures cross the meadow and disappear into the lane 
 a lane, deep between high hedges, thick with dog roses and 
 wild honeysuckle, bordered by ditches where grass grew rankly 
 green, wild parsley, stinging nettles white with bloom, meadow- 
 sweet and wild garlic. Overhead, trees met, whispered to 
 each other secrets, here and there intertwining branches and 
 defying the sun's rays to penetrate, while beneath, huge brown 
 roots poked through the beaten track, in some places high 
 enough to form a seat. 
 
 But it was not all shadow. As the lane twisted and turned, 
 even winding back on itself at times, there were patches of 
 sunlight, spaces flecked with shadows which danced them- 
 selves into patterns, now widening, now narrowing, changing 
 like the patterns on a kaleidoscope as each breath of summer 
 rustled among the leaves above. 
 
 Jerry trotted along the shoes were comfortable his hand 
 in Margery's, and a thoughtful look on his solemn face. In 
 a vague sort of way he recalled dimly the former settings of 
 his little life. There was a glorious recollection of a place 
 called the studio, where daddy, in a long white coat, mixed 
 clay and chipped marble, and told him wonderful tales. Tales 
 of Knights and Castles, of Ogres and Witches, Imps and 
 Fairies also others, equally wonderful, of a baby in the bul- 
 rushes, a man who was put into a den of lions, and another 
 little child who was born in a manger. 
 
 Then the studio vanished, and a happy playground, called 
 the seaside, took its place. Cliffs, beach, sparkling water, 
 jumbled and jostled against the fairy tales. There were long 
 walks on hard wet sand; over windswept downs, where the 
 grass was short and slippery, and black- faced sheep nibbled 
 and stared at you, but scampered off on near approach. Then 
 the walks changed to days on the rocks, equally delightful. 
 
 Daddy was too tired to do much, even to talk, and Jerry
 
 The Witch's Cottage 31 
 
 had to find his own amusements not a difficult thing for a 
 small boy, given rocks, star-fish, shrimps, and sea urchins. 
 The summer days faded; the sea, instead of being blue and 
 friendly, suddenly became something to be feared. Its gen- 
 tle, lapping waves, changed to high mountains of grey-brown 
 water, falling in angry thunder on the beach, then receding 
 with a sound of dragging reluctant stones, only to gather 
 again. The sea was a wild and fearsome thing then, and 
 daddy hated it as much as Jerry. He said it was Pan show- 
 ing his goat legs whatever that might mean. They had fled 
 from it, and in warm, crowded London, found escape from 
 the cruel, dreary winter of seaside and country. 
 
 The flutter of Spring's wings roused them again. In the 
 old farmhouse inn, Jerry discovered a new world a world 
 of chickens, pigs, and friendly animals, of stackyards and 
 stables, of fields and birds' nests, and the mysteries of eggs. 
 But Jerry's little heart was lonely, for daddy no longer shared 
 his discoveries. The change from easy chair to bed, from 
 late rising and early retiring to complete rest, had been so 
 gradual that the child hardly noticed it. The final break came 
 like a bolt from the blue. At one fell swoop the roots of 
 his small life were rudely torn up. Daddy gone, Margie 
 going stunned and bewildered, Jerry's brain failed to grasp 
 the situation in its reality, and he accepted things with a cal- 
 lousness not due to want of feeling, rather because death and 
 loss were as yet unknown factors in his world. The day was 
 not far off when he was to realize his loss with a poignant 
 keenness. 
 
 He knew that he was going to live with the Widow Hagges 
 till Margery came back; his thoughts travelled no further. 
 It was a sober little figure that trotted down the twisting lane ; 
 only when it turned for the last time, and the cottage appeared, 
 did his grasp tighten. Margery looked down tenderly, and 
 Jerry returned a wistful smile. 
 
 "You'll be a good boy, my dearie, won't you?" 
 
 "Yes, Margie, I promise."
 
 32 When Pan Pipes 
 
 "And if you want anything different, you'll go to Mrs. 
 Chubbe, won't you ?" Margery's heart was assailed by doubts ; 
 had she done the right thing for her boy? Jerry nodded; 
 something in his throat forbade speech, and they entered 
 through the tiny green gate. 
 
 It was a fitting cottage for such a lane. Low, rose-covered, 
 with a porch of lattice work, and casement windows upon 
 whose snowy sills stood flower pots, red ochred, and filled 
 with fiery geraniums. A garden surrounded it a garden of 
 gnarled old apple trees, currant bushes and old fashioned 
 flowers and the whole was sunk amidst dark woods, inter- 
 spersed with sunny cornfields. . On the pathway, cobbled and 
 uneven, sat a great black cat, alternately washing and sunning 
 itself in the mellow afternoon light. It looked up at the 
 approaching footsteps with a glance of curiosity, then re- 
 sumed its task complacently. Yet the whole picture awoke 
 unpleasant feelings in Jerry's heart. He edged away from 
 the animal, clutching Margery's protecting hand. For some- 
 how a sense of danger crept into his mind. In just such a 
 cottage might have dwelt the wicked witch, who so often 
 figured in daddy's story, and a conviction grew like a seed, 
 bigger and bigger with each confirming incident, that the 
 widow was indeed a witch, seeking little children only to 
 devour them later. 
 
 But though terror had him in her clutches, he said nothing. 
 What child ever told its fears? Only as they stood in the 
 porch did a gleam of hope arise. Over the fields, afar off, 
 yet near enough to distinguish it quite plainly, watched Church 
 Clock, and a thrill of pleasure came as he caught sight of its 
 friendly face, and heard the cheerful voice chime out four 
 hours. The door was shut. A trifle perhaps, but trifles count 
 for much. 
 
 "She can't surely have forgotten," murmured Margery, rap- 
 ping briskly again. Presently footsteps came along the pas- 
 sage, slow wandering footsteps, and a hand lifted the latch. 
 But ah, for the tale a door can tell ! The quick, wide throw-
 
 The Witch's Cottage 33 
 
 back, which is almost simultaneous with warm kisses and glad 
 greeting; the reluctant, slow movement, when neither guest 
 nor host is particularly pleased to see the other. Then there's 
 the prim, conventional opening by a maid, which means noth- 
 ing, and is only the prologue to the real welcome. Lastly 
 comes the suspicious door, slowly opening a few inches, sug- 
 gestive of a foot lurking behind to add strength, if necessary 
 to close it quickly. 
 
 But neither of these things happened to that particular 
 door. The fingers fumbled a little, then it opened not too 
 slowly, not too quickly; neither was it too wide, nor too 
 narrow, quite a polite door; just enough for the widow to 
 stand on the threshold. 
 
 She was a large woman, heavy, round-faced, and neatly 
 dressed in brown merino, with a turn down linen collar round 
 her voluminous neck. Jerry was fascinated by the many 
 chins, also by something she wore on her head, something 
 which was hair and yet seemed out of keeping with the rest. 
 It was kept in its place by a band of velvet, to Jerry vaguely 
 suggestive of a crown. Afterwards he grew quite intimate 
 with it, even to fetching it from its hiding place in the tall- 
 boy behind the kitchen door, and calling it by its rightful 
 name "My front." 
 
 She smiled, but to Jerry it was like the creasing and un- 
 creasing of a piece of daddy's modelling clay just as real; 
 and again the thought rose, and firmly fixed itself in his little 
 mind that she was a witch. 
 
 < "Very pleased to see you, Mrs. Marvin." The superior 
 politeness of the widow's tone also her choice of words, 
 had much to do with the favourable impression made on 
 Margery. "Step in, do. And this is the little boy. How 
 do you do, little boy? I hope you're good, and love your 
 books and tasks. This way, Mrs. Marvin; mind the step." 
 
 She led them through a passage, down a stair, into the 
 tidiest, most spotless room imaginable. Margery looked her 
 approval, not so Jerry. Used to the litter and jumble of an
 
 34 When Pan Pipes 
 
 artist's domain, and, alas! inheriting the love of it, the cold 
 cleanliness sent a shiver through his frame. It was papered 
 with a flowery paper, and hung with pictures. Jerry grew to 
 know them in time, and to loathe them with the loathing of 
 an artistic nature for what is insincere in art. The table 
 was set with the best china, her grandmother's, white, with 
 pale blue roses twined round it, perfect and complete. Never 
 had crack or stain disfigured its glistening surface, and the 
 great silver teapot, also an inheritance, glistened and gleamed 
 with a kind of cold welcome. 
 
 "Sit down, m'am, and make yourself at home; I'll just 
 make the tea." Margery obeyed, and drew Jerry near to 
 her. 
 
 "She never asked me to take off my bonnet," was the un- 
 spoken thought. To have tea, or die in a bonnet, were things 
 alike indecent in Margery's ken. She glanced at the dishes 
 on the table. Etiquette forbade her to do so in her hostess's 
 presence, and again her heart sank with dismay. Accustomed 
 to the farmhouse tea, with its loaded table and bountiful sup- 
 ply, the plate of thin bread and butter, another of pound cake, 
 and a small dish of wafer cut ham, seemed all too scanty for 
 three hungry people. Then, with an angry contempt for her 
 thoughts, she told herself that the widow was poor. 
 
 "She's done her best, poor thing. When she gets extra, 
 she'll have better food." 
 
 The widow rambled back, bearing the teapot and an elab- 
 orate cosy of woollen flowers and moss. Margery comforted 
 herself with the fact that everything was elegant to a degree. 
 At least he would be taught manners, and at Mrs. Chubbe's 
 well! On the whole things seemed to be arranging them- 
 selves. The bread and butter was excellent, so was the ham, 
 as much as there was of them; and the pound cake was rich 
 with butter and yellow with eggs. But something in Jerry's 
 throat swelled so that the food stuck. Even the tea only 
 went down in gulps, and something perilously like water came 
 to his eyes.
 
 The Witch's Cottage 35 
 
 "I hope you're not a dainty little boy," said the widow, 
 with a touch of frost in her voice. Margery hastened to 
 correct the impression. "Oh, dear no, m'am. He can eat 
 everything most times. It's just that he's feelin' dull-like, 
 at me going. Isn't it, my lamb?" Jerry nodded and made 
 valiant attacks on the bread and butter, with a keen conscious- 
 ness of the widow's disapproving look. At last it was over 
 and they rose. 
 
 "You'd like to see his room, m'am, afore you go, I'm 
 thinking." Up the steep deal stairs, scoured ivory white, 
 and sandwiched between walls, they went, the widow lead- 
 ing, Jerry bringing up the rear with his dot-and-go-one step 
 a step which had to be assisted with his hands, so high and 
 steep were the rises. At the top was a tiny landing, papered 
 with a paper of red roses, just the sort of paper for a witch. 
 There were no doors apparently, but the widow touched, 
 and lo ! a door in the paper opened. Magic, for sure. She 
 stood aside, and Margery, taking Jerry's hand, passed in. 
 There was only room for two. 
 
 "What a nice room," she cried approvingly ; "and so clean." 
 
 The cleanliness did not appeal to Jerry, but for some rea- 
 son, the room did. It was very small, with ceilings that sloped 
 down on either side, only leaving a small wall of paper still 
 roses. An iron truckle bedstead stood in one corner, which 
 Margery eyed longingly. The desire to inspect sheets and 
 blankets was almost overpowering, but with the widow in the 
 doorway, she refrained. 
 
 Most of the room was gable, ending in a small casement 
 window, and Jerry pulled Margery towards it. Over the 
 gay, sweet-smelling garden it looked, over the summer fields, 
 and, leaving the deep, grassy lane on the right, Jerry caught 
 two landmarks which thrilled his small heart and took away 
 some of the loneliness. Church Clock, now, it seemed to 
 him, wearing a face of grave friendliness, as though it said, 
 "Cheer up, little Jerry, I'm here ; and shall be here when 
 you're gone away. And I've seen lonely little children be-
 
 36 When Pan Pipes 
 
 fore; yet time has gone on and things have come right. 
 Everything comes to those who wait, Jerry boy. You'll hear 
 me strike, and you'll say, 'Another hour gone another hour 
 nearer to Margery, another hour nearer to fairyland.' " 
 
 This is what the Clock said, but Jerry didn't know it in 
 so many words; only it was a face from the past looking 
 down on him. And then, as again his glance wandered, he 
 saw a familiar stack of chimneys. Curling blue smoke came 
 from them, and as it wreathed and circled towards him, it, 
 too, seemed to say, "All right, Jerry. Betty's here, and I've 
 got lots of messages from her; and when I boil the kettle on 
 Sunday you'll be here." 
 
 Margery's voice broke in upon his thoughts. 
 
 "You'll be happy here, Master Jerry, won't you, my dearie ?" 
 
 There was a wistful expression on her face, something 
 beseeching an affirmative answer, and he tried hard to nod. 
 But the effort failed; the tears, kept back so manfully, burst 
 out. In a moment he was gathered in her arms and held 
 close. 
 
 "Oh, Margery, dear, dear Margery, don't go." The wid- 
 ow's face, which had creased itself into puckers during the 
 survey, now uncreased. She shook her head mournfully. 
 
 "I'm afraid you're a naughty little boy," she said. The 
 remark was lost on Jerry, even Margery heard without hear- 
 ing, and sighing deeply, the hostess betook herself to the stairs, 
 creaking slowly down. Margery, her own tears falling freely, 
 sat down on the bedstead, and held the sobbing child closer. 
 
 "Don't cry, my lamb, don't cry. See, you're breaking Mar- 
 gery's heart. You wouldn't do that, lovey, would you?" 
 
 Jerry's head shook ; he strangled back the biggest sobs. 
 
 "An' it won't be long before we have a little house together 
 you and I, Master Jerry. An' Betty will come an' see us, 
 an' we'll have some chickens, an' a little pig an' an' " 
 Margery's voice choked; she turned it to a cough, "An' I'll 
 have such a many tales to tell you about Canada. Oh, Mas- 
 ter Jerry, my precious, don't fret so ; don't, my dearie."
 
 The Witch's Cottage 37 
 
 Jerry rubbed the tears from his eyes, and laying his little 
 puzzled head on his nurse's shoulder, was silent, except for 
 the sighing sobs, which gradually subsided. It was on the 
 tip of his tongue to express his opinion of the mistress of the 
 house, but something seemed to tell him that Margery wouldn't 
 understand. She always laughed at daddy's fairy tales. He 
 would tell Betty on Sunday. She wouldn't laugh. And 
 Margery, knowing nothing of the terrible fear in her boy's 
 heart, thought him comforted, and with a last kiss, whispered 
 that they must go downstairs. The widow would think them 
 rude folk indeed. 
 
 So in the cool of the evening Margery left him; not for 
 quite the last time. 
 
 "You'll be sure he gets off early, m'am, won't you?" she 
 said anxiously, adding apologetically, "it's early, I know, but 
 I'm sure you won't mind for once." The widow creased up 
 her face and promised. 
 
 "I'm an early riser myself," she replied. "The little boy 
 shall be ready." 
 
 "Thank you, m'am, thank you. Good-night, Master Jerry, 
 lovey; it won't be long before morning." 
 
 Jerry stood in the doorway, a forlorn little figure. The 
 widow turned in as the gate closed, and with a hurried glance 
 to make sure that the coast was clear, he fled down the pathway. 
 
 "Good-bye, Margie good-bye," he whispered excitedly, and 
 Margery from the lane called back, waving her hand. An- 
 other moment, and the trees hid her from sight; he caught a 
 flutter of the brown gown. It vanished, and loneliness fell like 
 a heavy curtain. 
 
 In spite of all, Jerry slept sound that night. The hour after 
 Margery left had been an hour of torture. The widow had 
 restored the sitting-room to its normal condition; had ranged 
 the horsehair-seated chairs against the wall in cold gentility; 
 the Bible was replaced on the round mahogany table; every 
 crumb was swept up, and the funereal cheerlessness of a best 
 room fell as the door was shut.
 
 38 When Pan Pipes 
 
 Jerry followed the widow into the kitchen. Here things 
 wore a more comfortable, everyday aspect. The brick floor, 
 red-ochred, was warmly bright, the cushions of the easy chair 
 had dumped themselves into shapes ; even a small, three-legged 
 stool was polished with use. 
 
 The widow washed up silently, Jerry watching. Then, hav- 
 ing put away the cups and saucers and emptied the bowl, she 
 sat down in the easy chair, fitting the cushions to a nicety. 
 
 "You can sit on the stool, little boy," she said graciously. 
 "It'll be bedtime soon." 
 
 Jerry sat down, still watching. The widow's face was a 
 study ; it was so round, and there were so many chins. Jerry 
 counted four, and a baby one; the creases, too, were wonder- 
 ful. It was quite interesting to watch them smooth out here, 
 only to pucker up there. And soon, too, another phenomenon 
 occurred. The loose, flabby mouth relaxed and fell open, the 
 expressionless blue eyes winked and blinked, then closed, 
 opened slowly once or twice, then closed again ; a gentle puffing 
 sound came, growing in intensity. Jerry, never having seen 
 anyone but daddy asleep, watched in fascinated wonder and 
 awe. Gradually, as he watched, the things in the room began 
 to take life. He could see dim faces in them, which no doubt 
 were real and could only be seen at night. There was a fat, 
 bow-legged curving chair, which he was sure had once been an 
 old gentleman. The little square, velvet-covered cushion, on 
 which the widow's feet, clad in bulging, elastic side boots, 
 rested, was, no doubt, a small busy woman, and a big shape- 
 less ottoman could only have been a thumping farm lass, some- 
 thing like Sally at the inn. The iron shovel and poker were 
 enchanted ladies, so slender and elegant were they. 
 
 Faces met him everywhere, and as the twilight fell, they 
 peered at him from shadowy corners, from the wide open 
 chimney; and the widow's clothes, hanging behind the door, 
 became living things, with the shape of nothing that had ever 
 lived. 
 
 Jerry sat without stirring, almost without breathing. It
 
 The Witch's Cottage 39 
 
 was not exactly fear that he felt, only the consciousness was 
 forcing itself upon him more and more every minute, that it 
 really was a witch's cottage, and all that happened was magic. 
 Perhaps, if he were very good indeed, she wouldn't change 
 him into anything. He would try to please her, and just as 
 he had made up his mind a loud "H-r-r-r" sent his heart to 
 his mouth. 
 
 "H-r-r-r," went the witch. "H-r-r-r" and then suddenly 
 such a long "H-r-r-r," that Jerry, in spite of himself, started 
 up, and the widow awoke. 
 
 "Dear me, I must have been asleep. Have you been there 
 all the time, little boy ?" 
 
 "Yes, m'am," said Jerry. The creases puckered up. 
 
 "I'm glad you're a quiet little boy. I don't like noisy chil- 
 dren." 
 
 "No, m'am." 
 
 "And now, since you've been so good, you may bring me 
 my slippers. They're in the corner." 
 
 She put the toe of a foot to the heel of the other, gave a 
 long pull, and the elastic side boot flew off; repeating the 
 process with the other, she gave a sigh of relief. 
 
 "You may put them on, little boy; and stand the others 
 in the corner." Jerry hastened to obey he knew now that 
 to please the witch he must be quiet and do her bidding. 
 
 "Now you may go to bed, little boy ; you won't want a can- 
 dle. There's light enough to undress by." 
 
 Jerry obeyed, hesitating for a moment. Was it necessary 
 to kiss the widow? He stole a glance. She had subsided 
 into the chair again, and with a thankful feeling, he climbed 
 the narrow staircase. He didn't really think he could have 
 kissed a witch. 
 
 So the summer night stole on. A great, horned moon 
 rose low on the horizon. It rose till it was level with Church 
 Clock. 
 
 "Church Clock, Church Clock," it cried, "are you still watch- 
 ing?" Church Clock relaxed its gravity and smiled.
 
 40 When Pan Pipes 
 
 "I always watch," he said. "I'm watching two little lives 
 now so young, so tender, and one so full of trouble." 
 
 "But it will pass," cried the Moon. 
 
 "Yes, it will pass," answered Church Clock gravely; "but 
 the trouble of a child, and the trouble of a woman, are the 
 saddest things on earth, for no one knows it except themselves 
 and the wise ones watching." 
 
 "Like you and me, friend," whispered the Moon. "Yes, 
 I know, I've seen them women and children in poor homes, 
 in palaces, in noisy streets, in quiet corners, and it's true it's 
 true. A child's sorrow and a woman's sorrow is sorrow in- 
 deed. Show me these children, Church Clock, and we will 
 watch together." 
 
 So they peeped through the narrow garret window where 
 Jerry lay. 
 
 "Did he say his prayers ?" asked the Moon anxiously. "Did 
 he say, 'Now I lay me down to sleep' ?" 
 
 "Yes," answered Church Clock, "I don't let him forget his 
 prayers. When I strike I say, 'Jerry boy Prayers!' When 
 I strike in the morning, I shall say, 'Don't forget to wash, 
 Jerry.' " The Moon listened gravely. 
 
 "If he says his prayers and keeps himself clean, he won't 
 come to much harm. Now for the other." 
 
 They peeped into the little dimity hung room, so white and 
 sweet-smelling. The unruly mop of curls made a shining spot 
 on the snowy pillows ; the little busy hands and feet were quiet 
 now, and the sparkling eyes closed. Church Clock smiled as 
 he struck out midnight, and the Moon winked knowingly, and 
 gave a broad grin as he rose higher in the sky. Down below 
 in deep dark woods, Pan piped, but the grass on the mossy 
 bank was short that night. 
 
 "Pan's showing his legs," whispered the fairies, peeping from 
 foxgloves, and shivering; "it's not our turn." And from be- 
 hind the trees, fauns and satyrs advanced clumsily, for they 
 knew the music was for them that night.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 JERRY GETS A CHARM BUT LOSES THE BROWNIE FAIRY 
 
 THE dawn was dimly faint in the east when the widow 
 called Jerry. 
 
 "You can get a piece of bread and cheese, little boy," she 
 said through the keyhole; "it's in the larder." The heavy 
 footsteps rambled away, and Jerry jumped out of bed. He 
 began to dress, but surely the buttons had multiplied in the 
 night he never remembered having so many. And yet the 
 buttonholes seemed to have grown fewer. After much fum- 
 bling, a few clothes got into their places, and Church Clock 
 struck four. He remembered that he must wash, and looked 
 round for the basin and ewer. But there was nothing like 
 them. What should he do? To wake a witch was out of the 
 question. Perhaps if he finished dressing he might find some 
 place downstairs. He put on his trousers, buckled the long 
 belted tunic over, brushed his hair, and then, kneeling down, 
 said a "Hail Mary." 
 
 How the stairs creaked. The dawn was breaking as he 
 pushed open the kitchen door. It was warm and filled with 
 shadows, but the faces were no longer there only the remem- 
 brances of yesterday hung around. The stir and bustle of to- 
 day would sweep them into the past. 
 
 He prowled round, and in the back'us found a sink and 
 a pitcher of water. There was also a tin basin and a piece 
 of soap altogether a lucky find. Having washed, came an 
 adventurous hunt for food. He opened several doors, each 
 time with a beating heart you never know what you may find 
 behind the doors in a witch's house. But there was nothing 
 out of the common. True, in a cupboard, stood a tall birch 
 broom ; that, no doubt, was the broomstick she used to fly on. 
 
 41
 
 42 When Pan Pipes 
 
 He closed the door, yet, so brave was he with the happiness 
 of the day, that the thought came, suppose if he were very, 
 very good, would she take him with her? It was a very long 
 broom quite long enough for two, when one was a little boy 
 of seven. 
 
 At last the larder was reached, cool and dim, a larder and 
 dairy combined. In an earthenware pan dwelt the bread, and 
 under a cover Jerry found cheese. After that, rested and fed, 
 everything was easy. 
 
 He knew better than to go out by the front door. Just lift 
 the latch of the back'us door, in the country, and there you 
 are by day or night. The meadows and woods were dark 
 and mysterious in the shadowy dawn. Faint lights in the sky 
 gave a weird, spectral effect; the trees stood motionless. Si- 
 lence, such as Jerry had never known, and the sense of adven- 
 ture, slightly tempered by awe, increased. A bird chirruped 
 drowsily somewhere, but a rustle in the pig-sty put mystery 
 to flight, and he made his way to the front of the cottage. 
 
 Here the flowers were still sleeping. Dew-drenched roses 
 hung heavy heads ; crimson cloves lay against their grey-green 
 leaves > the mignonette had closed, the daisies were tightly 
 shut; only the lilies, "Our Lady's flowers," stood tall and 
 straight, and Jerry stopped to poke his nose into their golden 
 hearts. 
 
 Through 1 the gate, into the still dark lane, up the grassy 
 dew-wet way, over the tree roots. Birds, asleep in their nests, 
 nettles, weeds and drowsy flowers in the ditch below, waited 
 the sun's call to waken. Silence, darkness, bits of light here 
 and there, now rosy tinted. Out of the lane, over a stile, 
 across the meadow, and there was the farm. Curling blue 
 smoke wreathed down to meet the little figure, Betty and 
 Margery half way across to meet him, and Jerry was there! 
 Oh! the sense of warmth of comfort of home. 
 
 The farmer, busily eating his breakfast, waved a cheerful 
 knife by way of greeting, Mrs. Chubbe, with a kiss, lifted him 
 over the settle, and Betty, her tongue going, as her aunt
 
 Jerry Gets a Charm 43 
 
 said, "Nineteen to the dozen," climbed in beside him. To- 
 gether they attacked the big bowls of rich, creamy bread and 
 milk, for which Jerry, in spite of the casual larder feast, was 
 ready, and then, through twisting, uneven passages, to the 
 yard where Dickon, the farm boy, with many a "Whoa there !" 
 and "Stan' still, lass !" was putting the mare in. 
 
 Mrs. Chubbe, assisted by Jenny and Sally, brought out 
 pound after pound of sweet butter, shining yellow through 
 their thin muslin coverings, baskets of brown and white eggs, 
 and plump chickens with long limp necks, stiff yellow feet, 
 and bodies icily cold even at midday in August. All these, 
 with much talk and bustle, were packed in the light, spring 
 cart. There was much protestation in the shape of creaking 
 and groaning from the little cart as the farmer climbed up, 
 as though it said, "I can't really carry you; I can't, I really 
 can't," then with a last jerk, "Though if I must, I must. What ! 
 another " as Margery got in, and Betty and Jerry were lifted 
 up behind, with stern injunctions to keep their feet well out 
 and not to kick the butter. 
 
 "Noo," said the farmer, tightening the reins, "ready's the 
 word; good-bye, missus." The mare pricked up her head 
 lifted her feet ; but a scream from Mrs. Chubbe arrested mat- 
 ters. 
 
 "What noo?" said the farmer under his breath, sticking 
 the whip in its socket, and turning to look. His wife, with 
 a frantic wave of her hand, which, being interpreted, meant 
 "Wait!" vanished into the house, returning presently with a 
 rush basket, which she handed up to her husband. 
 
 "Them's the apricots for Mrs. Plumtre ; Jenny tells me their 
 tree don't bear this year. An' mind an' not forget it, master; 
 you're a rare hand at forgettin' when you get to market." The 
 farmer smiled broadly, lifted the basket, and winked slowly and 
 meaningly at Margery. Mrs. Chubbe caught it. 
 
 "Ah! you can wink. If you'd got a half of what I have 
 to think on, I'll warrant you'd forget. An' after all 'twasn't 
 forgot," she added triumphantly.
 
 ! 44 When Pan Pipes 
 
 Once more the farmer cl-clicked; once more mare Kitty 
 tossed her head, and put her best foot foremost. Over the 
 cobble-tiled yard, round the gateposts they skimmed, Jerry 
 and Betty holding on for dear life, into the broad high road 
 which led to great cities, even to the sea. The farmer shook 
 his head, sighed ponderously, and murmured thoughtfully, yet 
 with a whimsical twist of his mouth, "Wimmen wimmen " 
 
 How the cart flew along! White, inch deep dust whirled 
 and scattered, adding yet another layer to the choking hedges. 
 There was no lack of company. Farm waggons, containing 
 coops of live hens or geese ready for fattening; here and 
 there a horse or pony, tethered behind, trotted head down, 
 doubtless wondering who would be its next master. 
 
 But for the most part, the road was occupied by gigs and 
 light carts, like the farmer's own, filled with buxom house 
 wives intent on a day of business, combined with pleasure; 
 shy rosy-faced lassies, with Heaven knows what anticipation 
 in their innocent hearts; for on a market day the merry gods 
 scatter adventures broadcast, and any moment a King Cophetua 
 may arise and bear off a beggar maid. So the road was gay 
 that August morning, and the farmer, between frisky Kitty 
 and neighbourly salutations, had his hands full. Even Margery 
 plucked up heart and smiled, while Jerry, all trouble thrown to 
 the wind for the time, relaxed from solemnity, even laugh- 
 ing outright at some of Betty's sallies. Betty's tongue went 
 as fast as Kitty's feet, which is saying much. So the eight 
 miles flew by, and it was yet early morning when they clat- 
 tered into the market town of Channington. The clock over 
 the town hall was striking the hour; such a bustle and con- 
 fusion narrow, cobble-paved streets filled with vehicles and 
 echoing voices men's voices, women's voices, voices shrill 
 and loud, voices gentle and sweet, gruff voices, harsh voices, 
 the high pipe of children, the rippling laughter of maidens 
 all sorts of voices chattered and babbled, rose and fell, as 
 Kitty dropped to a walking pace and joined the procession to 
 the Swan, Channington's hostelry and coaching inn.
 
 Jerry Gets a Charm 45 
 
 The house itself was of white stone, standing slightly back 
 from the road, with doors and windows scattered promis- 
 cuously about it. It dated from Elizabeth, but had been 
 added to here and altered there, till little was left to mark the 
 date. On one side a wide entrance leading to the yard was 
 spanned by an arch, and under this the line of vehicles slowly 
 moved. 
 
 The noise and bustle of the street were as peace compared 
 with those of the yard. Ostlers and grooms ran to and fro, 
 unharnessing, baiting for some of the horses had come many 
 miles and wheeling away light carts. Men, awaiting assist- 
 ance, shouted to each other, or called impatiently for someone 
 to take their horses. Women and children alighted and saun- 
 tered to the entrance, where they awaited their lords. Porters 
 carried merchandise to the market stalls; horses neighed and 
 whinnied, pawing the ground impatiently; and from the low 
 gallery, running round three sides and used for the loading 
 and unloading of the coaches, those inside the inn talked tc 
 their friends below, exchanging impressions of the day, the 
 chances of business, and social gossip. 
 
 Outside the arch an ever shifting crowd of loafers hung 
 around, some on the lookout for a job, but for the most part 
 idlers, ripe for sport, sight-seeing, mischief, or anything that 
 might turn up. And to this medley of humanity the light 
 cart added its occupants. Farmer Chubbe, landlord of the 
 Cloudesley Arms and large farmer to boot, was, as things 
 went, a man of standing in the neighbourhood. A couple 
 of stablemen hastened to his assistance. Throwing the reins 
 to them he climbed out, helped Margery to descend, and lifted 
 the children to the ground. 
 
 Betty's dark eyes sparkled with delight. The noise, the 
 gaiety, appealed strongly to her passionate nature; her feet 
 twitched restlessly, the colour came and went, and she pulled 
 her uncle's hand impatiently. 
 
 "Softly, softly, Betty wench," he smiled down at her, "the 
 day's young yet. Well, then, Mrs. Marvin, you'll be back by
 
 46 When Pan Pipes 
 
 nine. The coach is due to leave at the half hour. We'll walk 
 together as far as town hall." 
 
 So they started, all four of them; the children hand in 
 hand, following the older folk, turned down a side street, 
 and wending their way through the pushing, jostling, good- 
 humoured crowd, were, within three minutes, in the market 
 place; indeed, the back windows of the Swan looked directly 
 down upon the wide square. And here was, indeed, a sight 
 to make Betty's gay little heart rejoice. 
 
 The town hall, breathing dignity, and holding secrets of 
 wonderful doings therein balls, assemblies, and gatherings 
 of all sorts stood in its midst. Underneath, on one side, 
 was the covered market place, cool and shady a fitting place 
 on a hot day for butter, cream, poultry, and perishable articles. 
 Outside, where the stalls, at this time of the day comparatively 
 empty, stood thick as blackberries on a hedge, and their own- 
 ers chattered, whispered and worked where sober farmers 
 gathered in little knots, their sample bags in their hands, their 
 horny palms holding specimens of the contents, heads close 
 together and only a word now and again outside was all fun, 
 and Betty clutched her companion's hand in a little hot, excited 
 clasp. 
 
 The farmer brought up. "Well, missis, we'll see you later." 
 Margery nodded. 
 
 "Come, Master Jerry dear, come with Margie." 
 
 Jerry obeyed; Betty was dear, but Margery more so. This 
 last hour was just for themselves. Betty transferred her hand 
 to her uncle's, who was already deep in the mysteries of prices. 
 "Don't be long, Jerry," she called after them; "it'll be such 
 fun soon." 
 
 They crossed the square, turned down an alley shaded by 
 great trees in the gardens behind the walls, past the old church 
 and churchyard, and came into a smaller square, where quiet 
 houses lay on either side. In one corner was a newer build- 
 ing, and to this Margery led the way. She passed through the 
 tiny gate, pushed open a heavy door, and another atmosphere
 
 Jerry Gets a Charm 47 
 
 greeted them an atmosphere of dimness, perfume, and shafts 
 of dancing sunshine, of marbles, stained windows and flicker- 
 ing light ; of muffled footsteps, whispering voices and echoes. 
 It was nothing new to Jerry ; he dipped a fat forefinger into the 
 stone basin outside, and touched himself in the sign of the 
 Cross ; inside he made obeisance in orthodox fashion. 
 
 "Sit down, dearie," whispered Margery, "an' wait for me. 
 I'll not be long. Father Andrew expects me." 
 
 She found him a comfortable seat in one of the pews, and 
 disappeared into the confessional box. Jerry sat very still; 
 as still as in the witch's kitchen, but with very different feel- 
 ings. There was no fear now, only a holy awe. The figures 
 in their niches, Our Lady from her altar, looked down with 
 gentle eyes, and little boy as he was, Jerry had the true Cath- 
 olic's sense of intimate family relations with the Saints and 
 the Holy Mother the feeling of home in their dwelling place. 
 And for him there was that no longer, for who could call a 
 witch's cottage, home? 
 
 Sweet breath of incense stirred the air, the far off dron- 
 ing inside the wooden erection ceased, a door opened and 
 Margery came out. Her face was serious, but happier than 
 before ; there was rest in it. 
 
 "It does a body good," she said, as Jerry scrambled to his 
 feet, "to confess her sins and get absolution. An' now, my 
 dearie, we'll make an offering to the blessed St. Monica, an' 
 perhaps she'll keep an eye on you." 
 
 Jerry's little feet clattered over the marble floor of the 
 Chapel of the Dedication, waking the echoes, till they reached 
 the altar where the gleaming candles burned like stars, and 
 the porphyry and alabaster, jacinth and lapis lazuli glowed like 
 a painter's palette newly wet. For the Chapel of St. Monica 
 was a gift from Edward, loth Earl of Cloudesley, and noth- 
 ing had been spared in its decoration. 
 
 Margery dropped her money into the box, took a candle, 
 and lighting it from another, set it on a spike. Then, to- 
 gether, they knelt before the altar, and Margery put up a
 
 48 When Pan Pipes 
 
 petition, while Jerry, with hands clasped, gazed into the beau- 
 tiful face, and wondered if she was anything like daddy's 
 fairy. She, too, was in white, and her name began with an 
 M. He was sure of that, although his literary accomplishments 
 were at present confined to words of three letters. Another 
 pause before the high altar, and then Margery sat down in a 
 side pew, and drew him very close. 
 
 "Master Jerry, my dearie, there's something I've got to 
 say to you. If God an' the blessed Saints are willing, I'll 
 be back in a year, but there's always the chance against it, 
 'specially in a country where they'd as lief scalp your head 
 as look at you. So, lovey, if I don't come back quite as soon 
 as I expected, remember you're a gentleman, an' that you 
 mustn't say naughty words, nor do bad things, an' that daddy 
 and the angels are watching you. You'll try, Master Jerry, 
 my dearie, won't you ?" 
 
 The wrinkled, rosy face was working, and when the child 
 put his arms round her and pressed his warm lips and cheeks 
 to hers, the tears rolled down unrestrained. 
 
 "Don't cry, Margie, darling. I will be good. I will I will. 
 I promise. I promised daddy, and now I promise you. Oh, 
 Margie, don't cry." 
 
 She held him closer for a few minutes, then put the clinging 
 arms from her, and smiled again. 
 
 "There, Margie's a silly old woman, isn't she? Why, this 
 time next year we'll all be together again, won't we, my dearie ? 
 An' now, Master Jerry," her tone changed, she was once more 
 the everyday Margery, "there's something your daddy told me 
 to give to you something " she was busy fumbling in the 
 big pocket worn under the brown linsey skirt ; "yes, here it is." 
 
 It was a small linen bag, containing something hard, and 
 attached to a long cord. This she slipped over the child's 
 neck, tucking it safely in. 
 
 "Master Jerry," she said solemnly, "don't you ever part 
 with it an' don't take it off except to wash. An' it's not
 
 Jerry Gets a Charm 49 
 
 to be opened till you're twenty. See, it's sealed, with your 
 daddy's big seal." 
 
 Jerry gazed at the funny little parcel, at the big splash of 
 red, and the cabalistic lettering. Margery went on. 
 
 "There's a bit of the true cross inside as well; I begged 
 it from Father Andrew last time I was here. It'll keep you 
 safe, my dearie. An' now, we must go ; Town Clock's strik- 
 ing the quarter." 
 
 Out into the quiet square, down the sun-flecked alley, into 
 the hustle-bustle of the busy market place. Things had pro- 
 gressed since they left ; the stalls were set out ; a Cheap Jack 
 was giving his first demonstration, and all was ready for the 
 day. 
 
 In the street leading to the Swan they found the farmer 
 and Betty ; Betty in a state of wild excitement. She flew to 
 meet them. 
 
 "Oh, Jerry, Jerry, there's a circus and a giddy-go-round, 
 and Uncle Matt says he'll take us when when " she hesi- 
 tated, sobering slightly at the remembrance of the coming 
 parting, "I mean, in the afternoon. You'll like that, Jerry, 
 won't you?" 
 
 Jerry nodded; at any other time he would have responded 
 readily, but now the time was getting so short. He clung 
 tightly to Margery as they entered the inn, for through the 
 red-curtained window of the parlour he caught a glimpse of 
 the coach standing in the yard, ready, it seemed to him, to trap 
 his only friend and carry her away. There were others wait- 
 ing; passengers snatching a hasty meal before proceeding on 
 their journey, market folk eating bread and cheese. An ordi- 
 nary was served at midday, but from three to twelve noon 
 is a long time for hungry, working people. A rosy-cheeked 
 serving maid answered the summons, and the farmer gave his 
 orders. 
 
 "Pint o' home-brewed, a loaf, an' a bit o' old Cheshire; 
 that's " he tapped himself jocularly. "Cake'n milk for the
 
 50 When Pan Pipes 
 
 little 'uns, an' for you, missis ?" he turned to Margery she hes- 
 itated for a moment, and the farmer turned again. 
 
 "She'll have a glass o' the same as me. Best in all the 
 county, missis, you can take my word; Mrs. Plumtre knows 
 her business, an' here she is, herself." A short, plump, bus- 
 tling woman entered and seized the farmer's hand. 
 
 "Well, farmer, an' how be ye the day? An' Missis Mar- 
 vin, good soul, I'm fair glad to see you. An' how's the missis ? 
 Will ye thank her for the apricots, an' tell her they came like 
 flowers in May. Just what I was a-wantin', for apricots be 
 queer things ; they'll bear bushels for two, three year, an' then 
 never a one, an' that's ours this summer. An' how's little 
 miss? Come an' give Auntie Plumtre a kiss." She gathered 
 Betty in her arms and administered a sounding smack. Betty 
 returned it demurely, then, safe sheltered behind her uncle's 
 broad back, wiped her cheek and made a grimace to Jerry, 
 nearly upsetting his gravity. She liked Mrs. Plumtre, but her 
 mode of salutation was not altogether to Miss Betty's taste. 
 Of this, however, the good woman knew nothing. 
 
 "An' this is the little boy who's going to live with Widow 
 Hagges, I suppose. The father's gone, I hear," she added 
 in an undertone to Margery. "Well, well in the midst of 
 life we're in death, so parson says, an* never a truer word. 
 Poor child, poor child." She sat down and lifted Jerry to 
 her knee. 
 
 "You're a big boy to be nursed, laddie, I'm thinkin'; but I 
 nursed my own boy till he was bigger'n you by two years." 
 
 "Have you got a little boy, m'am ?" Jerry asked interestedly. 
 
 "No, my dear; leastways, not now. He's a grown man, 
 an' he's gone to Lunnon, an' to see the world. But there," 
 suddenly remembering, she put him down, "I'm keepin' you 
 all. Come along wi' me, out o' the crowd. Sally " the rosy 
 maid curtseyed, "bring Farmer Chubbe's orders to the sitting- 
 room." 
 
 She led the way across passages newly sanded for the day, 
 through rooms, filled, it seemed to Jerry, with people and
 
 Jerry Gets a Charm 51 
 
 furniture, bustle and noise, into a quiet room looking out 
 on one side to the market place, while on the other was a 
 small window, through which yard-proceedings could be 
 watched. 
 
 "Sit ye down, sit ye down," she said hospitably, "an' make 
 a good meal. Ye'll be tired, Mrs. Marvin, I'm thinkin', afore 
 you reach Lunnon." 
 
 "Aye, that she will," put in the farmer. "She'll get her 
 dinner at Chedham ; coach stops at the King's Head." 
 
 "An' a rare good house 'tis," replied the landlady. "Joe 
 Denson knows how to serve a good dinner never a better 
 but he can't beat my ale; he says so hisself. 'How d'ye do 
 it, Mrs. Plumtre?' says he, for he travels this way once a 
 year; 'when you're wantin' a job,' says he, 'you come to me. 
 I'll take you on for the brewin'.' " 
 
 The farmer assented cordially and the meal went on, well 
 seasoned with the landlady's gossip. Betty and Jerry were 
 silent ; Jerry from nature, and Betty because, naughty puss as 
 she was, she knew her manners, and to speak at meals before 
 grown-up folk was a sin worthy of the decalogue. A stir out- 
 side roused them. Mrs. Plumtre peered through the little win- 
 dow, and Jerry slid his hand into Margery's. 
 
 "They're putting the horses to an' Danel's finishing his 
 bread an' cheese in the parlour. Happen ye'd like a wash, 
 m'am ; 'twould freshen you a bit." 
 
 Jerry clung to Margery's hand and together they followed 
 their guide upstairs. Oh, the intricacies of that ancient place ! 
 The winding passages, uneven floors, stairs here, stairs there, 
 leading to still more rooms and passages. They reached their 
 haven at last ; the cool, sober room, with its great four-poster 
 hung with drab moreen, trimmed fantastically with black vel- 
 vet. High presses of rich red mahogany stood around, the 
 only relief being a dressing table, gaily draped with muslin 
 over pink cambric, concealing a deep box drawer. A won- 
 derful room, thought Jerry, used to cheerless London bed- 
 rooms or cheap lodging-houses. And the water from the pretty
 
 52 When Pan Pipes 
 
 red ewer seemed somehow fresher than water usually was. 
 
 The confusion in the yard was greater than ever; in the 
 midst of it they found the farmer. The horses were in; a 
 few belated parcels caused much commotion. Passengers stood 
 about; those who had already journeyed, with a nonchalant 
 air, the fresh ones busy giving and taking last messages. 
 
 The little group were silent tongue-tied when it came to 
 the last; only Jerry's clasp tightened, and he laid his cheek 
 against the dear hand he held. Margery struggled against 
 appearances, then gave in, and, big boy as he was, lifted him 
 in her arms and held him closely. Out of the inn came a 
 jovial, burly personage, booted, gaitered, and clad in a coat 
 of many capes and pockets. It was open now for comfort, 
 showing glimpses of bright waistcoat beneath. A beaver hat 
 surrounded the round genial face, weather beaten and burnt 
 to a glorious brick red. 
 
 He finished the contents of a glistening pewter pot on the 
 threshold; then, handing it to an ostler, wiped his mouth on 
 the back of a huge, hairy paw, drew out a silver watch the 
 size of a turnip, and entered the yard. Then indeed was 
 bustle. Grooms at the horses' heads, ladders behind, at either 
 side of the coach, passengers mounting, then remembering 
 something left, dismounting, encountering other passengers 
 coming up old passengers, young passengers, thin ones who 
 tripped gaily up, fat ones who required pushing and pulling, 
 bags and baggage still arriving, and above all, the din of voices. 
 
 "That's your place, Mrs. Marvin," said the farmer, "back 
 in the middle, an' it's time you mounted." 
 
 There was a dimness in the farmer's blue eyes even Betty 
 softened. The tears ran unchecked down Margery's cheeks. 
 Only Jerry was calm. He nestled his head against her shoul- 
 der with a grave look in his brown eyes; something seemed 
 to hurt him inside like the clutch of a cold hand, but he had 
 no desire to cry. There were pitying looks cast at the little 
 group. Farmer Chubbe's guests were well known by hear- 
 say.
 
 Jerry Gets a Charm 53 
 
 "Time's up, ladies and gents," said Daniel. "Take your 
 seats." The farmer put out his hand and took Margery's, 
 working it solemnly up and down. 
 
 "A year's soon gone, missis; you'll be back afore you 
 know you're gone." She nodded, unable to speak; then bent, 
 and kissed Betty warmly. But her voice came triumphantly as 
 she clasped the child she held still closer. 
 
 "Good-bye, Master Jerry good-bye, my dearie my darlin'." 
 
 A last kiss, a last embrace, and the farmer took him from 
 her arms. The coach swam before her. Someone lifted her 
 up; kindly passengers, with looks of pity, made room, help- 
 ing her to her place. Even Daniel gave her a sympathising 
 glance as he looked down into the yard to see that all was 
 right ; then drew the reins tighter. The conductor mounted 
 Margery smiled down, a faint wan smile, and Jerry smiled 
 gravely back. 
 
 "Ready, lads!" The grooms leaped back, the prancing 
 horses, fresh from their night's rest, flew like the wind. 
 "Tantivy tantivy!" the horn sounded its merry farewell; 
 waving handkerchiefs, last good-byes, and the Comet was gone 
 round the corner, into a dim wonderful region called the 
 road to London. It was over, the event of market day. 
 Ostlers and grooms disappeared as by magic, loafers strolled 
 away, friends of the passengers betook themselves to other 
 business. In a few minutes the yard was empty, and the de- 
 pressing silence which follows excitement fell. Still holding 
 Jerry, the farmer took his niece's hand. 
 
 "Come, children, let's go an' have a look round." Betty's 
 hopes rose. Surely the market place would restore Jerry 
 to his usual self; for there was something different, she felt 
 instinctively. The farmer understood; he talked to Betty, 
 and let the tired little heart rest and recover itself. It was not 
 very long before Jerry roused to a sense of his dignity. 
 
 "If you please, Mr. Chubbe, I think I'll get down now. And 1 
 thank you very much for carrying me." 
 
 "That's a brave little lad." The farmer set him on his feet,
 
 54 When Pan Pipes 
 
 pleased to see the signs of returning interest. "An' now, sup- 
 pose we go an' buy some lollipops, an' see how butter's sellin'." 
 
 Betty's legs capered gleefully; she peered round her uncle 
 to see what effect the announcement had on Jerry, and her 
 face fell. But hardbake and sugar sticks are wonderful re- 
 storatives, and her blithe laugh and chattering tongue did more 
 to rouse Jerry than any sympathy from older folk. 
 
 At twelve o'clock, with appetites of those whose conscience 
 is clear and health rude, they went back to the Swan, where 
 roast beef, mellow and juicy, with vegetables fresh cut from 
 the inn garden, were served; while for those who preferred 
 daintier fare there were ducks, who, but two days before, had 
 paddled in the great pond and strutted about the yards. Green 
 peas were there too, with monstrous raspberry and currant 
 pies, black currant puddings, lusciously purple, and jugs of 
 thick yellow cream. 
 
 Even Jerry was hungry, and as the farmer piled his plate 
 with good things he looked up with a gravely childish smile 
 which went straight to the good man's heart. After dinner 
 came more delights. Out on the green were swings and 
 merry-go-rounds. On this last Betty would fain have gone, 
 greatly to the disgust of Mrs. Plumtre, who accompanied them. 
 
 "Fie on you, little miss," she said reprovingly, "them's for 
 boys not for nice little gals." 
 
 But the circus was all that heart even Betty's could de- 
 sire. Clowns, fairies, performing animals, all complete, and 
 when at last the light cart was brought out, Betty gave a sigh 
 of pure delight. 
 
 "It's been the most beautifullest day in all my life," she 
 cried, as she was lifted up. 
 
 A tired little boy was Jerry when they arrived at Cloudes- 
 ley. How he wished he could stay with Mr. Chubbe and 
 Betty, instead of moving on again. So much had happened 
 since he got out of bed that morning; the cottage seemed 
 like a dream of long ago; something vague, mysterious 
 there was nothing human about it. Had a Genie passed over
 
 Jerry Gets a Charm 55 
 
 the farm, carrying off the cottage, witch and all, in a cloud 
 of smoke, it would not have surprised him in the least. But 
 reality drew near. After the homely substantial tea, the farmer 
 rose. 
 
 "Now, laddie, time you're off. Widow'll be expectin' you. 
 Betty wench, you can go to the top of the lane with him." 
 
 Over the fields, where the setting sun hung in a crimson 
 glow behind a low misty haze, and the subtle, indistinguishable 
 scent of a thousand flowers and grasses rose, they went hand 
 in hand, the farmer and his wife watching from the door. 
 
 "Poor Jerry," said Betty compassionately, remembering, 
 now the excitement was over, her companion's trouble. "But 
 Mrs. Marvin'll soon be back, won't she? She said so. And 
 I'm so glad you didn't have to go away with her, 'cos now we 
 can have such beautiful games, every day, can't we?" 
 
 "I don't know," said Jerry dubiously. He was not at all 
 sure what might be expected of him. Then, as things began 
 to wear a more cheerful aspect, "P'raps she'll let me, if I'm 
 a very good little boy. I hope she will." 
 
 "Oh, she will if I ask her," said Miss Betty, confident of 
 her own capability to cajole. "I'll come and fetch you on 
 Sunday, if Aunt Martha'll let me. I'll learn my hymn and 
 verses quick." 
 
 They had reached the last stile ; Betty threw her arms round 
 his neck and kissed him. "Good-bye, Jerry," she cried, run- 
 ning off with the heedlessness of childhood, but turning sev- 
 eral times to wave her hand to the forlorn little figure stand- 
 ing by the stile. 
 
 He was alone now, quite alone; except for the witch and 
 the cat, and the bogie things which dwelt in the cottage and 
 made faces at him. For a few minutes he watched the flit- 
 ting white form, then turned with a heavy sigh and climbed 
 the stile. Before him lay the lane, darkly green where the 
 fading light fell, black in the shadows, and Jerry's small heart 
 beat loudly, and his feet trotted faster as each fearful place 
 was passed. For who knew what might lurk behind the tree
 
 56 When Pan Pipes 
 
 trunks, or in deep ditches. On the other hand he cheered 
 himself with the thought good fairies lived in the same places. 
 He found his way to the back door and knocked. 
 
 "Come in," said the widow's voice, and he advanced through 
 the kitchen. Yes, it was no dream. There it was, just the 
 same as last night. The widow in her chair, the geraniums on 
 the window sill, the coppers and brasses in their places only 
 the widow was awake, and everything else asleep or pretending 
 to be. 
 
 "So you've come back, little boy," she said graciously. 
 
 "Yes, m'am." 
 
 "An' now, before you go to bed, you can draw me a bucket 
 of water from the well. Did you find the pump this morning? 
 I forgot to show you last night. I hope you're a good little 
 boy, and wash yourself every morning." 
 
 Jerry's heart sank. Was he expected to wash at the pump ? 
 Farmer Chubbe's boys did, he knew, but he, Jerry, who had 
 always had a nice basin with plenty of soap, and sometimes 
 even warm water, and Margery's gentle hands to assist. Be- 
 sides, he was a gentleman. Margery said so, and gentlemen 
 didn't wash at pumps. 
 
 On the other hand, daddy said it didn't matter what you 
 did, and he had promised Margery to wash, and, perhaps, this 
 carrying much weight, there was the need to propitiate the 
 witch. The colour came and went in his brown face. Then, 
 child as he was, Jerry made up his mind. He would wash at 
 the pump. 
 
 "Yes, m'am." The widow had not waited for the answer, 
 only she saw the hesitation. 
 
 "You'll find the pail in the back'us; wind up the windlass 
 and fill it." 
 
 Out into the yard went Jerry. His fat little hands grasped 
 the handles, and with a great effort he managed to move the 
 heavy wheel. After that it was easy, and there was a cer- 
 tain amount of boyish delight at seeing the bucket come up,
 
 Jerry Gets a Charm 57 
 
 dripping with cold, clear water. He filled his pail, and carried 
 it with both hands indoors. 
 
 "That's a good little boy," said the widow, "an' now you 
 can get a slice of bread from the pantry and go to bed." 
 
 He was not hungry, but hardly felt sufficiently at home 
 to refuse the offer. Having got the bread, he said "Good- 
 night, m'am," and climbed the stairs, feeling very lonely, 
 very tired, and filled with a longing to climb into someone's 
 warm arms and cry away the bitter heartache. He undressed, 
 said his prayers, and got into bed. Then a few salt tears 
 came creeping up; but they weren't the right sort; the sort 
 that clear away aches; moreover, they were soon over. For 
 a little while he lay looking out on to the dark skies. Then 
 suddenly came a dim radiance, growing brighter and brighter. 
 Above the window sill appeared a brilliant golden rim; pres- 
 ently a great laughing yellow face looked in, and all the world 
 changed. Jerry almost laughed back, then raised himself, and 
 behold, just beneath the window frame, peeped another friendly 
 face. He sank back comforted, and almost before he touched 
 his pillow, was fast asleep. 
 
 A little gentle noise roused him from dreams happy 
 dreams, in which daddy played games and told stories; in 
 which Margery, Betty, and the farmer moved, and all was 
 merry and gay, just as in the old time. With waking came 
 reality and consciousness of troubled loneliness. The cold 
 grey dawn made the little room alive with shadows of waving 
 trees outside, and of things inside which cast strange and fan- 
 tastic shapes on the walls. Half asleep, half awake, he 
 watched them change into their ordinary forms as the light 
 increased, all the time dimly conscious of that soft, quiet 
 movement. What could it be? Very cautiously he sat up 
 and peered through the dim greyness. The sound came from 
 the gable end of the room, where presently something crimson 
 caught his eye, telling him the solution. The slice of bread, 
 left untouched on a box, had attracted a daring robin. Jerry
 
 58 When Pan Pipes 
 
 held his breath with delight as he watched. The visitor peeped 
 round at him with bright eyes, but took no other notice, then 
 hopped to the other side. Having sampled each crumb, he did 
 a little reconnoitring, picking at the box on the chance of its 
 being something edible, then hopping to a chair and inspect- 
 ing the folded garments, finally, with an impudent toss of his 
 head, which made the watcher laugh outright, he spread his 
 wings and flew through the open window. Jerry cuddled down 
 again ; a new idea had taken possession. What if he could en- 
 tice him back and tame him? How delightful to have a pet. 
 Daddy had often said he should have a dog, but it had never 
 been just the right time. With his head full of plans, he fell 
 asleep, only waking with the stir of morning. 
 
 The day was long. It began with a tussle with the pump, 
 which got the better of him, soaking him with a malicious 
 burst of water. Luckily, the widow, through the kitchen win- 
 dow, saw the catastrophe, and sent him up to change his 
 clothes, while she dried the wet ones. In return for this, 
 Jerry assisted during the morning; dried the china, dug po- 
 tatoes, peeled them and shelled peas, and sat down to his 
 dinner, a hungry, but on the whole, not an unhappy little boy. 
 
 Dinner was an ordeal. The peas were good, so were the 
 potatoes, so was the slice of bacon which the widow placed 
 on his plate; only Jerry, used to plain food but plenty, could 
 have eaten twice as much. The widow helped herself to 
 the remainder, which, although he was a polite little boy, he 
 couldn't help noticing was three times as much as his own, 
 and put the dish down for the cat. Jerry did his best to eke 
 it out, but long before the widow had finished hers, he sat 
 gazing with dismay at the empty plate. 
 
 "Little boys should eat their food slowly," she said severely, 
 slewing a piece of bread round and round in the gravy, "and," 
 with a glance at the well scraped plate, "leave a bit for man- 
 ners." 
 
 Jerry's face grew scarlet with shame and a certain amount 
 of indignation. This was the beginning and end of the con-
 
 Jerry Gets a Charm 59 
 
 versation. A small black currant pudding completed the meal, 
 unless you can count as a course the ten minutes spent by the 
 widow over her glass of ale, while Jerry's feet had pins and 
 needles, and all his body was tingling with a child's desire for 
 talk and laughter and healthy companionship. In the after- 
 noon the widow knitted and nodded, and he was free to play. 
 He gazed wistfully across the fields to where the curling smoke 
 beckoned, but he was not sure if the widow would be angry ; 
 moreover, Betty had a task of needlework every afternoon and 
 must not be disturbed. After tea, when the cups and saucers 
 were washed and put away, the fire made up, and the business 
 of the day finished, came the fearful hour when the witch slept 
 and things came to life. 
 
 Perhaps the lonely daylight hours added their touch of mys- 
 tery, or maybe the presence of Tibby, the cat, on the knitted 
 hearthrug, completed the charm. Anyhow, more things came 
 alive, more faces looked at him, and the air was heavy with 
 magic. Then it was that Jerry knew he must tame the robin. 
 Of course, it was a good fairy, and as long as he came, gob- 
 lins and enchanted creatures could do him no harm. Although 
 that night he could have eaten half a loaf, he refrained, only 
 taking part of the slice, putting the remainder in the same 
 place as before.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 HOW JERRY FOUND AND LOST A GOOD FAIRY 
 
 HE had his reward. The same soft movement roused him, 
 and again he watched. This time, having finished his 
 meal, the visitor took a survey, heedless of the entranced gaze 
 fixed upon him, then, to Jerry's unbounded delight, hopped 
 on to the low rail of his bed, and for a moment, before flying 
 away, stood looking at him with saucy bright eyes. 
 
 That day, being Saturday, was extra busy. Everything 
 that could be cleaned, was cleaned; everything that could 
 be done, was done, in preparation for what the widow called 
 "the Lord's day," to Jerry an unknown period. An air of 
 bustle hung around. Fruit had to be picked, vegetables to 
 be prepared ; his hot little fingers were purple with stains, and 
 exceedingly dirty, which did not trouble him. Something else 
 did though. 
 
 When tea was over, instead of subsiding as usual, the widow 
 rose solemnly, and fetched a great iron kettle from the back'us. 
 This she filled and hung on the crane, then with slow, labour- 
 ing footsteps left the kitchen. Jerry could hear her in one 
 of the outhouses moving heavily. Something fell with a dull 
 crash ; there was an ejaculation from the widow, then a strange 
 noise as of something bumping over stone floors. Jerry's heart 
 stood still; there was something fearsome in the preparations. 
 Was he at last to see some of the magic which, no doubt, went 
 on when he was in bed? With wondering eyes he saw the 
 widow approach, dragging and pushing a large wooden tub 
 used for washing. Jerry flew to assist, and silently they placed 
 it before the kitchen fire; then the widow paused for breath, 
 dropped heavily into the chair, and pointed to the kettle. 
 
 "When it boils," she. said, in the tone of an incantation, 
 
 60
 
 Jerry Found a Good Fairy 61 
 
 "you can undress; it's Saturday night, and children always 
 have baths on Saturday night. I used to when I was a little 
 girl." 
 
 Jerry listened in fascinating amazement. What sort of a 
 little girl could she have been ? A little girl with a fat face, no 
 doubt. And the wondering thought found words. 
 
 "Who gave you a bath, m'am ?" 
 
 "My mother, of course, child." And in those words was 
 hidden such a wealth of remembrance that silence followed. 
 To Jerry they meant nothing. No mother had ever bathed 
 him, nor kissed the chubby shoulders and arms, nor lovingly 
 curled the dark clustering hair. Margery, kind and dear as 
 she was, had taken the bath as part of a duty, and Jerry 
 knew of nothing else. Only he wondered. But to the widow, 
 perhaps for the first time for many years, came vague, far- 
 off memories of long forgotten things, of a dim childhood, 
 and youth buried many a year ago, under the weight of bodily 
 necessities and comforts. On the whole it was unpleasant. 
 The rusty memory of old age is painful to stir, like its bones, 
 and a sudden indignant spluttering from the kettle, saying 
 clearly, "Take me off, take me off, I'm boiling," made her 
 move with unusual alacrity. 
 
 "Go, fetch a pail of cold, child," she said, pouring the 
 steaming water into the tub. The mixture was stirred to 
 the right temperature, and the widow, from her chair, re- 
 garded the child with an expression more human than usual. 
 She even beckoned him close, and fumbling with the buttons, 
 helped him to undress. 
 
 It was a funny little fat figure in its undergarments; a 
 mother would have dropped a kiss, a laugh, or a cuddle with 
 each garment; but to the widow came no such promptings. 
 It was a solemn ceremony, worthy of a Saturday night. One 
 by one the small articles were folded and laid by, till Jerry 
 stood in much the same attire as that in which he had come 
 into the world, save and except the small bag hung round his 
 neck by Margery.
 
 62 When Pan Pipes 
 
 "What's that, child ?" asked the widow sharply. Jerry made 
 a clutch. 
 
 "It's it's what Margie gave me." The plump fingers 
 snatched, but Jerry hung on. 
 
 "Well, you can't keep it on in the water," continued the 
 widow somewhat fretfully. "Give it to me." 
 
 "I'll put it on the table, m'am," said Jerry, after a slight 
 hesitation. The other nodded the time for argument was 
 not yet. She was busy putting on a large apron and turning 
 up her sleeves. 
 
 "Get in," came the command, and Jerry stepped over the 
 edge. Ah, it was pleasant. It roused feelings of comfort and 
 delight in cleanliness. But the widow's methods were drastic. 
 Plenty of soap, administered freely, with no regard for nose 
 or eyes or mouth, and much scouring of tender parts. But 
 when at last it was over, the final scrubbing by a coarse towel 
 sent a glow of delightful warmth over his small body, and he 
 turned for the relic. Yet as he held it, it was snatched from 
 him. Something surged in Jerry's mind; with a leap, he 
 sprang to the chair and clutched at the hanging ribbon. 
 
 "It's mine! it's mine! You mustn't take it! It's mine!" 
 
 The widow looked up, mild as usual. 
 
 "What's the matter, child? I'm only looking at it." 
 
 Jerry, still with fingers entangled, only reiterated 
 
 "It's mine, it's mine." 
 
 "I'm afraid you're a very passionate little boy." The tone 
 was severe. "I'm not doing your ribbon any harm, only look- 
 ing at it." 
 
 "But you mustn't ; it's mine," answered Jerry wildly. 
 
 "Nonsense, child; a cat may look at a king," replied the 
 widow vaguely. "What's in it?" Slightly calmed, but still 
 holding tight, Jerry answered 
 
 "It's a piece of the true Cross. Margie told me." 
 
 The widow sniffed dubiously, and felt with finger and thumb. 
 
 "That's not all there's two things."
 
 Jerry Found a Good Fairy 63 
 
 "It's what my daddy gave Margie for me. Oh, please 
 please, m'am let me have it." 
 
 Jerry's feet and fingers twitched in a frenzy of impatience. 
 
 "Wait a minute let me see what it is." 
 
 Slowly she unloosened the mouth of the bag and, inserting 
 a large finger and thumb, would have drawn out the contents, 
 but Jerry was upon her. 
 
 "You shan't! you shan't! Margie said it wasn't to be 
 opened. Oh! you're naughty naughty! It's mine mine!" 
 
 And before she realised it, the bag was snatched from her 
 grasp, and Jerry stood in the middle of the floor, scarlet, pant- 
 ing, and frightened, but in possession. For a moment the 
 widow stared helplessly then broke out. 
 
 "Hoighty toighty here's a pretty to-do about nothing at 
 all. You're a very rude little boy. Go to bed, and in the 
 morning you can come and beg my pardon." 
 
 The mild reproof mild, because the widow was too lazy 
 and passionless to administer a stronger had its effect. Was 
 he rude? And conscience said "Yes." He ought to have 
 waited. But, then he couldn't have had the bag opened. Per- 
 haps if he had asked nicely and not put himself into a passion ; 
 yes, he was wrong, and nothing remained but to accept his 
 punishment. He crept up to bed supperless, but with a mind 
 fully intent on bearing it like a man. He hunted round for the 
 remains of last night's bread, and finding a few crumbs, crept 
 into bed with a somewhat heavy heart, but on the whole re- 
 lieved that it had ended as it had. 
 
 After all, it seemed that he need not have troubled him- 
 self. The apology, hanging like a millstone round his neck, 
 had to be got rid of, and the sooner the better. Mrs. Hagges, 
 laying the cloth for breakfast, was startled by a small figure 
 at her side. 
 
 "If you please, m'am, I'm sorry I was rude last night; I 
 won't be again." 
 
 The widow stared. Truth to tell, she had almost forgotten
 
 64 When Pan Pipes 
 
 the episode, although at the time it had disturbed her some- 
 what. Children were an unknown species not allowed for 
 in her calculations. It had not interfered with her night's 
 rest; it would have taken more than other people's troubles 
 to do that, and with the business of the morning the whole 
 affair moved into the recesses of the past. But at the time 
 it had ruffled her, and with its re-entry, came an unpleasant 
 flavour. She answered somewhat tartly 
 
 "Oh, well, I'm glad to hear you're sorry, for you were 
 a very rude little boy. Now you can go and feed the chick- 
 ens." 
 
 Perhaps of all the abasing rebuffs on this earth, that of 
 a snub on the top of an apology is the greatest; more espe- 
 cially when the apologiser is also the weaker vessel, and more 
 or less in the wrong. Not that the widow felt that. Some- 
 where, buried almost as deep as subconsciousness, was a prick- 
 ing sensation which told her that she had no right to pry into 
 Jerry's belongings. 
 
 Altogether, to both concerned, the thing was best forgotten. 
 Nevertheless, as the ripples caused by a small stone may dis- 
 turb mighty waters, so this little event left its marks marks 
 which, later on, made themselves felt. 
 
 But now to-day this glorious August sabbath was too 
 good for aught but happiness. Jerry, with only a faint shadow 
 left, made himself ready. He was to go with the Chubbes 
 to the little chapel in the park, where Mass was served by 
 Father Francis, Chaplain to my Lord Cloudesley; afterwards 
 to dinner and tea at the inn. The widow, too, had company. 
 Mr. Padden, minister of the Baptist Chapel she attended, re- 
 turned to the cottage after service. But of this Jerry knew 
 nothing. The widow, never conversational, kept her own 
 counsel ; probably never gave a thought to her charge till the 
 back'us door let him in, and closing, shut out, beside the deep 
 mysterious lane and grey misty twilight, all kindly warmth 
 and homely cheerfulness for another week. 
 
 Mr. Padden had temporarily departed when he came back.
 
 Jerry Found a Good Fairy 65 
 
 After service, he would return to enjoy the widow's hospi- 
 tality. But again, of that he knew nothing. Safely tucked 
 away in bed, his thoughts were only of the day ; Mrs. Chubbe's 
 kiss, the farmer's cheery welcome, Betty's childish chatter, 
 and all the little Sunday treats. Betty, little glutton as she 
 was, chose the Sunday pudding, and part of the afternoon 
 had been spent cogitating upon that for the following week. 
 For Jerry was to repeat the visit, and in the long dreary wil- 
 derness of days at the cottage, each Sunday stood out a green 
 refreshing oasis. 
 
 There was no break to the monotony. From the time he 
 was woke by the friendly movement at the window, till he 
 lifted the cover of the bread pan at night, ages flowed by. 
 Yet he was not unhappy; only in a state of stagnation 
 a small machine, knowing no emotion after that one out- 
 break. But though Jerry stood still seemingly, the tide of 
 Time swept on, bringing events nearer every hour. The 
 hands of Church Clock circled and circled and circled. The 
 Moon's round face dwindled to a profile, grew pale and thin, 
 then broadened out to a cheery grin. And always the two 
 friendly countenances peeped into the little rooms. 
 
 "Still watching, Church Clock?" the Moon said each time 
 he rose full and strong. 
 
 "Still watching, friend," Church Clock would answer. 
 
 "No news of Margery?" 
 
 "Not yet not yet" ticked the Clock, "but it'll come it'll 
 come." 
 
 "Aye it'll come," said the Moon, "but he mustn't forget 
 Margery." 
 
 "No, friend," answered Church Clock. "When the hush of 
 afternoon falls, when tired little people are falling asleep, I 
 say, 'Jerry Margery,' and he remembers." 
 
 "And his daddy?" queried the Moon anxiously. Church 
 Clock ticked for a few minutes, then answered quietly 
 
 "His daddy is always with him. In his work he remem- 
 bers and I do not tell him that work is noble. In his play,
 
 66 When Pan Pipes 
 
 he thinks of past hours when he had a loving playmate. The 
 only time when he seems furthest off is after tea, for then the 
 magic of evening falls; he cannot hear my voice, he cannot 
 see your face, friend. In the stillness, the souls of things 
 inanimate wake, and he sees them, though to few is given that 
 power. But when he goes to bed, he remembers. Then he 
 remembers most, for in sleep a corner is lifted of the curtain 
 which hangs between this world and fairyland so he sees the 
 other side." 
 
 Summer passed. The nip of autumn was felt in the air, in 
 the water at the pump. Jerry spent long mornings gathering 
 sticks for the wood pile in the yard, for fuel was scarce and 
 dear, and the fire in the kitchen burnt many, many sticks. 
 Out in the woods everything was very still ; only the sound 
 of a woodcutter's axe occasionally. Not with the deep brood- 
 ing silence of summer, but with an expectant stillness as 
 though the trees listened for a footfall. Even Jerry paused 
 sometimes in his wood gathering, wondering, and with a 
 strange yearning to catch the beauty around him to keep, 
 condense, crystallise it somehow to make it part of him- 
 self. 
 
 Thick and high and brown grew the bracken, while above, 
 hung a canopy of crimson and russet, gold and tawny brown. 
 Paths, under the lacy network of black branches against a 
 pale blue sky, were deep with rustling leaves. A child's para- 
 dise. Nature folded little Jerry in her cloak, and its loneli- 
 ness was like a great loneliness surrounding a smaller one. 
 Yet Nature gives while taking away. Out in the woods, 
 remembered things grew more vivid, and things forgotten came 
 back with new perceptions. . Old fairy tales, legends, and 
 childish lore, retold themselves in the quiet solitude, never 
 again to be banished, and those autumn days added another 
 stratum to the child's already half formed mind. 
 
 Inside the cottage was another atmosphere. The great mys- 
 tery of the woods became the smaller mystery created by man. 
 That the Widow Hagges was a witch became every day more
 
 Jerry Found a Good Fairy 67 
 
 certain to Jerry. A thousand things seemed to confirm the 
 idea, and there was a certain fearful fascination in being a 
 member of such a household. The Sundays spent at the inn 
 and the daily visits of the robin were Jerry's bit of human life. 
 With them he was again a child, though always a solemn one. 
 The robin grew tamer and tamer ; he would hop on to Jerry's 
 bed, perch on his hand, even take crumbs from his mouth. 
 The bread was saved at night, though each day it seemed 
 harder, for there were times when the hunger of a growing 
 boy made itself felt, and the widow's housekeeping was, to say 
 the least, not lavish. Yet Jerry knew that meals were cooked 
 of which he had no share. Sometimes, on a cold night, after 
 he had been in bed an hour or so, there would creep up into 
 his room a warm, savoury odour, suggesting roast meat, po- 
 tatoes, gravy all the delicious things a hungry little stomach 
 craves for. Betty's only knowledge of hunger was a longing 
 for almond rock, toffee, and sugary dainties. 
 
 It was tantalising, irritating, and most puzzling. The con- 
 tents of the larder were well known to Jerry only by magic 
 could the smell be accounted for. Perhaps it was served by 
 black imps, or perhaps it was that the goat who lived in the 
 next field was a fairy goat, and only had to be invoked as 
 "Little goat, my table spread," and lo ! a wondrous feast would 
 spring up. True, in the quiet of the afternoon, he had tried 
 it himself, but with no result, for nothing happened, only 
 Nanny turned and looked at him as though she knew all about 
 it. Strange, mysterious, unaccountable yet only another of 
 the mysteries of the cottage. 
 
 As winter drew nearer, life became harder. Pump water 
 is very cold at six o'clock in the morning ; a flock mattress has 
 few warmth-giving properties, and a garret catches most 
 winds that blow. On no account would Jerry close his win- 
 dow ; Robin entered by it ; but one night, to his huge delight, 
 the visitor flew in as he was dropping off to sleep and perched 
 on the bed rail. From that time it became a regular thing, 
 and the friendly faces peeping in, smiled at each other the
 
 68 When Pan Pipes 
 
 smile of the wise for those little lives which ought to know 
 only Pan's fairy music. 
 
 "Such a lonely little boy, Church Clock," said the Moon. 
 
 "It will pass, friend," ticked the Clock, "it will pass ; but not 
 yet. There are many weary hours sadness, passion to be 
 overcome. For a child's life is made in its morning, and, to 
 those who win through trouble and grief, life gives its reward, 
 sooner or later, here, perchance, yet sometimes not until the 
 curtain which hangs between each one and fairyland is lifted." 
 
 Day by day Robin grew tamer, disappearing during the day, 
 but coming regularly every night. Jerry wondered where he 
 lived, but it was not until nearly Christmas that he found out, 
 and then only by Robin's own consent. 
 
 There were still sticks to be gathered. It seemed that the 
 kitchen fire burned more and more each day. Every after- 
 noon, when the dinner things were washed and put away, the 
 hearth white-stoned and the kettle filled, he would slip off 
 to the woods into the greater mystery and bigger loneliness, 
 which yet, somehow, held no fear. 
 
 Beautiful were they in their winter dress of soft snow and 
 sparkling frost. Quiet now not still, nor expectant, only 
 peaceful, for everything slept. Jerry's little feet made a gen- 
 tle padding sound; sometimes a stick snapped or a mass of 
 snow fell with a dull thud, but nothing else stirred. Sticks 
 were hard to find, and sometimes the sun-setting would find 
 him with only a small handful. When the crimson glow fell 
 through the white trees, turning them rosily pink, beautiful 
 though it was, Jerry never lingered. The lane had to be 
 passed, and when the sun dropped below the horizon it be- 
 came a place of terror, haunted by hobgoblins, witches, and 
 Heaven knew what. 
 
 A small incident altered it all, taking the fear completely 
 away. 
 
 One afternoon he came to that part of the lane which was 
 dark even in broad daylight. There was a stir in the branches 
 above, and something touched his shoulder. His heart leaped
 
 Jerry Found a Good Fairy 69 
 
 up, then dropped, for a soft warm thing cuddled close to his 
 face, as though in greeting, then fluttered its wings and flew 
 upwards into the heart of a great oak, leaving Jerry entranced. 
 
 So that was Robin's home ! That he was a good fairy was 
 a double certainty, and from that moment all fear vanished. 
 Very soon he would stay longer, even accompanying him to 
 the woods, leaving him as they neared the cottage. 
 
 All the love in Jerry's heart flowed out to the little crea- 
 ture who trusted him so completely. Never for one moment 
 did the thought of Robin leave him, and when other birds 
 looked thin and poor, Jerry rejoiced in the fact that his pet 
 was fat perhaps almost too fat sleek, and extremely pert. 
 Bits of piecrust found their way to his pocket, cake crumbs 
 begged from Mrs. Chubbe on Sunday; all saved for Master 
 Robin's regalement. Betty had been told and was keenly in- 
 terested. 
 
 "One day I'll bring him, Betty," promised Jerry, "when 
 he gets a little tamer. But he mightn't like other people 
 yet," and though Betty teased and scolded, he stood firm. 
 
 But a dark cloud was lowering; so black, so threatening, 
 that when it fell, even goblins and imps lost their terrors; 
 the cloud of evil through which, sooner or later, everyone 
 must pass, either to be swallowed up in its blackness, or to 
 emerge stronger, purer, nobler, by resistance. 
 
 It was three days before Christmas; snow had fallen for 
 many hours, followed by sharp, windless frosts. A pale sun 
 gleamed in a pastel blue sky, the distance was no longer pur- 
 ple, only a cold faint mauve. Save for the black tree trunks 
 Nature wore her clear, low tints, and the world of green and 
 gold was arrayed accordingly. 
 
 But the children's world was gay with glorious expecta- 
 tion. Betty's tongue flowed like a mill-stream fast and un- 
 ceasingly. For Jerry, it was to be like Sunday, only glorified 
 by Christmas fare and Christmas jollities. Yet, though it 
 takes the better part of a lifetime to realise it, it is a fact 
 that, when the tide of life flows broad and full and merrily,
 
 70 When Pan Pipes 
 
 then is the time to beware of rocks beneath and sudden 
 squalls. 
 
 On that particular morning Jerry rose with joyous antici- 
 pations. Only a few more days, and then Christmas. Grad- 
 ually more and more had been put on his small shoulders. 
 The widow, without perhaps meaning it, had found out the 
 delight of having young feet and hands about her, and little 
 by little, much of the odd household work had fallen to the 
 child, who accepted it unquestioningly. Betty helped her 
 aunt, he knew, so of course he must help. There was plenty 
 to do, but work never frightened him, and to-day all things 
 were easy. He kissed Robin, watched him fly through the 
 window, and went downstairs. 
 
 "You can go into the woodyard and chop those bits that 
 Peter brought yesterday." 
 
 Peter was one of my lord's rangers, and report said that 
 long ago he had been an admirer of the widow, which might 
 or might not be; anyhow, many a bundle of chips came from 
 him, and Jerry occasionally accompanied him in his walks 
 through the estate. 
 
 "Mind and cut it small," called the widow, as he passed 
 the back'us window; "an' don't chop your fingers, an' keep 
 your feet well back." 
 
 For some time Jerry chopped, till back and arms ached 
 healthily then stood up to view his work. Yes, there was 
 quite a good pile the woodstack was the highest he had seen 
 in the village. Altogether Jerry was proud of his perform- 
 ance. Suddenly, there was a flutter of wings, a little sound, 
 and the soft warm thing was on his shoulder, nestling close, 
 and searching his mouth for crumbs. 
 
 "You dear " whispered Jerry, putting a hand against it. 
 "But I haven't got anything for you now." 
 
 Robin snuggled closer, and after a few minutes' rest, Jerry 
 lifted him tenderly, kissed him, and placed him on a pile of 
 wood well out of reach of the axe. For a time he sat there, 
 watching with bright eyes, then began to hop merrily about.
 
 Jerry Found a Good Fairy 71 
 
 Jerry could hear the widow's slow footsteps passing from 
 back'us to kitchen, then back again, making an occasional 
 detour to the room above. Presently the back'us door opened 
 and shut, the footsteps came nearer. 
 
 Jerry paused, glancing at Robin, wondering if his secret 
 would be discovered. There was nowhere to put him out of 
 sight, besides, perhaps he wouldn't go. While he hesitated, 
 the footsteps were upon him, and the widow stood by his side. 
 She nodded approvingly, then turned and took a leisurely sur- 
 vey of the woodstack. 
 
 From his perch Master Robin cocked his head saucily, then 
 spread his wings, and settled on Jerry's shoulder. The widow 
 gazed with greedy eyes. 
 
 "That's a fine fat bird," she said. "Stand still, little boy 
 quite still." 
 
 Wondering, but pleased that she should be interested in 
 his pet, Jerry obeyed, and the widow stepped cautiously nearer, 
 put out her hand as though to stroke the soft feathers, and, 
 in a second, while the smile was still left on the child's face, 
 Robin merry, saucy, loving Robin lay in the widow's big 
 hand, a quivering mass of feathers. 
 
 "A fat bird, and no mistake," said the widow triumphantly. 
 "A fine tit-bit he'll make and as you're a good little boy, 
 you shall sit up and have some of the gravy." 
 
 Jerry stood still every nerve, every muscle paralysed. 
 Something horrible had been near him, something worse than 
 witchcraft. Then, with a loud thump, his heart started throb- 
 bing. The air was dark with vague terrors, with darkness; 
 then, as it cleared, he caught sight of the scarlet breast in a 
 cruel hand, and everything turned blood red. Wildly he beat 
 the air, and with a loud cry, flew at the widow. With a great 
 jump he was on her shoulders, hitting, scratching, biting. 
 
 "My bird my bird give me my bird. You've killed him 
 you've killed him. You're wicked you're wicked. Now I 
 know you are a witch." 
 
 Too astonished for words, for a moment she stood still.
 
 72 When Pan Pipes 
 
 But as the blows fell, and she felt the keen stab of Jerry's 
 sharp teeth, she, too, raised her voice. 
 
 "Help, help, murder!" The loud cry, mingling with the 
 child's passionate sobs, carried far in the keen frosty air to 
 the top of the lane which Peter the Ranger happened to be 
 crossing. The unusual sound startled him; the spaniel at his 
 heels added his bark. 
 
 "Whativer can it be ?" said Peter, slowly ruminating. " 'Tis 
 widow's voice, for sure. Best go an' see." Down the lane 
 went man and dog, into the cottage. 
 
 "Help, help, murder!" The tone was getting hoarse, and 
 even Peter hurried his steps. Out in the yard he found them 
 the widow gasping for breath, Jerry on her back, still rais- 
 ing the pitiful passionate cry, "My bird my bird give me 
 my bird," and on the ground a dead robin, with closed eyes 
 and limp wings. 
 
 "Take him off, Peter," shrieked the widow. "He's mad 
 mad." 
 
 Peter, after gasping and staring, rose to the occasion, and 
 marching into the thickest of the fray, grasped one of the kick- 
 ing legs. "Now then, young master, you come along o' 
 me." 
 
 The only answer was a violent blow from the free leg, 
 causing him to back away and hold his face. 
 
 "There's a young devil for ye, an' no mistake," said he, 
 when the sudden pain had abated. "But I'll have him, missis 
 never fear. Ketch his legs, while I lift him down." 
 
 The large plump hands were unaccustomed to quick move- 
 ment, and after a few efforts, she gave it up. Jerry's violent 
 passion was lessening his blows grew weaker, the loud angry 
 cry was subsiding. Peter slipped warily behind, and with a 
 sudden snatch, lifted the small form to the ground, where it 
 dropped heavily from him. The widow straightened herself, 
 gazed in a bewildered manner at the sobbing child stretched 
 full length before her, at the tiny dead thing, the innocent 
 cause of the trouble, and in a vacant way at her rescuer.
 
 Jerry Found a Good Fcdry 73 
 
 "What's it all about, missis?" 
 
 She shook her head helplessly, then turned and went into 
 the cottage, where she subsided heavily into the easy chair. 
 Never before to her knowledge had she done such a thing 
 in the morning, but, then, unusual events justified unusual 
 doings. She was hopelessly bewildered, sorry for herself, 
 and wholly unable to grasp the meaning of it all. What was 
 a bird more or less ? Had she known it was Jerry's pet, why, 
 of course, she would not have hurt it. But he could get an- 
 other; robins were plentiful enough. Where was the harm? 
 The deeper injury was beyond her understanding. The veil 
 which shuts out evil from childhood had been rudely torn 
 aside, and Jerry knew vaguely that beauty, innocence, and 
 weakness must succumb to brute strength and gross passions 
 that love itself is sometimes love's undoing, that death, not 
 death in its kind and gentle aspect as he had known it, but 
 carrying with it a fearful horror a suggestion of things un- 
 known lurks near, ever ready to show its hideous side. 
 
 Peter, after a short consideration of the little figure shaking 
 with sobs, followed the widow indoors. 
 
 "An' now, missis, let's hear the rights on it." She shook 
 her head and gazed into the fire. Peter waited. Presently she 
 spoke, sullenly warming her hands at the blaze. 
 
 "How should a body know 'twas the child's pet. A robin's 
 a robin they're all alike. An' this one " she sat back, rest- 
 ing her arms on the chintz covered chair. "I tell you, Peter, 
 'twas the plumpest bird I ever did see and he should have 
 had some o' the gravy for his supper." 
 
 Thoroughly exhausted the widow sunk into a kind of doze ; 
 Peter tried again, but got no answer, and shaking his head, 
 stole out. On the hard cobble stones, Jerry still lay; the vio- 
 lent cry had dropped, only long sobs came now and then, 
 shaking the small figure from head to foot. They, too, stopped, 
 and presently Jerry rose, stiff, cramped, heart and head alike 
 aching. The dead bird caught him at once; but his tears 
 were used up. Lifting the poor little body, he stole cautiously
 
 74 When Pan Pipes 
 
 in, and, without waking the widow, crept up to his room. 
 Sitting by the window, he held the dead bird till the winter 
 dusk fell, and the cold grew so intense that even sorrow had 
 to give way to bodily necessities. He couldn't go down; to 
 face the widow might rouse all the bitter anger again. So, 
 quietly undressing, he slipped into bed, and, thoroughly ex- 
 hausted, fell asleep. 
 
 The widow woke with a start and a remembrance of un- 
 pleasant things, to say nothing of stiffness and pain. All 
 sorts of things were happening in the strange jumble called 
 her mind. Among others, the fact that she had someone to 
 look after. With a great effort and many groans she lifted 
 herself from the chair and slowly made her way to the yard. 
 Jerry was gone, and for a moment a fear possessed her that 
 he had run away. Then commonsense told her to look in- 
 doors. She dragged herself up the narrow stair, very softly 
 opened the door of the gable room, and looked in. The child 
 was sitting quietly by the window, one little hand holding the 
 dead bird, the other softly stroking its feathers. 
 
 Something strange and unknown seized the watcher's heart. 
 She closed the door noiselessly, and for a moment stood wait- 
 ing till the queer sensation had passed away, and the mistiness 
 cleared from her vision. Then she made her way downstairs. 
 She could settle to nothing for the rest of the day. Tea time 
 came, but no Jerry, and again she toiled up the stairs, this 
 time going right in. Jerry lay on the bed, breathing softly 
 yet, even as she waited, came a long quivering sob, and the 
 widow, unconscious of its being a strange thing, bent and 
 drew the bedclothes closer, even making a clumsy attempt at 
 tucking up. 
 
 Ah, but Pan piped wildly that night; and fauns and satyrs 
 danced, while fairies drew into the shadow and wept for the 
 sorrow of things. Only the Moon and Church Clock remained 
 the same. 
 
 "Such a lonely little boy, Church Clock," said the Moon.
 
 Jerry Found a Good Fairy 75 
 
 "Yes but it'll pass it'll pass," answered Church Clock; 
 "and there's a meaning in it all. Every sorrow, every sin, 
 teaches its own lesson. If there were no shadow there would 
 be no sun. Sorrow and happiness, good and evil, suffering 
 and health, come and go, following each other, holding each 
 other's hands, close companions, knowing that one cannot exist 
 without the other." 
 
 Jerry woke next morning, missing the cheery sound; then, 
 as he caught sight of the dead bird laid on his box, the tears 
 broke out afresh, yet not wild and passionate as before. The 
 pump invigorated him, and he plucked up heart to face the 
 widow and eat his breakfast, which, truth to tell, was very 
 welcome. After all, in this strange world in which we live, 
 bodily necessities strike a very loud note. It is seldom that 
 emotion can kill them. 
 
 There was never any conversation; that day even words 
 were missing. Jerry went on with his work, the widow with 
 hers, and evening came. But, strange to say, things had 
 changed. No longer did the witch sleep, but sat bolt upright 
 in her chair, regarding Jerry with a curious air, as though he 
 were some unknown Lilliputian thing strayed into her do- 
 mains. It was trying, more especially as it lasted. What 
 passed in the widow's confused jumble of a mind she alone 
 knew. Dim remembrances of childhood, perhaps, strange 
 thoughts of a time when youth and its emotions were all in 
 all and food and money counted as naught. This hotch-potch 
 crystallised on the second night. After regarding him intently 
 for half an hour, she leaned forward and moved a plump fore- 
 finger. Jerry obeyed the call and stood by her chair. 
 
 "Little boy," she said solemnly, "did you love your bird 
 very much ?" 
 
 A rush of memory brought back all the heart burning and 
 hatred ; he moved a little further away and nodded, not trust- 
 ing himself to speak. 
 
 "Well, then," she spoke slowly conversation between her-
 
 76 When Pan Pipes 
 
 self and Jerry was always difficult, and this was not an easy 
 matter "I'm sorry I killed your bird. You see, I didn't 
 know." 
 
 Jerry said nothing what was there to say ? and would have 
 gone back to his seat, but the widow held him. 
 
 "Come here," she whispered, "and see what I've got for a 
 good little boy." 
 
 She pushed a hand down among the cushions, presently 
 bringing up from their depths a small paper parcel, which, 
 with many nods and creasings, she presented to Jerry. It 
 was a trifling act, a poor gift only two gaudily painted sugar 
 sticks but even to the child was apparent the deeper mean- 
 ing behind. The intense hatred, the bitter loathing subsided; 
 it might come again, but never to the same extent. The first 
 knowledge that evil is part of all had come to Jerry, and he 
 accepted the gift in the way it was given, as a peace offering, 
 an outward and visible sign of something vague and elusive, 
 yet somehow understandable. The widow's face creased and 
 uncreased. With a wave of her hand she dismissed him, sank 
 back on the cushions with a deep sigh of relief, and in five 
 minutes was snoring. 
 
 Once more, when all was silent, came the awaking of things 
 inanimate, this time like school children let loose after long 
 imprisonment. The malicious spite was gone, giving place 
 to cheerful winks and nods and grins, and even sometimes 
 Jerry fancied he heard a chuckle. The fear had vanished, 
 he was even amused, and when bedtime came he went with 
 almost a light heart, even arranging in his own mind details 
 of a magnificent burial, with Betty and himself as chief mourn- 
 ers. Such close bedfellows are tragedy and comedy. 
 
 The story spread through the village. Jerry, on Christmas 
 day and with many tears, told Betty, and together they dug 
 a hole, and, with much ceremonial, laid the little victim in it. 
 Much of the joy of the day was buried too, for Jerry's lov- 
 ing heart was still sore for the loss of his pet, and though
 
 Jerry Found a Good Fcdry 77 
 
 the first bitterness was gone, time alone could place things on 
 an easy footing again in the cottage. 
 
 Mrs. Chubbe watched him, asking no questions. She had 
 heard the story only that morning, for strangely enough, or 
 possibly because those nearest are the last to be told, it had 
 not been related in the inn parlour, and not until the next 
 day did the farmer hear it. Betty's restless tongue could no 
 more keep a secret than resist a lollipop; besides, it was no 
 secret. Boxing Day being slack, the farmer was somewhat 
 at a loss for occupation, coming in and out continually. 
 
 As he sat drinking his glass of morning ale, his niece prat- 
 tled gaily of all things in the village and out of it. He 
 listened amused, sometimes bursting into a roar of laughter. 
 Presently Jerry's name was brought up, and with it the events 
 of the previous day asserted themselves. The funeral, and 
 from that to the cause of it, was a natural sequence. 
 
 "Uncle Matt, the Widow Hagges killed Jerry's bird. 
 Wasn't she a wicked, wicked woman?" Mrs. Chubbe looked 
 up sharply. 
 
 "Now, then, Betty, stop talking about it." 
 
 "But she did, Aunt Martha," persisted the piping voice. 
 "You know she did. The dear little bird that Jerry fed every 
 night and morning. Uncle Matt, do you know, he knew Jerry 
 quite well, and flew straight on to his shoulder because he 
 thought he'd find crumbs in his mouth because that's how 
 Jerry fed him sometimes ; and he promised he'd show me, but 
 now he can't, because the little bird's dead. I do think she's 
 a horrid, wicked woman." 
 
 The farmer listened gravely, finished his bread and cheese 
 and ale, and set Betty down, telling her to go and play. When 
 she had gone, he turned to his wife. 
 
 "Missis, is it true, what the wench says? Did she kill 
 the little lad's bird?" Mrs. Chubbe for once looked sheep- 
 ish. 
 
 "Well, yes, master, I suppose she did. But what's a bird
 
 78 When Pan Pipes 
 
 more or less. I'm sure there's a many of them come seed 
 time and the fruit." The farmer answered gravely: 
 
 "Wife, there's not a sparrow that falls to the ground but 
 He knows it. Doubtless she meant no harm, but 'twas the 
 child's bird, and 'tis a pity, aye, a pity." 
 
 Mrs. Chubbe shrugged her shoulders, but said nothing. 
 There were times when the farmer put down his foot, quietly 
 but firmly, and though she would have scorned to acknowledge 
 it, at such times his wife's respect and pride in him swelled 
 to bursting point almost never quite. 
 
 "For, once tell 'em they're right," said she, "and you may 
 give in for ever. They'd never f orgit it not the best man i' 
 the world."
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 WHICH INTRODUCES A LORD, A LADY, A FAIRY GODMOTHER, A 
 PRIEST, AND A MINISTER, AND ALSO TELLS OF A LETTER 
 
 PETER the Ranger stood at the back'us door one morning, 
 a fine hare dangling from his hand, and called loudly. 
 The widow, washing cups in the kitchen, Jerry wiping, an- 
 swered : 
 
 "Come in, Peter," adding as he entered, "Sit ye down by 
 the fire, an' warm yourself ; it's cruel cold." 
 
 The tall figure, blocking up the doorway almost completely, 
 took no notice of the invitation. 
 
 "Ay, 'tis that," he replied. "But it's breakin' up; there'll 
 be little more cold weather. I've brought you a hare, missis. 
 'Tis almost the last we'll be shootin'. Wants keepin' a bit. 
 I'll put it in the larder afore I come in." 
 
 The widow nodded and went on with her work. In a few 
 moments he returned, drew the easy chair close to the fire 
 and sat down, warming his hands in silence. The widow 
 finished her job, emptied the water, and wiped her fingers on 
 the towel ; leisurely she drew a glass of ale, brought out bread 
 and cheese and put them before the visitor. Peter nodded 
 and helped himself ; then took a long draught, and sitting back 
 in his chair, untied his tongue. 
 
 "The ladies is comin' back this week." Mrs. Hagges, slowly 
 dusting, ejaculated: "Oh!" and dusted on. "Who told ye?" 
 she asked presently. Peter cut another slice of bread, took 
 a deep pull, and answered curtly, "Mrs. Lovegrove." Again 
 silence. Jerry fetched potatoes and began peeling them for 
 dinner. Peter halted, a piece of cheese on his knife half 
 way to his mouth, and glanced comically at him. 
 
 79
 
 80 When Pan Pipes 
 
 "Ha' ye got anither bird yet, boy?" he asked teasingly. 
 Jerry coloured and the widow turned, quickly for her. 
 
 "Let the child alone, Peter," she said almost sharply. Peter 
 grinned and winked to himself, shook his head knowingly, 
 and finished the bread and cheese, then pushed his chair back, 
 and stood up, hands behind him, warming his back at the 
 fire. 
 
 "They say my lord's comin' too." Mrs. Hagges turned from 
 her dusting. 
 
 "An' my Lady Mary ?" Peter shook his head. "Nay, she's 
 with her governess, in London." 
 
 "Oh !" the widow dusted again. Peter turned to Jerry, un- 
 able to resist teasing the solemn-faced child. 
 
 "Ye'll ha' to mend your manners, my lad, now Father Fran- 
 cis is comin'. No more fightin' an' screamin', an' such like." 
 
 Again the widow raised her voice, almost to vehemence. 
 
 "I tell you, Peter, let the child be." 
 
 "All right, missis, all right." He moved from the fire, 
 picked up his heavy stick, and made a movement to the 
 door. 
 
 "I'll be going now ; there's a sight o' work to be done afore 
 my lord comes. 'Tant much that he misses, an' Mrs. Love- 
 grove tells me the London servants say he gets harder to 
 please every day." 
 
 "Aye," answered the widow, "my lord's had trouble." 
 
 "Trouble!" said Peter, "trouble! Afore I'd let a woman 
 spoil my life, I'd " he filled the gap with mysterious nods 
 and winks, and turned to the back'us. "Well, well, time I 
 was going. Good-day to ye, widow, an* mind you hang that 
 hare well." The footsteps rang out across the brick floor, 
 the back'us door opened and shut, and the routine of the day 
 went on as before, only a new interest, perhaps the revival of 
 an old one, had come into the village, penetrating even to the 
 cottage in the lane. 
 
 My lord was coming my lord, who had not visited Cloudes- 
 ley, save for a few hours on a bleak December morning, for
 
 Introduces a Lord and Lady 81 
 
 seven years. Every one, even the children, even Jerry him- 
 self, knew the story, still told with bated breath and tearful 
 eyes by older folk. They whispered it on Sunday morning, 
 when all Cloudesley trooped out to catch a glimpse of the 
 great folk, and reminded each other how, on a summer morn- 
 ing, more than eight years ago, my lord had brought home 
 his beautiful girl wife, one of the many daughters of an old 
 house as proud as the Cloudesleys themselves, though almost 
 as penniless as the poorest tenant on the Cloudesley estate. 
 A fine thing indeed for Margaret Thurston. She was to make 
 her family's fortune; introduce and marry those younger sis- 
 ters who looked to her as their salvation, and push brothers, 
 who, lacking money and influence, could only drop out in the 
 race for worldly prizes. And, knowing no other love, she was 
 content to make the sacrifice. 
 
 Edward Cloudesley loved her how, only those nearest to 
 him knew with all the strength and power of a strong, harsh 
 nature, and with all its reticence. Though his years num- 
 bered few more than hers, in character he was her senior by 
 twenty. Unable to descend to her level, he could not talk 
 lightly, nor laugh merrily, nor even smile at her sweet girlish- 
 ness. Coming from a home where love showed itself a thou- 
 sand times a day in warm kisses and embraces, where youth 
 sang and danced, and troubles were light as thistledown, the 
 coldness and grandeur of Cloudesley, the lack of all respon- 
 siveness on her husband's part, told on a nature which craved 
 for love and sunshine. What wonder that gradually the pretty 
 rippling laughter was hushed, the merry voice silenced, and 
 the changing, vivacious face settled to an expression of gentle 
 gravity. The village mothers nodded at each other and smiled 
 wisely. 
 
 "It will pass," they said, "in the spring time." 
 And in the spring time hope returned to Margaret Cloudes- 
 ley. The child that was coming would give her her husband's 
 love. Not the sombre, passionate thing which, all unknown 
 to her, dwelt in the Earl's breast, but the light, airy love with
 
 82 When Pan Pipes 
 
 which she had always been familiar. She craved for it, for 
 mirth and joyousness. And with young life, surely, surely, she 
 told herself, these would come. Till then, the days dragged 
 heavily, but in April, when the bright spring sun breathed on the 
 earth warmth and tenderness, and promise of life to come, and 
 the pale skies shed tears for winter's cruelty, Mary Cloudesley 
 was born, and in her happiness the young wife forgot all harsh- 
 ness and cool treatment, as frost and snow are forgotten when 
 summer comes. But frost and snow return. Just at first, my 
 lord showed a natural affection for his wife and pride in his 
 offspring, although there was a certain disappointment that it 
 was not a boy. 
 
 Then came unforeseen trouble. The doctors declared that 
 Lady Margaret was not strong enough to nurse the child. 
 In vain she pleaded, cried, threatened. Even had they con- 
 sented, my lord refused, and he had the final word. From 
 that time my lady ceased to take much interest, and dropped 
 back to silence. 
 
 And then Fate took the first step towards the end. A 
 distant cousin of my lord's, only two degrees removed from 
 the succession, came on a visit. Young, gay, chivalrous, what 
 could my lady do but fall in love! She to whom love was 
 life. On a snowy December night, she fled with her lover 
 to far off sunny lands. 
 
 My lord said little those around him feared the silence 
 more than any violent anger becoming, if possible, more 
 morose, more self-centred; a mere automaton, artificial, even 
 in an artificial age, masking every passion and there were 
 deep ones under a veil of ceremonious stiffness. The great 
 house was shut up, only the housekeeper and a few maids 
 left, and, taking his little daughter with him, my lord left 
 Cloudesley for London. 
 
 And my lady ? Report said that he refused to give her her 
 freedom, and that the disappointment and shame preyed upon 
 a constitution never strong. Within a year they brought her
 
 Introduces a Lord and Lady 83 
 
 back and laid her in the Cloudesley vault, my lord coming 
 down for the ceremony only. Now, after seven years, he 
 was returning. Village gossip speculated upon the likelihood 
 of a permanent stay, and decided against it on the whole ; but 
 that it was the beginning of better things was agreed upon 
 by all. 
 
 The widow's intelligence was hardly sufficient to allow of 
 much interest in her neighbour's affairs; gossip had little at- 
 traction for her, and she made hardly any comment on the 
 news. Not so Jerry. He drew imaginary pictures, helped 
 out by Betty's vivid descriptions, of the new comers. He 
 knew by this time that Cloudesley and all the land around 
 belonged to my lord. He also knew that the great iron gates, 
 never opened in his time, led into the long avenue, white 
 in the spring with chestnut bloom, which wound on and on, 
 till you came to the Hall itself. He had caught glimpses of 
 it on Sunday, for the chapel, used by the Catholic tenantry, 
 stood at the back, and was reached by a pathway skirting 
 the kitchen gardens, and from thence through a shrubbery. 
 After that, a small corner of the pleasure gardens had to be 
 crossed, and though a fence intervened, Jerry could see vast 
 stretches of lawns, a bit of the broad marble terrace, a flight 
 of steps leading down, and some of the great white statues 
 which stood at intervals along the balustrading. 
 
 A fairy palace! And many were the fancies which crept 
 into the child's brain at the sight. It was something to look 
 for every Sunday. How he wished Mrs. Chubbe would not 
 hurry so; if only he could be left to gaze and gaze into the 
 enchanted grounds. 
 
 On this particular Sunday, he joined the inn party with a 
 certain amount of excitement, for at last he was to see some 
 of the inmates of the Palace Beautiful. My Ladies Karen 
 and Keziah, it is true, could not actually be called inmates, 
 as they dwelt in the Dower House, a fine old mansion sit- 
 uated in the grounds and surrounded by its own gardens.
 
 84 When Pan Pipes 
 
 The inn folk were used to the coming and going of the 
 "gentry." They showed no excitement, only an extra ad- 
 monition to the children to behave themselves and listen atten- 
 tively. 
 
 "For 'tisn't Father Andrew now, 'tis Father Francis he's 
 comin' with my lord," said Mrs. Chubbe, tying Betty's muffa- 
 tee with a vigorous jerk. "So mind you don't forget the 
 text." 
 
 "Aye," echoed the farmer. "He'll be comin' to see you, 
 Jerry lad; Father Francis don't let the grass grow under his 
 feet." 
 
 Jerry's heart quailed. He liked Father Andrew, the fat, 
 cheery little priest who came over from Channington to take 
 duty for Father Francis, my lord's chaplain, when he was in 
 London. It is true that during his reign the village was apt 
 to grow slack in its religious observances, for, as Father 
 Andrew said, "he couldn't be in two places at once," and Chan- 
 nington needed all it could get in the way of spiritual and 
 bodily help. Besides which, to get over once a week during 
 the winter weather meant much; it was impossible to do so 
 twice. So, for some months, if my lord needed his chaplain, 
 Cloudesley went without clerical comfort, and to all appear- 
 ance, was little the worse. 
 
 The congregation seemed conscious of a tighter hand over 
 them than usual. There was no whispering; even the chil- 
 dren fidgeted less, and the grown-ups sat straight and prim 
 as though never in their lives had an impulse to nod during 
 the sermon overtaken them. 
 
 Jerry kept his eyes fixed on the great oaken pew, white 
 cushioned, with a white padded shelf in front. Once in, the 
 ladies would be lost to sight, and he had no intention of miss- 
 ing their entry. A glance at the gallery, which ran along the 
 western end and was reserved for the servants, told him that 
 Mrs. Lovegrove and the few maids left at the Hall, were there, 
 and he caught a glimpse of new faces. 
 
 But the survey was short. "Don't turn round in church,"
 
 85 
 
 came Mrs. Chubbe's warning, and again he fixed his eyes on 
 the pew. 
 
 There was an almost imperceptible stir in the congrega- 
 tion. The little door leading from the Hall to the chapel 
 opened softly, and two ladies entered, making their way across. 
 Lady Karen led the way, stately and tall, proud and haughty. 
 Behind her came my Lady Kezzy, short and plump, with a fair, 
 comely face, and a pretty bloom, in spite of her forty odd 
 years and hair streaked with grey, now neatly banded back 
 under the great bonnet. Both ladies wore stiff flowered silk 
 dresses and rich furs, and, as they passed, Jerry caught a whiff 
 of sweetness. Betty was prepared. At the first sound of the 
 opening of the door, she sat with distended nostrils, ready to 
 take in the full delight of it. 
 
 "The ladies always have sweet stuff on their pocket hand- 
 kerchiefs," she whispered. "Isn't it lovely, Jerry ? .When I'm 
 grown up, I shall put it on all my clothes." 
 
 Mrs. Chubbe frowned and uttered a loud, though somewhat 
 abstracted, "Sh sh sh." The ladies were familiar figures 
 enough, but the tall figure following his sisters rivetted all 
 eyes. Little altered was my lord the villagers said, when 
 comparing notes ; more lined, sterner if possible, and the beard 
 and long side whiskers were iron grey instead of dark. There 
 was a sigh of relaxed tension as the door of the pew shut 
 with a click, and its inmates were lost to view. A moment 
 after, Father Francis entered, and the service began. To 
 Jerry it was always a pleasure. The beautiful words fa- 
 miliar, and perhaps understood as well as the prayers of the 
 Established Church are understood by a child the sweet 
 music, the flickering light and flowers, carried him into a 
 world of his own. To-day there was an added interest, for 
 with my lord came his friend Count de Cosse, whose father 
 was a refugee when France went through the time of her 
 madness. He owned Grey Towers, an old mansion of grey 
 stone hence the name about a mile distant, and was in all 
 but appearance and name an English gentleman.
 
 86 When Pan Pipes 
 
 He sat on the opposite side of the chancel, accompanied by 
 his son, a child of Jerry's age, and, for the first time since 
 Margery left him, the boy was conscious of clothes past their 
 first freshness, and of hands stained and grimed with toil. 
 Old words of daddy's came back, bringing a rush of tears to 
 his eyes and a pain to his heart. 
 
 "Keep yourself clean and neat, Jerry boy. Remember, 
 you're a gentleman, and gentlemen are always particular." 
 
 So, remembering, he resolved that if his clothes were not 
 so fine, he could at least be as clean as the little pale-faced 
 boy, who sat in the great pew like a very small kernel in a 
 very large nut, and stared at Betty as though he would like 
 to know and play with her. 
 
 But not for long did his thoughts wander; he was con- 
 scious all the time of a tall thin figure, a pair of keen eyes 
 which saw everything, might even know what was going on 
 inside a little boy's mind. The voice, too, attracted him. 
 Not strident, not piercing, not full nor low, but a mixture, 
 to which was added a resonance which thrilled and thrilled 
 till Jerry felt as though it went straight through him. Betty, 
 too, for a time, was unusually attentive; but long before the 
 end, Mrs. Chubbe had to frown severely and administer sun- 
 dry taps as a foretaste of what might come after. 
 
 It came to an end at last. The door of the pew opened 
 and the ladies came out. Lady Karen with her head held 
 high and her eyes looking straight before her, Lady Kezzy 
 casting a wistful glance at the benches, as though she would 
 have liked a little chat and gossip with their occupants. But 
 she followed her sister, the small door closed behind them, 
 and with a stir of relief, the congregation prepared to go home. 
 Quick as they were, Father Francis was quicker. Clad in his 
 long, black cassock, he stood at the door of the chapel shaking 
 hands and exchanging a few words with each parishioner. 
 As the little party came along, he put out an arresting hand. 
 
 "Wait, I have something to say." 
 
 The farmer touched his hat and walked slowly on, halt-
 
 Introduces a Lord and Lady 87 
 
 ing at intervals to see if it was time to turn back. When 
 the last greeting was over, the priest ran lightly down the 
 steps and joined him. After a few friendly inquiries his 
 tone changed ; he turned to the farmer. 
 
 "Now, Chubbe, what's this I hear about the child? How 
 came he to go to Mrs. Hagges, a Protestant, nay, more, a 
 Methodist? Who sent him?" 
 
 "His old nurse, your Reverence, did most of the business. 
 The father was too ill." The priest nodded. 
 
 "I know." The voice was quick, yet each word clear and 
 sharp. "I saw him once or twice before I left. A Catholic, 
 though not perhaps as strict as one would like. He was buried, 
 of course, with the full rites of the Church?" The voice had 
 a note of concerned inquiry. 
 
 "Yes, your Reverence; Father Andrew was very good/' 
 
 "No doubt no doubt. Well, well about the child. He is 
 paid for, I understand." 
 
 Mrs. Chubbe, waiting her opportunity, chimed in. 
 
 "Aye, Father, he's paid for right enough; widow isn't one 
 to give, even if she had it, which she hasn't. 'Tisn't much, 
 for I asked her; Mrs. Marvin wasn't one to talk of her 
 affairs. A pound a month she's getting, an' she'll save on't. 
 The child don't eat that much, an' he's a good lad quiet an' 
 well behaved. I'd have had him, an' been thankful, but she 
 settled things." 
 
 The priest looked grave, even stern. "Yes, it's a pity, 
 Mrs. Chubbe. Knowing the circumstances, you should have 
 insisted or written to me; I would have made arrangements. 
 As it is, I can do nothing; it must go now. I hear the nurse 
 returns in a year?" 
 
 "Yes, your Reverence." It was the fanner who answered ; 
 his wife wore an air of injured dignity. Too much in awe 
 of the priest to make excuses, she felt herself unjustly ac- 
 cused. That Jerry was with the widow was none of her 
 doing. 
 
 Father Francis stopped, beckoned the children, and lifted
 
 88 When Pan Pipes 
 
 his hand in benediction. Betty and her mother curtseyed, 
 the farmer and Jerry stood bareheaded; then, with a sigh 
 of relief, resumed their way, Mrs. Chubbe's tongue, let loose, 
 commenting tartly on the priest's words. 
 
 It was on the Tuesday that Jerry was called in by the widow, 
 and found the tall thin figure standing by the fireside. 
 
 It was a short visit ; he was put through his catechism, told 
 to be a good boy, and after a short but courteous conversation 
 with Mrs. Hagges, the priest departed. 
 
 A visitor was a rara avis, and the excitement lasted the 
 rest of the week; then something came along which put Fa- 
 ther Francis, the ladies at the Dower House, even Betty, out 
 of his mind. It was on the Sunday evening, as he started for 
 home, that Mrs. Chubbe suddenly called to him. 
 
 "Stop a bit, child. There's a something I've got for you." 
 Jerry turned back willingly to the bright warm kitchen. Pres- 
 ently Mrs. Chubbe returned. 
 
 "There," she thrust a heavy packet into his arms. "You 
 can look at it when you get back; don't stop now. Turning 
 out a cupboard I came across it, an' thought you'd like to 
 have it, maybe. Now hurry, child ; you'll be late." 
 
 Jerry ran off, hugging his parcel and wondering what it 
 contained. It was shapeless, and as he held it, had a soft 
 feel about it, unlike anything he could think of, yet with a 
 strange unaccountable familiarity. Once in his little room 
 he hastened to undo it. Off with the string, off with the 
 paper, and the contents were revealed, bringing back with a 
 rush, memories, visions, loved faces grown dim in a childish 
 mind with the passing of months. 
 
 It was only a lump of modelling clay, such as daddy had 
 used, and which had been almost part and parcel of his life. 
 The new era had completely obliterated for the time much 
 of the old occupations, and the modelling clay had been for- 
 gotten as a child forgets one thing in the contemplation of 
 another. 
 
 But now, mechanically his fingers fell into the old familiar
 
 Introduces a Lord and Lady 89 
 
 handling. Former interest came back with renewed zest, and 
 before getting into bed he had made a rough model of Robin 
 to show Betty. 
 
 That piece of clay filled a gap in the child's life. In the 
 long afternoons when work was done and time hung heavily, 
 his little fingers worked and moulded the plastic stuff, finding 
 new delights in form and likeness. Everything, Tibbie the 
 cat, the old sow in the sty, even the widow herself made 
 "copy." Betty was enchanted with the new pastime. 
 
 "Let me try, Jerry," was her first comment, and Jerry 
 willingly gave up his prize, but the quick restless fingers had 
 no power over the clay, and presently she threw it away 
 pettishly. 
 
 "It's silly stuff, Jerry," she cried. "Don't let's have it ; you 
 can do it when I'm not here." But when he showed the wid- 
 ow's effigy, Betty's delight knew no bounds. There certainly 
 was a little likeness, enough to catch the uncritical eye of 
 childhood. She hopped round on one foot. 
 
 "Do me, Jerry. Do me do me do me " And vain lit-> 
 tie puss as she was, there was no restlessness as Jerry's pa- 
 tient fingers set to work to reproduce the small face, irregular 
 provoking features, and thick curling masses of hair that 
 crowned them. 
 
 Winter passed. Jerry's chapped and chilblained hands re- 
 gained their ordinary size, and the garret lost the feeling of 
 an ice well. Margery and Daddy had been gone six months ; 
 it might have been six years, so long did it seem. But there 
 would be a letter soon. Day by day he looked for it ; Sunday 
 after Sunday, Mrs. Chubbe put the same question. 
 
 "Have you got news yet, child, of Mrs. Marvin?" 
 
 Early in March it came, and Jerry stood, to all appear- 
 ance quietly, yet inwardly all eager impatience, by the widow's 
 side, as she slowly undid the cover and drew forth the pre- 
 cious sheets. But an unforeseen difficulty arose. In the 
 widow's young days education had been little thought of. 
 She could read print, slowly to be sure, yet enough for ordi-
 
 90 When Pan Pipes 
 
 nary purposes. Handwriting was beyond her, and though she 
 shook her head solemnly many times, the fact remained that 
 the letter must stay unread till someone turned up with a 
 knowledge greater than that of the inmates of the cottage. 
 
 On Sunday Jerry ventured to suggest that Mrs. Chubbe was 
 a bit of a scholar, but the widow refused, vehemently for her, 
 to let it go out of her hands. 
 
 "Who knows, child, you'd be droppin' it or losin' it, an' 
 then wher'd we be? Bide quiet a bit; I'll get it read." 
 
 "But Mrs. Chubbe will ask me," urged Jerry. 
 
 "Then you can say that Mrs. Marvin's well, an' sends her 
 love, an' is comin' back in a year." 
 
 There was nothing for it but to obey. Secretly Jerry de- 
 termined that he would not give the widow's version. What 
 he would do was undetermined when he set out, but circum- 
 stances, such as a passionate outburst from Betty on the sub- 
 ject of clothes, a rainy morning, which generally upset Mrs. 
 Chubbe's temper, and the spoiling of the dinner by a careless 
 kitchen wench, took away all interest in other matters, and 
 Jerry went unquestioned. 
 
 Truth to tell, the widow was perturbed in her mind. Like 
 many ignorant people when doing wrong, she had not looked 
 forward nor provided for contingencies. The letter might 
 contain an allusion to the money paid, might even mention 
 the sum, and she foresaw not only one difficulty, but many. 
 To keep the contents secret was impossible; a third person 
 was bound to know them, and for some time, as she went 
 about her work, her face wore a worried expression. It was 
 not until the dinner was set going, and she had tidied herself 
 for the Sunday visitor, that the solution, really so simple, 
 dawned upon her. Mr. Padden, of course, a scholar who 
 could read writing as easy as shelling peas. To be sure, should 
 the money be mentioned, he must know, but the widow 
 nodded and winked to herself there were wheels within 
 wheels. It might be to Mr. Padden's interest to keep silent. 
 If nothing was said, the letter could be common property.
 
 91 
 
 All things considered, Mrs. Hagges felt that the fates were 
 kind. She dished the dinner with a light heart the boiled 
 batter pudding, light and yellow, with thick gravy; a small 
 piece of beef, Sunday's treat, with cabbages and potatoes from 
 her own garden; then peeped into a saucepan, boiling on the 
 crane, at the rhubarb pudding, whose basin protested and 
 fought violently with the bubbling, boiling water. 
 
 On the stroke of half-past twelve the minister arrived. He 
 was a tall man, wearing shiny broadcloth and a soft hat. 
 Thin, almost to emaciation, with that curious air of an inward 
 fire burning which marks the fanatic more especially the type 
 common at the beginning of the igth century, the man of no 
 education, of low birth, who, suddenly finding through non- 
 conformity a path opened to power and authority, developed 
 fanaticism, a fanaticism which, in not a few cases, led to 
 something more dangerous, even to madness. 
 
 He stooped, not with the gentle curve which marks the 
 scholar, but rather from inertness, or possibly, constitutional 
 weakness. It was doubtless from the same cause that his 
 face was pale, almost to ghastliness, but on one side, half 
 covering his cheek and stretching up to the forehead, was 
 a patch known by the village as a "strawberry mark," which 
 at times was indistinct, but, when its owner was agitated or 
 excited, would glow a deep purple red, giving an appearance 
 almost sinister in comparison with the pallor of the other 
 side. His hair, dark and straight and thick as a door mat, 
 was worn rather long on the shoulders. Contrary to cus- 
 tom, when cravats and stocks clothed nearly all male necks, 
 he affected a low collar, which, combined with the long hair, 
 gave him a dishevelled look. His gestures were wild, and 
 a pair of dark eyes were the only redeeming point in a some- 
 what unpleasant personality. But each eye makes its own 
 beauty; to the widow, Mr. Padden was a god come upon 
 earth, and the Sunday was to her perhaps even more than it 
 was to Jerry. 
 
 For six months now she had played hostess once a week;
 
 92 When Pan Pipes 
 
 previous to that the minister had lodged with George Bray, 
 who kept the village shop. His daughter, Hester, a fine, 
 handsome girl of twenty, had done for the two men; gossip 
 said that, among her many admirers, the minister stood first. 
 But the minister's income was small, his wants many. Hes- 
 ter, too, had dreams of something better than the small dark 
 shop, and the monotonous tasks of cleaning and cooking, only 
 varied by measuring off with a yard rule, lengths of calico, 
 or serving tallow dips and parcels of groceries. Like many 
 another, each wanted to eat the cake and have it a thing 
 seemingly impossible, yet which can occasionally be managed. 
 Hester took the first step by suddenly announcing that she 
 was going to marry Roger Dyke, thatcher to Cloudesley and 
 the neighbouring villages. A man thirty years her senior, he 
 was able to give her a lift towards the things she longed for. 
 
 After she had gone, her father, with the assistance of an 
 elderly woman who came in the mornings, looked after his 
 lodger; but the charm of a woman's presence was missing, 
 and when the widow threw out hints of loneliness and enough 
 for two, the minister leaped to the bait, matters adjusted 
 themselves, and Sunday became a red letter day in the widow's 
 week. 
 
 He entered by the front way only used on special occa- 
 sions. The widow, behind the door, curtseyed as she opened 
 it, divided between reverence for one so lately come from the 
 pulpit and the familiarity of many dinners. The minister 
 still wore the expression affected by one in authority stern, 
 yet benign, lofty, rapt, yet ever ready to decline to the wants 
 of his flock. As he took the widow's hand in his the look 
 changed to one of pastoral friendship, and he gazed upon her 
 with what was meant for Christian charity. Whether the 
 widow was deceived, was a question. 
 
 "I trust I see you well, dear friend?" Again the widow 
 curtseyed ; it took a few minutes to establish familiarity. 
 
 "Thank you, yes," she replied in her most superior tone, 
 "I'm as well as can be expected."
 
 93 
 
 "That's good, friend." He hung his hat on the peg beside 
 Jerry's everyday one, and rubbed his hands as he inhaled 
 the pleasant combination of cooking and warmth drifting from 
 the kitchen. The widow opened the door of the front room. 
 
 "Go in, minister, and rest yourself; you'll be tired with 
 the preaching." Mr. Padden inclined his head graciously, 
 stepped in, and taking a seat in the low chair by the fire, 
 rested his elbows on his knees, joining the tips of his fingers 
 together with a look of proud yet humble retrospection. 
 
 "Aye, the flesh truly is weak; yet what matter, if, from 
 the fountain of our belief, we can refresh strangers. If 
 we can give of our store to the poor and needy if, in the 
 bottomless well of love, sparkling, clear, yet never lessening, 
 ever the same, we can plunge our weak souls, emerging fresh, 
 unstained, cleansed from every iniquity." 
 
 He had risen during this speech, turning up his eyes, throw- 
 ing his arms in wild gestures, intoxicated with the passion of 
 words and the rolling sentences. The widow, moving softly 
 round the table, listened abstractedly, shook her head, groaned 
 in the most approved way of the congregation, and threw in 
 an occasional "Surely, surely," while she adjusted knives and 
 forks, smoothed salt in the silver salt cellars heirlooms, only 
 brought out in company with the best china and gazed with 
 a housewifely eye on the dinner table. 
 
 The minister subsided, exhausted, into the easy chair, closed 
 his eyes and held his forehead, while his hostess took the op- 
 portunity to slip out and bring in the batter pudding. Her 
 visitor roused himself and took the seat opposite with smiling 
 ease. 
 
 "Kindly ask a blessing, Mr. Padden," said the widow. 
 
 He pushed the chair back, rose, closed his eyes, flung back 
 his hair, lifted one hand, and plunged into the long address 
 which, at that time, preceded and followed every noncon- 
 formist meal. The widow sighed in unison, her thoughts wan- 
 dering to the batter pudding under the cover, which was rap- 
 idly losing its plump roundness and steaming heat.
 
 When Pan Pipes 
 
 The discourse came to an end with a long drawn "A-a-men," 
 and the dinner proceeded in unbroken silence, except for the 
 widow's hospitable remarks and a few complimentary com- 
 ments from the visitor. The atmosphere of piety passed, and 
 the minister became much as other men, save for an occasional 
 lapse into rhapsody. Mrs. Hagges cleared away, washed up, 
 tidied the kitchen grate, and hung the kettle on for tea. Then 
 washed herself, and, taking the letter from a drawer, returned 
 to the sitting-room. The minister, slumbering peacefully by 
 the fireside, woke up at her entrance. 
 
 "Sit ye down, dear friend. You'll be weary with your hos- 
 pitable duties." The widow obeyed. Sunday was a tiring 
 day, but it had its compensations. She plunged into her sub- 
 ject. 
 
 "I've had a letter, minister, from the child's nurse, Mrs. 
 Marvin, in Canada. I thought maybe you'd kindly read it for 
 me." 
 
 "Surely, surely will I," replied the minister, and he meant 
 it, curiosity being not the least of his passions. He took 
 the letter, spread it out with an air of superior wisdom, glanced 
 casually over the sheets, hummed, ha'd, cleared his throat, 
 and finally leaning back in the chair, began to read. 
 
 "My dear, dear little Master Jerry. 
 
 "George, that's my sister's husband, is writing down just 
 what I tell him. We hope you're well and hearty, as this 
 leaves us, though once I get back to dear old England, wild 
 horses shan't drag me over the water again. We were very 
 ill, the journey after we landed being worse than the voy- 
 age; for we had to go for many days in a cart, and there 
 were Indians and wild animals, and every night I thought 
 would be my last. It took us some weeks, and when you'll 
 have this letter I'm sure I don't know. 
 
 "Well, my dearie, I hope you're quite well, and don't 
 forget old Margie and all she taught you; and say your 
 prayers every night and morning. Give my best respects
 
 Introduces a Lord and Lady 95 
 
 to Mrs. Chubbe and all the folks at the inn. Mrs. Hagges, 
 if you read this letter to the child, I hope you get the money 
 all right, and please see that his little clothes are well aired, 
 and don't let him take off his warm things till May be turned. 
 And please, Mrs. Hagges, will you see that he gets some 
 schooling there's money enough, I think it's cheap, or 
 he'll be forgetting all his learning. And now, my dearie, I 
 must finish. It won't be long now afore I come back, and 
 we'll be so happy, Master Jerry, my lamb. And so I remain. 
 "Your affectionate old nurse, 
 
 "MARGIE." 
 
 There were crosses underneath which meant kisses, but of 
 these the widow took no notice. The letter was sufficiently 
 non-committal, except the bit about the schooling. The min- 
 ister folded the paper and handed it back thoughtfully. 
 
 "It is a charge, dear friend, doubtless a blessed one, but 
 children are children, even the best, and demand much care. 
 Yet there are compensations ; their sweet friendship and cling- 
 ing trust, not to speak of pecuniary gratitude, which in this 
 child's case, no doubt, is ample.". 
 
 He stole a glance as he uttered the last words, but the widow 
 was not to be caught. 
 
 "True, true," she murmured. The minister tried again. 
 
 "In the matter of schooling, of which she speaks, Father 
 Francis, a man of education, would advise you more com- 
 pletely than I, who am but a humble disciple, self-taught, 
 yet perhaps in some ways equal, I will not say superior, to 
 a priest of the Scarlet Woman." The subject was a favourite 
 for ranting rhapsody. Like many of the early nonconform- 
 ists, he held a strong antagonism to the Established Church 
 still more to the Church of Rome. His voice rose, the thin 
 hands gesticulated. 
 
 "Of anti-Christ," he went on, "who sits in Peter's chair, 
 and holds the keys of hell in his hands, stained by the blood 
 of martyrs. But the keys of Heaven, we " he stood up,
 
 96 When Pan Pipes 
 
 and slapped his thin chest till it echoed with a hollow sound, 
 "we who have cut ourselves adrift from a corrupt and vi- 
 cious church, who have built a fold for the lost sheep of 
 Israel, hold in our hands. And now we stretch out our arms," 
 he suited the action to the words, advancing upon the widow, 
 who gave a little shriek and retreated "and say 'Come, come 
 to the Bridegroom's Supper, all ye that do hunger or thirst 
 for ours is the true fold.' And the day dawns when anti- 
 Christ shall be hurled from his pinnacle, and the Scarlet 
 Woman dragged through the dust, her beauty despoiled, her 
 gorgeous robes torn and defiled. Her priests and ministers 
 shall fall with her, and Babylon, Great Babylon, shall be de- 
 stroyed." 
 
 The widow stared open-mouthed; she was used to these 
 tirades, but they never palled. The long words and highly 
 coloured metaphors, though she had not the slightest idea of 
 their meaning, impressed her greatly, and her heart swelled 
 with pride that to her had fallen the honour and privilege 
 of being sole listener to such wonderful sayings. It was like 
 being the only one at chapel. 
 
 The minister sank back in his chair exhausted, but by no 
 means at an end. "And so, dear friend, we return to our 
 first thoughts the choice of an adviser for the child." 
 
 The widow shook her head doubtfully. "I'm none so sure 
 that I shall want an adviser," she said, "the child's fully young, 
 an' the money " the listener pricked up his ears, "whatever 
 Mrs. Marvin may say is none too much. A grown' lad's 
 food costs somethin', an' then there's his clothes he'll be 
 wantin' more soon an' his washing, let alone the care an' 
 anxiety." 
 
 During this speech long for the widow, and uttered slowly 
 the minister inclined his head gravely several times, opening 
 and shutting the tips of his fingers, and closing his eyes as 
 though in rapt attention. 
 
 "Ay, surely " he repeated at the end, "though to Mrs. 
 Marvin, who has been in service so long, and perchance has
 
 97 
 
 forgotten the cost of a house, the sum may seem fully ade- 
 quate." 
 
 "That's as may be," replied the widow, somewhat tartly. 
 She had no intention of letting the real amount leak out, and 
 conscience forbade a lie to the minister. "But anyway I'll 
 bide a bit, till spring's past. And now, minister," she rose 
 stiffly, "you'll be glad of your tea." 
 
 The minister smiled a meek assent, inwardly wondering what 
 the sum really was. Report said a pound, but some years' 
 knowledge of his hostess told him differently. Moreover, 
 whatever it might be, he knew it to be considerably more than 
 enough. The widow, unintelligent as she was to all appear- 
 ance, had the wisdom of the children of this world, and could 
 strike a bargain with the sharpest. 
 
 He dropped the subject for the present, trusting to chance 
 and his own diplomacy to bring it up again more effectually.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 THE GOOSE-GIRL, THE SWINEHERD, A FAIRY GODMOTHER, 
 AND A KNIGHT 
 
 THERE is a period in the lives of all young things when 
 Nature seems to watch and brood, as though wondering 
 in which particular niche she will place them a period of 
 arrested life seemingly in which the chrysalis in the cocoon, 
 the little brown seed in the earth, the child in its monotony 
 of days and nights, alike share. Yet, what we call stagnation 
 is in reality inward growth. One day the chrysalis bursts its 
 cocoon, emerging in fuller beauty, the seed breaks through to 
 outward expansion, the child, slowest growth of all, awakes 
 dimly to a knowledge of good and evil. 
 
 Little Jerry's sleeping time was over. The veil, so misty, 
 so fine, once torn, can never be replaced. The child's mind, 
 fed by his father on song, story, romance, and legend, was 
 breaking its bonds, and, through a dim haze, life's many paths 
 spread themselves before him. It remained only for the small 
 feet to choose. Though happier children might be set in the 
 way by their elders, even accompanied along many miles, yet 
 the child must find its own goal in the end only, perhaps, 
 the time of inward growth may be influenced by its surround- 
 ings. 
 
 In the iron grip of winter the little village of Cloudesley 
 lay a prisoner. Icebound were the rippling brooks and 
 sparkling springs ; white, white, like winding sheets, the green 
 meadows round ; black and shining the wide street where the 
 snow was swept. Drifts, shoulder high, lay in the lanes, in 
 lonely roads, in the little garden, and oh! the water at the 
 
 pump was cold. 
 
 98
 
 The Swineherd and a Knight 99 
 
 Summer's beauty, Autumn's melancholy, Winter's cruelty, 
 Jerry had known; but Spring is love and gentleness, and 
 glorious hope. Jerry heard her coming it is the harp's finer 
 strings which respond first. Far, far away came the tinkling 
 of water running free, the stir of life waking in woods and 
 lanes; overhead the clear, grey sky was changing to palest 
 blue, and stinging east winds had a touch of soft damp- 
 ness. Spring came flying with winged feet that year. Win- 
 ter fled before her with equal pace; Nature raised herself in 
 answer, trees budded, and passions and thoughts roused, and 
 grew apace. The spirit of mischief, too, was abroad and 
 dwelt in Betty. Mrs. Chubbe declared she could do nothing, 
 and called a consultation with her husband, a means only re- 
 sorted to in extremes. 
 
 "The child's getting past me, master, an' I haven't the 
 time to be dancing after her all day long. She's that mis- 
 chievous. This morning she unscrewed the spigot from the 
 bunghole, an' would ha' wasted a cask o' ale, only Sally heard 
 it runnin'. Yesterday she pulled over a basin o' scalding lard 
 might ha' killed herself, but it missed her arms and shoul- 
 ders, an' only spoilt a clean dress an' pinny. Then she poked 
 a stick into the beehives. 'Because it's time they woke up 
 an' worked,' says she. 'You go along an' do some yoursel',' 
 says I, 'an' leave the bees alone. Lucky they didn't sting you 
 to death, only they're sleepy this time o' the year.' Oh, there's 
 no keepin' even with her. Yes, you can laugh," she added 
 angrily, as the farmer chuckled with merriment at the recital 
 of Betty's wrongdoings. "You'd laugh t'other side o' your face 
 if you had the mindin' of her. An' she don't care for any- 
 one; I've sent her to bed, an' whipped her, and starved her, 
 but it don't make one atom o' difference directly it's over, 
 she's as bad as ever." 
 
 "Well, missis, what's to be done?" asked the farmer, wiping 
 his eyes and striving to conceal his amusement. 
 
 "She'll have to go to the dame school. Mrs. Moss'll teach 
 her, an' keep her quiet. She'll be out o' harm's way, an' I'll
 
 100 When Pan Pipes 
 
 have some peace, which there never will be as long as she's 
 free to go seeking mischief." 
 
 The farmer nodded approval. The same idea had entered 
 his head, but he had kept it to himself. "If you want a 
 pig to go to market, you must drive him home'ards, an' wim- 
 men's the same contrary minded." But to save his life he 
 could not disguise a slight chuckle. Mrs. Chubbe looked 
 sharply at him, changing the needles of her stockings as she 
 did so. 
 
 "Ah, you think yourself mighty clever, I've no doubt; but 
 you'd ha' been cleverer if you'd ha' kept a still tongue. I 
 know what you're after; you've been thinkin' the same thing 
 as me, but you'd rather it came from me. I know." Mrs. 
 Chubbe nodded her head wisely, and her husband gave another 
 amused chuckle, making no denial. 
 
 His wife did not let grass grow under her feet. The follow- 
 ing Monday was fixed for Betty's entry into the world of 
 letters, and Sunday was devoted to discussion. Jerry was in- 
 formed on his arrival, but the true pow-wow didn't come till 
 the afternoon. Jerry listened somewhat wistfully. 
 
 "I wish I was going, Betty." 
 
 "So do I, Jerry. But I'll teach you all I learn; you'll like 
 that, won't you? You see," she added wisely, "I'm going 
 because I'm naughty. Somehow " she gave a sigh, "I can't 
 help it. Aunt Martha says, 'Think, Betty,' but I can't think 
 till afterwards I wish I could. But you're always good, Jerry. 
 Uncle Matt says so." 
 
 Jerry sat thoughtfully silent. "I suppose it's because I'm 
 a quiet little boy ; Mrs. Hagges says I am, but sometimes I feel 
 very, very naughty inside." 
 
 "I don't," said Betty naively. "I feel sorry a little 
 afterwards. But I don't feel really naughty only I can't 
 help doing naughty things." Jerry shook his head ; such logic 
 was beyond him. Presently he spoke again. 
 
 "You know, Betty, there's two things I want. I want to 
 learn to read and write, because I want to write to Margie.
 
 The Swineherd and a Knight 101 
 
 And I want to work and earn money, because when I'm grown 
 up, I want to be a gentleman, and that's what I want more 
 than all the rest." Betty stared. 
 
 "You can't be a gentleman, Jerry. Look at your clothes. 
 And you haven't got a beautiful house, and a garden, and 
 servants, and and " Jerry interrupted her 
 
 "My daddy didn't have those things, but my daddy was 
 a gentleman." Betty was silent for a time. Presently she 
 broke out again. 
 
 "The little count's a gentleman; but you can't be like him, 
 Jerry, and he doesn't do any work." Jerry shook his 
 head. 
 
 "I can't help it, Betty. I'm going to be a gentleman, and 
 a gentleman's got to have some money, so I must work. Tom 
 Datchett's got hired to Farmer Greatley, and he's not turned 
 seven yet, and I was eight ever so long ago." 
 
 Betty looked approvingly at the square shoulders and solid 
 little frame beside her not so very tall, perhaps, but giving 
 promise, to an older observer, of future breadth and height. 
 
 "Aunt Martha says you're well-grown, Jerry that means 
 big for your age, 'cos I asked Uncle Matt." 
 
 "An* that's why I want to go to service. Betty " his tone 
 was eager. "Do you think Mr. Chubbe wants a boy ? Do you 
 think he'd take me?" Betty put her head on one side and 
 looked sagacious. 
 
 "I don't know, Jerry." Then, fired to interest, "Let's go 
 an' ask him." 
 
 Mr. Chubbe was found wandering round the yard, where, 
 only a few months ago, stood stack after stack, like yellow 
 beehives. The heavy Sunday dinner took some time to work 
 off; but now the farmer had had his forty winks and was 
 ready for anything. 
 
 . "Hello, children," he cried, as the two came through the 
 propped-back gate. Betty ran to him and slipped her hand 
 into his, while Jerry stood at his side. 
 
 "Uncle Matt," she cried, "Jerry wants to get some work,
 
 102 When Pan Pipes 
 
 because he wants to get some money and be a gentleman, and 
 do you think you want a boy?" 
 
 "Hey, hey," cried the farmer, vastly amused, "wants some 
 work, an' wants to be a gentleman. Ye can't do both, my lad. 
 Gentlemen don't work." 
 
 "Jerry says they do, Uncle Matt; Jerry's daddy was a 
 gentleman, and he worked." The farmer looked puzzled and 
 serious. 
 
 "Ay, he was a gentleman all right ; but what he did wasn't, 
 so to speak, work. Seemed more like play." 
 
 "Mr. Chubbe," Jerry's quiet little voice broke in, "do you 
 think you'll be wanting a boy soon 'cos if you do, will you 
 take me? I'd be very good, and do what you tell me." The 
 farmer's face grew very soft as he looked down into the 
 serious brown eyes. 
 
 "I ain't afraid you wouldn't be good, laddie," he said, "but 
 as to a boy well, just now, there isn't much work for such 
 a little J un." 
 
 "But if you should want one, Mr. Chubbe if you 
 should?" 
 
 "Well, well, we'll think it over," replied the farmer good- 
 naturedly. "Betty, lass, go wipe your shoes. You've been in 
 the drift-yard, an' your aunt will scold if she sees such dirty 
 feet." Betty looked down ruefully at the spattered white 
 socks, and slippers thick with spring mud. 
 
 "I'll get it off, Betty, with a piece of wood," said Jerry, 
 and the two children went off, the farmer gazing after them 
 with a gentle look. 
 
 "Wants to do some work. Ay, it's the spring time. Poor 
 little laddie." Jerry's request lay at the bottom of the farmer's 
 mind. Unconsciously he turned it over and over, so that when 
 a suggestion came from Mrs. Chubbe it found him partly pre- 
 pared. There was little time for private talk between the two. 
 Work separated them during the day ; at meal times the pres- 
 ence of men and maids barred conversation; and in the eve- 
 ning, Mr. Chubbe was busy in the snug parlour, ministering
 
 The Swineherd and a Knight 103 
 
 to the wants of customers. Only in the quiet of their own 
 room could personal matters be discussed. 
 
 Betty had been to school three days. Had mastered the 
 difference between B and D, had discovered that Q had a 
 tail, and O had none, and learned that there was a strange 
 letter called "crinkle crankle S." Also, she had a ruled slate, 
 on which she made scratchy noises and evolved queer figures, 
 called pothooks and hangers. Her aunt smiled approval; the 
 scheme worked, for the moment at least. But after finishing 
 her task of sewing in the afternoon, Betty was left to her 
 own devices. The confinement of the morning, and the hour 
 of sitting on a high stool, pushing a sticky needle through a 
 very grubby duster, kept every nerve at high tension, the con- 
 sequence being, that in three afternoons she contrived to get 
 through as much mischief as had served for a week hitherto. 
 Mrs. Chubbe was nearly beside herself. 
 
 "Something'll have to be done," she said to her husband. 
 "She fell in the brook this afternoon, an' got wet through 
 to her skin. Perhaps she couldn't help it, anyway I changed 
 her clothes, every stitch, an' within an hour, if she didn't 
 tip the tub of pigwash over her hair an' all an' a pretty 
 picter she looked. Drip drip drip all the way to the house, 
 an' over the back'us bricks, just new scrubbed, an' would have 
 come into the kitchen, only Sally caught her. She beats all I 
 ever did see for naughtiness." The farmer, slowly divesting 
 himself of his clothes, left off to scratch his head this being 
 an inducement to thought. 
 
 "She's young, wife." 
 
 "Young," echoed Mrs. Chubbe, "yes, she's young. So's the 
 boy; but when do you find him in mischief? I wish to good- 
 ness that silly woman had left him here ; I'd have trusted Betty 
 with him." 
 
 "Yes, he's a good lad." The farmer slowly ruminated ; then 
 stooped, and, continuing operations, began to take off his heavy 
 boots. "He's taken it into his little head that it's time he went 
 to work," he said, after a long pause.
 
 104 When Pan Pipes 
 
 "Work!" Mrs. Chubbe stopped in the midst of brushing 
 her hair. "Work! what sort of work?" 
 
 "Well, he thought I might be wantin' a boy, an* asked if 
 I'd take him on." The farmer smiled broadly at the recollec- 
 tion. "An', I'm thinkin' that p'raps I'll be wantin' a boy." 
 
 "But you can't take that child, master." Mrs. Chubbe 
 turned and stared in blank amazement. 
 
 "Why -not?" 
 
 "Why not ? Well, he's such a child." 
 
 "Tom Datchett's a year younger." 
 
 "Tom Datchett!" echoed his wife. "Tom Datchett!" she 
 repeated contemptuously, "who's Tom Datchett? But this 
 child's father was a gentleman, and you mark my words, if 
 he's got any friends, they're gentlefolk." 
 
 "Maybe maybe." The farmer lifted himself, with a very 
 red face, kicked off his boots, and proceeded to the next opera- 
 tion. "But even gentlefolk can't live on nothin'. The child's 
 right, wife, an' if he wants it, to work he shall go. I'll give 
 him fourpence a week to scare the crows they're thick as 
 blackberries this spring an' we'll see what he does with it." 
 
 Mrs. Chubbe made no answer ; she was turning over an idea. 
 Before going to sleep she got it off her mind. 
 
 "Matthew." The farmer woke up at the unusual appella- 
 tion; it meant things were serious. "I've been thinking. 
 There's those geese, runnin' wild, an' we'll be losin' some to 
 say nothin' of the turkeys, which are the plague of my life. 
 There's Betty at loose ends all the afternoon. She can do 
 her seam after tea. How'd it be if she took care of 'em, 
 along o' the boy. 'T would be a load off my mind, for he'd 
 keep her out of mischief, an' she'll do it if I tell her. I'll give 
 her a penny a week. 'Twill be a cheap penn'orth," she added 
 with a grim smile. The farmer, broad awake now, considered 
 for a bit. 
 
 "I think you've hit it, wife," he said slowly. "The chil- 
 dren are best together." 
 
 "An* the sooner it's settled, the better," responded Mrs.
 
 The Swineherd and a Knight 105 
 
 Chubbe, adding sleepily, as she turned over, "I'll go down an' 
 see widow Hagges to-morrow." 
 
 So, to Jerry's unspeakable delight, and Betty's not so un- 
 speakable, the matter was broached and clinched, and a start 
 was to be made on the following Monday. Not even Mrs. 
 Chubbe's practical mind could divest itself enough from su- 
 perstition to engage a new hand on Friday, and Saturday was 
 no day at all. The widow demurred slightly mostly at the 
 thought of money earned and kept by Jerry. 
 
 "A pound a month's none too much for a growing lad, 
 m'am," she said, "an' fourpence's a lot o' money for a child 
 to have of his own." 
 
 Mrs. Chubbe inwardly agreed. It was a large sum, and 
 even Jerry was not entirely free from childish weaknesses. 
 Betty's penny, she knew, would never have time to burn a 
 hole in her pocket. In the end, a compromise settled things; 
 the fourpence was to be equally divided. 
 
 "He eats a sight o' sugar," said the widow. "It'll go a little 
 way towards paying for it." 
 
 From the Monday life changed to Jerry. He was a wage- 
 earning member of society, and very important was he, as he 
 sat knocking his clappers together whenever a black speck 
 appeared on the horizon. It would have been lonely to an 
 ordinary child, but to Jerry, used to being by himself, it was 
 simply natural, and, like all outdoor workers, he grew uncon- 
 sciously day by day more in touch with Nature, knowing, 
 without knowing, her secrets, which are no secrets at all, and 
 finding every hour something new, something changing. 
 
 Besides this, there was the thought of how he should spend 
 his fortune. He wanted to buy things for everyone. There 
 was Mrs. Chubbe he knew she wanted a new churn. The 
 farmer, too, had been heard to express a desire for a scarlet 
 waistcoat. Sally wanted a new ribbon, and Nanny's one wish 
 in the world was to possess a hymn book. Not that she could 
 read it, but to carry it backwards and forwards on Sunday 
 seemed to her the acme of bliss. The widow? Jerry knitted
 
 106 When Pan Pipes 
 
 his small brows. She didn't seem to want much; her imagi- 
 nation was limited to a new front "when pedlar comes." But 
 Betty? Jerry's face cleared. Betty wanted everything. 
 Never a day, hardly an hour, but she expressed a longing, now 
 for lollipops, now for new shoes, ribbons, stuff like the ladies 
 used to make you smell nice, smart clothes, a muff and tippet 
 there was no end to Betty's wants. Jerry shook his head ; two- 
 pence a week wouldn't get all Betty wanted, he was sure. 
 How far it would go was another question. Altogether time 
 went quite quickly. Moreover, there was always the lump of 
 modelling clay. 
 
 Betty's promise resolved itself into nothing. Jerry begged 
 her to teach him what she learned, but alas! the alphabet, 
 which he knew, took many weeks to master, and in the mean- 
 time, an incident occurred. For some time the geese and tur- 
 keys were not allowed to wander beyond the common, and 
 Betty was under constant supervision, as the inn fronted on 
 to the green, and from any window Mrs. Chubbe could sud- 
 denly overlook, if necessity arose. But necessity did not arise. 
 The child's sense of honour and responsibility was waking, 
 and for some weeks her aunt declared that she was "as good 
 as gold," and took much credit to herself. As summer neared 
 and small creatures grew larger, a longer tether was needed, 
 and many an afternoon Jerry found himself called from his 
 crow-scaring to help Betty "tend the geese." Then, indeed, 
 came delightful hours. The two children, surrounded by the 
 snow-white .geese and mottled turkeys, wandered through 
 lanes hay fields being forbidden at this time where wild 
 roses and honeysuckle grew thick on high, high hedges, and 
 here and there an arching tree made cool shelter. Some- 
 times they would go to the woods, of which Jerry knew every 
 inch, but the flock was not so easily managed there, and more 
 often they would seek a certain spot by a pond, where willows 
 drooped, and sloping banks made a pleasant resting place. 
 From there they could watch their little charges without much 
 difficulty.
 
 The Swineherd and a Knight 107 
 
 It was indeed a lovely place. Grasses grew knee-deep about 
 them ; bold buttercups turned their yellow faces towards them, 
 as though questioning their right to be there. Blue forget- 
 me-nots nestled shyly in the damper parts; wild garlic and 
 meadowsweet nodded a welcome; shepherd's delight told the 
 state of the weather; milkwort cured the warts on Jerry's 
 hands ; white puffballs told the time certainly not always cor- 
 rectly, but then, there was always Church Clock to put mat- 
 ters right. Nettles, it is true, are spiteful things, and apt to 
 sting little legs unless care is taken, but within a hand's reach 
 is always a cool healing dockleaf. 
 
 There were wonderful things around them food, which 
 can always be found by those who know the way; mallows* 
 with a little imagination, make excellent cheeses ; sorrel, of 
 course, is salad; hawthorn shoots are young and succulent, 
 and a little later on, the heart of a thistle, the thick outer skin 
 of the rose-hips, and the scarlet haws, all make good eating 
 to a child. 
 
 But the wild grasses, perhaps, had the most fascination. 
 Quivering, quaking grass, which Betty, with an eye for beauty, 
 plucked and arranged in a vase, only to be thrown away by 
 Mrs. Chubbe. "Nasty stuff cluttering up the place." The 
 creeping grass, which, put in a sleeve, will run up and cause 
 a certain amount of excitement when undressing as to dis- 
 tance; soft grasses, which Jerry would peel, and twist in 
 Betty's unruly curls. But the wheat grass gave lasting de- 
 light, for with it fortunes are told, and to a child more than 
 to anyone else the mystery of the future is purest romance. 
 Betty worked the oracle, which, strangely enough, generally 
 came the same, giving a wonderful touch of veracity. 
 
 "I'll tell fortunes," said she, when conversation flagged. 
 Grasses grew thick, it was only a matter of choice. Then 
 lazily leaning back, "I'll do myself first, Jerry, because you 
 like to hear mine, don't you, and I don't care quite so much 
 for yours. I'll see who I'm going to marry, first." 
 
 Then, with two small thumbs, she ran up the kernels pro-
 
 108 When Pan Pipes 
 
 jecting at each side. "Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, rich man, 
 poor man, beggarman, thief. Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, 
 rich man " here, with very few exceptions, it ended, much 
 to Betty's delight. 
 
 " 'Cos I do want to be rich, Jerry, an' have everything nice. 
 Now we'll try what sort of a house." 
 
 Again the little thumbs moved up, again the scarlet lips 
 whispered, "Little house, big house, pigsty, barn. Little house, 
 big house " The tip of the grass was reached, and Betty's 
 soul rejoiced again. "Silks, satins, cottons, rags. Silks, 
 satins . That's what I shall wear when I'm married," cried 
 Betty gleefully. "Ladies always wear satin when they're mar- 
 ried; Aunt Martha says so an' I shall be a lady then. I'll 
 just try one more, an' then I'll tell yours, Jerry. Coach, car- 
 riage, wheelbarrow, cart. Coach " Betty's eyes sparkled. 
 "That means I'm going to get both. It was 'carriage' yester- 
 day. Now yours, Jerry." 
 
 Jerry bent close. His fortune varied between "rich man" 
 and "thief," which perplexed him sorely. 
 
 "I couldn't be a thief, Betty, could I ?" 
 
 "No, of course you couldn't. Rich people aren't thieves, 
 and you're going to be a rich man." 
 
 Betty so settled the matter and threw away the grass. 
 
 "You don't want to know about your clothes, 'cos you're 
 a boy, and if you're rich, of course, you'll live in a big house, 
 and have a carriage. Let's play at something else. Tell me 
 a tale, Jerry." 
 
 With the piece of clay, many memories had returned; old 
 fairy tales came back, piecemeal at first, then wholly, and 
 Betty reaped the benefit. To-day, it was the story of the 
 Goose-Girl, to which she listened delightedly, fitting herself 
 with the title role. 
 
 "I know," she cried, jumping up when it was ended, "we'll 
 play it. You're not really a swineherd, but you can pretend 
 the turkeys are pigs, and I'm really a Goose-Girl. P'raps I'm
 
 The Swineherd and a Knight 109 
 
 really a princess, and you're a prince, Jerry. Oh, wouldn't 
 it be beautiful?" 
 
 And so the summer days, the happy days of childhood, 
 passed. It was one hot morning in August. Jerry, called 
 from his crows, was working his clay into the form of a 
 goose. Betty, lolling on the grass, watched idly. The sounds 
 of wheels made them look up, and Betty sprang to her feet. 
 
 "It's Lady Kezzy," she whispered. "Get up, Jerry." Down 
 the road came a low pony chaise, driven by my lady. She 
 cast a glance at the geese and turkeys pecking by the wayside, 
 and fluttering almost under the pony's hoofs, then raised her 
 eyes and caught sight of the children. 
 
 "Is that you, Betty Chubbe? Come here; I want to speak 
 to you." Betty ran quickly forward, curtseying as she came ; 
 she was rather a favourite with Lady Kezzy, and knew it. 
 
 "How is your aunt?" 
 
 "She's quite well, thank you, please my lady." 
 
 "Well, will you give her this message? Tell her that Lady 
 Mary is coming on a visit, and that we shall probably come 
 in and see her one day soon. Can you remember, child?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, my lady." 
 
 "That's a good girl. And now, how are the lessons? I 
 hear you are going to school." Betty's head drooped; she 
 quilted the edge of her pinny and remained silent. Lady 
 Kezzy smiled. 
 
 "Not very well, I'm afraid. Ah, Betty, your aunt should 
 have let you come to me." The child looked up hastily. 
 
 "Please, my lady, Aunt Martha wanted to get rid of me 
 in the morning I'm naughty. You see, in the evening 
 wouldn't have been any good." 
 
 "I see." The smile deepened on the comely face the blue 
 eyes twinkled. "Well, Betty, I'm glad you're truthful; that's 
 better than learning." She gathered up her reins, then, as 
 a goose waddled solemnly under the pony's nose, dropped 
 them, and caught sight of Jerry.
 
 110 When Pan Pipes 
 
 "What little boy is that, Betty ?" 
 
 "It's Jerry, my lady." 
 
 "Jerry !" echoed my lady. "Oh !" as remembrance came to 
 her assistance, "the artist's child, of course." 
 
 She moved a beckoning finger. Jerry came forward and 
 lifted his cap. Lady Kezzy looked surprised. 
 
 "You're the little boy who lives with Widow Hagges, I 
 
 suppose 
 
 "Yes, my lady," said Jerry, cap in hand. 
 
 "And you and Betty are great friends, no doubt." The two 
 little faces smiled at each other. 
 
 "Yes, I see you are. What's your other name, Jerry?" 
 
 For a moment Jerry stared astonished then bewildered. 
 Had he got another name? Somewhere, deep down, some- 
 thing roused at the suggestion. Surely, long ago, there was 
 something beside plain Jerry ; but he stood perplexed, troubled, 
 and the lady watched him. 
 
 "Have you forgotten?" she asked gently. "Well, never 
 mind. What is that you have in your hand?" Jerry looked 
 down ; it was the modelling clay. 
 
 "May I see?" She put out her hand, and took the nearly 
 finished goose from him, criticising it carefully. 
 
 "Who taught you, my dear?" 
 
 "My daddy." At the mention of the name the tears rose. 
 Lady Kezzy saw the flush, the hasty brushing away of a tear, 
 but said nothing. She was handling the piece of clay with a 
 critical eye. Travel and social intercourse had given her a 
 certain knowledge, and she knew that, rough as the thing was, 
 there was a certain something which marked at least the artist. 
 She waited till the child had regained his composure, then 
 handed it back. 
 
 "It's very nice, my dear. Do you like doing it?" Jerry 
 looked thoughtful. The question had never occurred to him; 
 it was a natural thing to handle the clay. On the whole, he 
 supposed he did, and said so.
 
 The Swineherd and a Knight 111 
 
 "And do you go to school with Betty?" she asked next. 
 Betty put in an oar. 
 
 "No, my lady. Jerry scares crows in the morning, but he 
 wants to go to school, and he knows his alphabet." 
 
 "And I used to be able to spell a little," said Jerry sadly. 
 "But I can't remember." Lady Kezzy smiled; she was more 
 than usually interested. 
 
 "Suppose you say your alphabet to me, and see how much 
 you know." Jerry stood straight, put his hands behind him 
 these being among the few instructions given by Betty and 
 began. At H things hung fire; Lady Kezzy gave assistance, 
 and the quiet little voice went on smoothly to the difficult 
 country of P's and R's, where more help was needed. After 
 that all was well, and Jerry finished triumphantly, "W X Y Z 
 and Amperzand." 
 
 Lady Kezzy smiled again. She recognised Betty's hand at 
 the end. The child's father, she shrewdly surmised, would 
 have been content with twenty-six letters. 
 
 "Very nicely said, my dear. Now, how would you like to 
 come to my evening school?" Jerry's eyes glistened his 
 breath came quickly. "Oh " It was all, but the listener un- 
 derstood. 
 
 "Then suppose I go straight on to the cottage and settle it 
 with Mrs. Hagges." Jerry drew a long breath. 
 
 "Thank you very much, my lady." She nodded to the chil- 
 dren as they stood, oblivious of geese and turkeys, Betty even 
 forgetting to curtsey, till the little pony chaise, with its rib- 
 bons and tinkling bells, had vanished. Betty gave a delighted 
 caper and skipped back to the seat. 
 
 "Jerry, isn't it be-u-tiful? Won't you be glad?" Jerry 
 nodded. 
 
 "My lady must be very kind," he said thoughtfully, " 'cos 
 I'm only a little boy, and I can't learn much ; but I'll try, oh, 
 I will try," he added earnestly. 
 
 "An' you'll be able to help me, won't you, Jerry?" pleaded
 
 112 When Pan Pipes 
 
 lazy Betty. Then, suddenly changing the subject, "Oh, Jerry, 
 isn't it an exciting morning? I do want to see Lady Mary. 
 You see, she's never been here since she was a baby." 
 
 "Is she old, like the other ladies ?" asked Jerry. 
 
 "N-no " Betty hesitated. "I think she must be only 
 grown up." 
 
 "Perhaps she's a little girl," said Jerry, but Betty scorn- 
 fully repudiated the suggestion. 
 
 "How could she be a little girl? She's Lady Mary, little 
 girls aren't ladies," and Jerry retired defeated, then started 
 up, suddenly remembering. 
 
 "Oh! Betty the geese." The two children scrambled up, 
 separating in search of the truants, and, amidst much flutter- 
 ing and noise, collected the flock. Church Clock struck ten, 
 and Betty plucked a puffball to check the time. As she stood 
 blowing and counting, again the sound of hoofs came near. 
 Always curious, she flung away the flower, glanced along the 
 road, and flew back to Jerry. 
 
 "It's the little count," she whispered gleefully. "Oh, Jerry, 
 you couldn't be like him." 
 
 Jerry looked up. A small Shetland pony, bearing the little 
 boy he had seen in church, was coming merrily along, its 
 flowing tail and mane floating out on the breeze, its mis- 
 chievous head wagging and nodding with all sorts of ponyish 
 thoughts. Behind, on a sedate horse, came a groom. The 
 child wore a bored expression and ambled listlessly along, set- 
 ting the pace. 
 
 Betty, never behind when great folk were about, stood 
 well into the roadway, and it was not long before the child 
 on his pony caught sight of her; also of Jerry under the 
 trees. A look of interest lighted up his face, and he beckoned. 
 Betty, nothing loath, came forward, but the little count shook 
 his head fretfully, and waved her away. 
 
 "You're Betty Chubbe, I know you, but who's the little boy 
 under the trees ?" 
 
 "It's Jerry," answered Betty.
 
 The Swineherd and a Knight 113 
 
 "Jerry," repeated the other. "Tell him I want him." Betty 
 turned and motioned with her hand. Count Paul leaned for- 
 ward impatiently, interest lighting up the little dark, sallow 
 face. 
 
 "She says you're Jerry," he said, pointing his whip at Betty. 
 "Tell me what you are doing, Jerry." 
 
 "We're minding Farmer Chubbe's geese." 
 
 "Yes, I know." Again the note of hasty fretfulness. "But 
 what do you do ? Do you play ?" 
 
 "Y-yes, sometimes. We talk, and tell tales, and pretend." 
 
 "Pretend !" The fretfulness was gone ; only eager curiosity 
 prevailed. "How? tell me?" Jerry looked hopeless; his 
 tongue was not a ready one. But Betty stepped forward. 
 
 "We pretend he's a swineherd, the turkeys are the pigs, 
 an' I'm a Goose-Girl. I really am, you know. But really 
 and truly, he's a prince an' I'm a princess; and his name's 
 Conrad and " 
 
 "Oh," interrupted the Count, his face aglow with interest, 
 "I'll come and play, too." He began to scramble off his 
 pony. Jerry and Betty eyed him askance, then looked at each 
 other in dismay. Perhaps he saw the look, for he stopped. 
 
 "I'm so sorry. I ought to have asked if you'd have me. 
 Will you? Please say you will," he added pleadingly. 
 
 "Let's have him, Jerry," urged Betty, and Jerry, somewhat 
 reluctantly, agreed. 
 
 "Thank you very much," said the Count, finishing his de- 
 scent, and turning to the groom, who had waited silently for 
 orders. "Take my pony, Thompson, and tell my father I 
 am stopping to play with Jerry and Betty Chubbe." The 
 groom stepped forward, a perplexed look on his face. 
 
 "Sir, you can't, you mustn't play with these children. His 
 Excellency would not like it." The child held his head up, a 
 haughty look in his face. Jerry and Betty waited breathlessly. 
 
 "How dare you disobey me. Take my pony at once," with 
 an angry stamp, "and give my father my message." 
 
 "Very good, sir." The man touched his hat, and with an
 
 114 When Pan Pipes 
 
 almost imperceptible shrug, took the pony's reins, and mount- 
 ing his own horse, rode off. The three children drew breath 
 again. 
 
 "Now we can play," cried Betty. 
 
 "Only we must get the geese together again," said Jerry. 
 
 The count assisted. At first the others demurred. In- 
 stinctively they knew that counts do not tend geese, except 
 in disguise, nor play with swineherds. They may sit on a 
 bank with a goose-girl, and talk to her, even make love, but 
 with a goose-girl, too, there is a hard and fast line between 
 that and friendship. 
 
 The flock being collected they went back to their seat, and 
 room was made for the third child. At first, a shy stiffness 
 prevented progress, but it wore off quickly, and long before 
 Church Clock struck eleven the children were laughing, chat- 
 ting, and making believe as though there were no such thing 
 as inequalities in position nor difference between fine Nankeen 
 pants and a smock frock; for with work Jerry had taken the 
 symbol of it the clothes which mark the worker. 
 
 The game of pretence went merrily enough. Betty made 
 a wreath of flowers and at once became a princess. Paul 
 was a great acquisition; he knew the ways and manners of 
 princesses, and the children listened with bated breath he 
 had once seen a real one. 
 
 "But she wasn't like a princess at all," he told them. "She 
 was fat and old, and she wore a big bonnet, instead of a crown, 
 and she looked so cross and ugly." 
 
 "Perhaps she was disguised," said Betty. 
 
 "Or perhaps a witch had enchanted her," suggested Jerry. 
 Paul shook his head. "I don't know. Anyhow, she wasn't 
 a bit like a princess. Betty is," he added. "I think when she 
 grows up, she'll be one exactly." 
 
 "Do you?" cried Betty, clapping her hands, and Paul as- 
 sented gravely. Indeed, she looked it. Dark eyes glittering 
 like stars, lips gleaming scarlet as the geranium in the widow's 
 window, little pearly white teeth flashing, and the sunlight
 
 The Swineherd and a Knight 115 
 
 through the trees making coppery curls shine like red gold. 
 
 "Oh, Jerry, I do think it's been the most exciting morning." 
 Jerry nodded ; he, too, had been thinking. 
 
 "It's just like a real fairy tale," he said with a sigh of 
 content. "There's you, Betty you're the goose-girl who's 
 really a princess and there's me, and I'm really a prince. 
 An' Lady Kezzy's the fairy godmother, who's given us all 
 we want, and I think " he looked shyly at the other boy, 
 "you're the knight who comes riding down the road and 
 rescues the princess." Again Betty clapped her hands with 
 delight. 
 
 "We'll pretend the willow tree's an ogre, and that little 
 hill's his castle, and I'm his prisoner. Oh ! it's the be-u-ti-full- 
 est play." 
 
 And so on. Till Church Clock struck the third quarter, 
 when geese must be gathered together, and a march made 
 for home and dinner and all the practical, uninteresting things 
 which mark the grown-up from the child. With many prom- 
 ises to meet on the morrow, the children separated. Count 
 Paul watched the two go, then strolled leisurely back with a 
 feeling of wonderment at the unexpected delights of the morn- 
 ing. There was no fear in his heart. Between Count de Cosse 
 and his son was perfect confidence, and long before luncheon 
 was over Paul had rendered account of his doings. His fa- 
 ther heard, but said nothing, even when plans were made for 
 the next day's meeting. But in the afternoon he rode across 
 the fields to the Dower House, and consulted ostensibly the 
 ladies in reality, Lady Kezzy. 
 
 Lady Karen listened with cautious interest interest half 
 centred on the elaborate piece of woolwork stretched on a 
 frame before her;. Lady Kezzy eagerly, glancing often at the 
 thin grave face, which, except for the pointed Vandyke beard 
 and lines of middle age, was a larger copy of his son's. 
 
 "You will scarce believe me, ladies," he said as the tale 
 was finished, "when I tell you that the child looked better 
 than I have seen him for many a long day ; there was even a
 
 116 When Pan Pipes 
 
 slight trace of colour in his cheeks, and he ate as though he 
 enjoyed his food." Lady Karen paused a moment, stepping 
 backwards to inspect her work. 
 
 "I have always said that Paul wanted children of his own 
 age. But village children; my dear Count, you cannot allow 
 it." 
 
 "And yet " the Count spoke slowly, "in my father's coun- 
 try, the son of the nobleman played with his foster brothers 
 and sisters and came to no harm." 
 
 "But these are not even foster brothers and sisters," replied 
 Lady Karen. 
 
 "But, sister " Lady Kezzy's voice came pleadingly, "they 
 are really very nice children. No one could help loving little 
 Betty, and as for the boy he's coming to my class, you know, 
 and I'm quite sure he's a genius, and will one day be a great 
 sculptor. His modelling is wonderful." Lady Karen smiled 
 grimly. 
 
 "Keziah is a dreamer." There was the slightest touch of 
 scorn in her voice. "Her geese are always swans, and every 
 Jack and Jill honest and virtuous till they're found out. Even 
 then, I'm not sure she's not sorry for them." 
 
 "Oh, Karen," cried my Lady Kezzy, "of course, I'm sorry 
 for them. So are you, only you won't say so. And really 
 they're dear children. I'm sure they could hurt no one, not 
 even Mary." Lady Karen turned haughtily. 
 
 "If Paul allows his son to play with these children, it is 
 nothing to me. But you understand, Keziah, Mary has noth- 
 ing to do with it. When she comes, you or I will take her 
 to visit the principal tenants ; it is right that she should know 
 them, even," she paused, and sighed almost imperceptibly, 
 "even if only for a few years. But when she is with Paul, 
 remember they are not to associate with any of the village 
 children. Please understand." She swept from the room 
 with a proud disdain. Lady Kezzy looked troubled. 
 
 "Karen and Edward are so particular," she said. "They 
 really almost frighten me. But you're not afraid, are you?
 
 The Swineherd and a Knight 117 
 
 You'll let little Paul play with them, they're such nice children?" 
 
 The Count came near. 
 
 "Yes, Kezzy," he said. "They shall play together, since 
 you ask it as we used to play together in the days so long 
 ago," he added with a smile. 
 
 The crimson sunset was falling. It cast a rosy glow over 
 Lady Kezzy's face, and a slight tinge was reflected on the 
 count's clear olive skin. For a moment there was silence; 
 Paul broke it. "I must go. Walk a little with me, Kezzy, 
 as you used to." 
 
 She walked beside him down the great avenue, the sun- 
 set's flush still lingering in the sky and on her face. Though 
 their words were light, the remembrance of the past was in 
 their minds, making them thoughtful. At the end of the 
 road she stopped and said good-bye. Maybe her hand lin- 
 gered a little longer in his than usual, maybe there was a 
 tender light in his eyes as he lifted it reverently to his lips. 
 And though the sunset was behind her, and the brilliance had 
 faded from the sky, the crimson in her cheek was soft and 
 warm as she retraced her steps and sought her room. 
 
 So it came about that the children played together every 
 afternoon. And oh! the wonderful tales they told, the won- 
 derful people they became, the glorious land they stepped 
 into, where love and romance are everywhere, and youth is 
 ever youth; where maidens are fair, and men are always 
 noble, and all is fairy in that land behind the curtain, whose 
 one side is dull grey, but whose other is crimson and shining 
 gold. Even grown-ups can lift it and go through and enter 
 the beautiful country of dreams, which perhaps is reality; 
 where every lovely wish is fulfilled, every baleful thing left 
 behind, and time is only time for those who make it so. Alas ! 
 that so few know of that country, the country that little feet 
 can enter at will. For every new-born child, as he steps 
 through the curtain into the cold, bare world, brings with him 
 some of the glory, and till that fades away, he is free of that 
 beautiful country, and is indeed a citizen of no mean City.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 TELLS OF HOW THE GOOSE-GIRL MET THE FAIRY, AND OF WHAT 
 WAS IN THE PEDLAR'S PACK 
 
 THE news went through the village, and tenants scrubbed, 
 scoured, and red-ochred in honour of the Earl's daugh- 
 ter, till even the very cats and dogs wore a festal appearance, 
 and husbands were known to ask of their wives, "if they 
 had washed the chimney stacks, and tied up the pigs' tails 
 with blue ribbon." 
 
 There was to be no demonstration. My lord was inflexible 
 on this point. Lady Mary would arrive on the Monday, but 
 woe to the villager whose curiosity led him to linger by the 
 wayside in hope of catching sight of her. So Cloudesley slept 
 its usual drowsy sleep that afternoon. Only two children 
 tending geese saw the rolling dust which heralded her appear- 
 ance. Betty's sharp eyes were first to notice it. 
 
 "Jerry, Jerry," she whispered, "it's the great coach from the 
 Hall. Let's go and look." 
 
 Mindful of the edict, they crept behind a tree and watched 
 the gathering cloud roll nearer and nearer. The galloping 
 horses, newly changed at Channington, so that my Lady Mary 
 might arrive with the eclat due to her state, pranced and 
 foamed, only kept in check by my lord's outriders, in their 
 rich sober liveries of dark blue and silver. Simon, my lord's 
 old coachman, fat and red-faced, sat on the broad box in full 
 dress, while behind, in the rumble, the children caught a 
 glimpse of a smart damsel, and an equally smart man, doubt- 
 less my lady's attendant. Two of the Hall footmen hung 
 on behind, but that was the extent of the show, for the blinds 
 were closely drawn, and the huge vehicle passed out of sight, 
 
 118
 
 How the Goose-girl Met the Fairy 119 
 
 leaving the children deeply impressed and Betty greatly con- 
 scious of the tale she would have to tell. 
 
 Mrs. Chubbe made her calculations. Calling back her re- 
 membrances of the Hall, she decided that Tuesday would be 
 given up to rest and settling down, and on Wednesday, the 
 more important tenants, among whom Mr. Chubbe stood first, 
 might be honoured with a visit. 
 
 She arranged her household accordingly, but like many an- 
 other "best laid" plan, it went awry. Betty, kept at home on 
 Tuesday to help clear up, was busy stripping red currants 
 preparatory to converting them into jam. Her aunt, in and 
 out of back'us, kitchen, and dairy, was startled by the sight 
 of two ladies coming across the meadow. Dropping her 
 skimmer into the great pan of morning milk, she stared, in 
 her astonishment forgetting to pick it out. 
 
 "Lawk-a-daisy ! if it isn't my Lady Kezzy comin' this 
 mornin' of all times. An' me in my apron an' pattens, an' 
 Betty " the name reminded her. Hastily untying the big 
 apron, she rolled it up, slipped off the pattens, and hurried to 
 the pantry. 
 
 "Betty, child, go quick an' wash your hands an' brush your 
 hair. Here's my ladies comin' up the meadow, an' a pretty 
 mess we're in. Was ever such a thing heard of? An' Mat- 
 thew gone to Channington. Dch Dch Dch!" 
 
 Betty flew. Mrs. Chubbe, returning to the kitchen, gave 
 a quick glance round, moved a basin from the table, flicked 
 a speck of dust off the dresser, peeped into the dairy and 
 pantry with another "Dch Dch," though how they could 
 have been tidier or cleaner only herself could have told ; then, 
 carefully closed their doors and stood waiting till the two fig- 
 ures crossed the stile and their steps were heard on the flagged 
 pathway. 
 
 "An' the back'us door, too," murmured Mrs. Chubbe plain- 
 tively. "That's Lady Kezzy all over; Lady Karen would ha' 
 had the big door open, though it took two on us to do it 
 it's that stuck from want of using." The footsteps drew
 
 120 When Pan Pipes 
 
 nearer the time had come to cross casually the back'us and 
 greet the visitors. 
 
 Lady Kezzy stood at the door, and beside her a small, slight 
 child, dressed simply in white. Mrs. Chubbe gave a swift 
 glance of curiosity and fell in love. Her first thought was 
 of Betty, but it was the contrast of the sun and the moon. 
 Betty's brilliant colouring, vivid piquancy, and flashing beauty, 
 were lacking. In their place were eyes blue as the summer 
 cornflower, softly deep as a mountain lake; long curls, not 
 copper gold like Betty's, but with the gold of corn in August, 
 and a skin so fair and thin, that the blue veins showed their 
 network and the flowing of the warm blood beneath was almost 
 perceptible. 
 
 Mrs. Chubbe held up her hands in dismay. "Oh, my ladies, 
 to think of you comin' here an' catchin' me in this mess. An' 
 you at the back'us door when there's a front one an' clean 
 not but what I'm that pleased." 
 
 "Why, Martha," said Lady Kezzy, as she stepped over the 
 threshold, "I'm sure you're always as spick and span as a new 
 pin. I've brought my niece to see you and your dairy and 
 pigs. She's a little Londoner, you know, and has to learn 
 country ways." 
 
 Mrs. Chubbe curtseyed again. 
 
 "An' indeed it's an honour, my lady, to see you. Though 
 I have seen your ladyship before, when you were but a wee 
 thing in a long lace gown." Then suddenly mindful of for- 
 bidden ground, "but there I'm talkin' an' keepin' you standin'. 
 Come in, my ladies." 
 
 She led the way through the cool stone back'us to the 
 kitchen. Quickly dusting two chairs, which had never known 
 the feel of dust, she placed them before the visitors. 
 
 "Where is Betty, Martha?" asked Lady Kezzy. "I want 
 Mary to see her. Betty's a great favourite of mine, my dear," 
 she turned to her companion, "though I'm afraid," she laughed 
 merrily, "that she gives her aunt something to think of." 
 
 "Aye, my lady, she does that. But I must say she's turnin'
 
 How the Goose-girl Met the Fairy 121 
 
 a new leaf since she's gone to school, an' in the afternoon 
 she tends the geese, an' Jerry don't let her get into mischief." 
 My lady looked up. 
 
 "Jerry ? Ah, that's the little boy who's coming to my school. 
 He seems a nice child, Martha." 
 
 "My lady, you couldn't find a nicer, search the world over. 
 He's a bit quiet for a child, but that's no fault, an' he's lonely, 
 poor laddie, since his father died." 
 
 She stopped at the sound of light footsteps on the stair- 
 way. A moment after Betty appeared, fresh-frocked, brushed 
 and washed for the company, an expression of eager excite- 
 ment on her face. Yet even as she stepped down the last stair 
 into the kitchen, it faded. Astonishment, disappointment, 
 something altogether strange to Mrs. Chubbe, took its place, 
 and she made as though to go back. 
 
 Her aunt saw the movement and called "Betty." 
 
 The child slowly turned. Lady Kezzy looked round, and 
 her niece, following her example, smiled across at the other 
 child. Mrs. Chubbe, with a puzzled look, gazed from one 
 to the other. Betty had never before shown shyness like 
 this. 
 
 "Come in, child; don't stand staring there." Slowly, re- 
 luctantly, the small feet crept over the red bricks. 
 
 "Betty," there was a touch of amazed anger in the voice, 
 "where's your manners, child? Curtsey to my lady." Still 
 with that curious expression on her small face, the child 
 obeyed, dropping as low an obeisance as could be desired. 
 The white clad figure behind Lady Kezzy had risen, and now 
 stood smiling into the brilliant, provoking face opposite. 
 
 "Now to my Lady Mary, Betty," continued Mrs. Chubbe, 
 slightly mollified. But Betty stood straight. 
 
 "Betty, do you hear me? Curtsey to my lady." 
 
 A murmured whisper came from the defiant lips, almost 
 it sounded like "No," as Mrs. Chubbe stood aghast, wonder- 
 ing if Heaven itself would open and rain fire on such audacity. 
 Lady Mary laughed, a low rippling laugh, and my Lady Kezzy,
 
 122 When Pan Pipes 
 
 almost as frightened as her hostess, opened her mouth to 
 speak, but the farmer's wife forestalled her. 
 
 "My lady, my lady, you must forgive her. I'm afraid 
 she's sadly spoilt." Then to the culprit, "Betty, you bad, 
 wicked child; curtsey to your betters, and thank the ladies 
 for their kindness. My lady," she turned deprecatingly, "she 
 shall have the soundest whipping " She stopped. Mary had 
 flown to her, and now, with a little gloved hand resting on 
 hers, a little fair face, turned upward, pleaded for the of- 
 fender. 
 
 "Mrs. Chubbe, don't please spoil our visit. She didn't mean 
 any harm, I'm sure; and you'll hurt me far more than Betty 
 if you beat her. Please " 
 
 Mrs. Chubbe's bark was worse than her bite. Already the 
 grim face had relaxed, and the child, seizing her advantage, 
 urged no more, but turned to the other. 
 
 "Betty," she moved closer, "why didn't you want to curtsey 
 to me ?" There was curiosity in her voice, and the two elders 
 watched from very interest. Betty put her finger in her mouth, 
 said nothing, but gazed at the flower-like face before her, half 
 defiant, half fascinated. 
 
 "Betty, do tell me. I shan't be a bit angry." 
 
 The finger came out, was wiped nervously on the white 
 pinny. The bright head hung slightly, and a suspicion of 
 shamed colour rose in the little face. There was a moment 
 of breathless suspense. 
 
 "Because," murmured Betty, still drawing her finger up and 
 down, "because " The brilliant eyes suddenly lifted and 
 looked with proud decision straight into the blue eyes watch- 
 ing, "because you're only a little girl, like me, my lady." 
 
 It was over. The suspense broke up. Mrs. Chubbe, draw- 
 ing a long breath, would have pounced, but Mary held up a 
 warning hand. Betty shot a defiant glance at the waiting gods, 
 then a wondering one at the other child. Mary nodded. 
 
 "I quite understand," she said, and Lady Kezzy gasped. 
 "I don't mind curtseying to my aunts, but I shouldn't like
 
 How the Goose-girl Met the Fairy 123 
 
 to, to another little girl. But " she moved closer, "if you 
 won't curtsey to me, Betty, will you kiss me?" 
 
 Betty stared made a kind of choking sound, and started 
 forward, flinging her arms wildly round the other's neck. 
 
 "Oh, my lady, my lady, I do love you, and if you want me 
 to, I'll curtsey just as much as ever you like." Mary returned 
 the embrace warmly, and laughed. 
 
 "Of course, I don't want you to, Betty. Friends don't 
 curtsey to each other, and we're going to be friends, aren't 
 we?" 
 
 Betty nodded. Something choked in her throat, and her 
 eyes were moist. Lady Kezzy half rose, a puzzled expression 
 in her mild eyes ; she was unused to violent emotion. It was 
 Mrs. Chubbe who saved the situation, breaking in somewhat 
 reproachfully : 
 
 "My lady, if you encourage the naughty girl in her fancies, 
 what can I do?" Her visitor seized the opportunity. 
 
 "Martha is quite right, Mary. Betty forgot her manners 
 for the moment, and besides, was disobedient. She will apolo- 
 gise, I'm sure, for her rudeness, won't you, my dear?" 
 
 And Betty, subdued by the force of love, dropped a curtsey 
 to my Lady Kezzy, although still careful not to include her 
 niece, and, prompted by her aunt, said her words. 
 
 "Please, my lady, I'm sorry I was rude. Will you kindly 
 forgive me?" Lady Kezzy breathed a sigh of relief. The 
 incident, confirming her sister's judgment, had upset her, and 
 she was thankful to see the end, mentally resolving that during 
 Mary's short visit, there should be no repetition. 
 
 "And now, Martha, will you show us your dairy, and let us 
 have a drink of milk. Mary is so anxious to see the chickens 
 and pigs." 
 
 A certain stiffness lingered during the remainder of the 
 visit. Only the children, with children's power of throwing 
 away unpleasantness, were thoroughly at ease, and both grown- 
 ups parted with a sense of duty done. Strangely enough, no 
 scolding was forthcoming. Mrs. Chubbe continued her skim-
 
 124 When Pan Pipes 
 
 ming and Betty her currant stalking. It was not until the 
 afternoon that the visitors were referred to again. Then, as 
 usual, it was Betty's tongue which always followed the work- 
 ings of her brain. 
 
 "Aunt Martha, isn't Lady Mary beautiful? I do love her. 
 Don't you?" Mrs. Chubbe gazed abstractedly into the small 
 upturned face and made no answer. Her thoughts were seem- 
 ingly far away. 
 
 "Isn't she, Aunt Martha?" Betty got more than she bar- 
 gained for. Mrs. Chubbe stooped, caught the little figure in 
 a close embrace, holding her fast for a moment; then, with a 
 somewhat shame-faced expression, set her hastily down. 
 
 "There, there, child, run away; Lady Mary's everything 
 that's sweet and good. More's the pity," she added, under 
 her breath. And Betty, her curiosity roused almost to burst- 
 ing point, durst ask no questions, but slipped away, profoundly 
 mystified, and with a queer feeling on her cheek of a kiss, and 
 something wet, like a tear. Stranger still was the fact, that 
 though she expatiated on Lady Mary to Jerry, she was silent 
 about the later incident. Somehow she could not speak of it. 
 A student of humanity might have told her that real love can- 
 not be spoken of it dwells in the heart, silently. 
 
 The visit was not repeated. Neither did the children catch 
 another glimpse of the ladies, although they were heard of 
 as having called at several of the larger farms. On the Sat- 
 urday Mary returned to London, and Cloudesley dropped into 
 its usual monotony. Jerry was bitterly disappointed. Betty 
 had fired his interest, and, unknown to her, he had lurked in 
 lanes which led to the different farms, had secreted himself 
 behind bushes outside the Hall gates, in the hope of catching 
 sight of the wonderful being, glorified by Betty into something 
 between an angel and a fairy, altogether beyond anything in 
 this wicked world. 
 
 But it was not to be. Jerry, with a deep sigh, submitted 
 to the inevitable and applied himself to work. He was get- 
 ting on "like a stack on fire," the schoolmistress said and
 
 How the Goose-girl Met the Fairy 125 
 
 Lady Kezzy singled him out for special approbation. Soon, 
 very soon now, he would be able to write a letter to Margery. 
 A child keeps no count of time, and it never occurred to Jerry 
 that she might be with him before a letter could reach her. 
 
 His hoard of pennies was growing, and with the acquiring 
 of new knowledge, another want, a personal one, arose. 
 Books were practically unknown in either the cottage or the 
 inn, but on several occasions Lady Kezzy brought to the school 
 illustrated volumes of travel, and Jerry looked at the pictures 
 and listened to her explanations with eyes and ears entranced. 
 To possess such a thing became his one desire. The churn 
 and waistcoat had long ago been dismissed as impossible, 
 though Betty's wants still held good. Those, after sorting out, 
 resolved themselves into a new ribbon and a cake of soap. 
 The remainder (Jerry worked it out to a nicety) might per- 
 haps buy the coveted possession, "when pedlar comes," which 
 would probably not be until November. Jerry possessed his 
 soul in patience, and accumulated pennies, which Farmer 
 Chubbe kept for him, adding occasionally a small bonus for 
 luck. 
 
 There was little time for loneliness, yet, in the quiet of his 
 small room, especially after he got into bed, there were times 
 when he longed inexpressibly for the sympathy, the inter- 
 change of words, with one who loved and understood; for 
 some of the old merry chatter and laughter, for a glimpse 
 into the world of story and legend, which can only be given 
 by one who has the key. There was, too, the childish longing 
 for affection, for kisses, for a warm, soft shoulder to lean 
 against, the touch of a gentle hand, the sound of a loving voice. 
 And sometimes, before he dropped off, he wondered vaguely 
 when Margery would come again. 
 
 Mrs. Chubbe and the widow wondered too, the former, 
 solicitous for the child's welfare, the latter, for the profit 
 he brought. In September came the looked for letter, and 
 its contents cast a gloom over Jerry's little life which took 
 weeks to remove. Margery was not coming. A little child
 
 126 When Pan Pipes 
 
 had come and gone, leaving an empty space where no space 
 had been, a space of which the mother, hovering between life 
 and death, was as yet unconscious. When she awoke, she 
 would realise, and between the lines of Margery's letter, those 
 who could, read of a great battle between the love for kith 
 and kin, and the love of adoption. In the end natural affec- 
 tion conquered, and Margery stayed, with a promise to re- 
 turn, if possible, next year. "Tell Mrs. Hagges, dearie," went 
 on the letter, "that I have written to the lawyers, and the 
 money will go on as before." Then followed expressions of 
 love, crossed kisses, and all that could be said in a letter written 
 from dictation. As before, Jerry got it at second hand, and 
 it fired him to further efforts. Perhaps by the time the next 
 came he would be able to read real writing. 
 
 September went by. The geese were sold, probably eaten. 
 Corn was cut and garnered, and the summer tasks came to 
 an end. The goose-girl changed to an ordinary child; the 
 swineherd dug potatoes and beets, herding cows in the in- 
 tervals; the knight mounted his steed and rode away to the 
 castle. But there were times when he stole out and helped 
 pick the potatoes from their stalks or stack the bulging crim- 
 son roots. No longer was he pale and fretful. Count de 
 Cosse had watched joyfully the pale face tan and fill out, the 
 thin frame broaden. 
 
 "We'll make an Englishman of you yet, Paul," he said 
 one day, and the child answered gravely, "Yes, Farmer 
 Chubbe says I shall be able to fight Jerry soon, and Jerry's 
 very strong." 
 
 The count laughed, taking much credit to himself, but giv- 
 ing some to Lady Kezzy. She, with a woman's thought for 
 the future, wondered if, after all, they had been wise. The 
 visit to the inn lingered unpleasantly in her mind. Did Mary, 
 in her London home, ever think of it? Betty's memory, she 
 guessed, was long. 
 
 As October waned, Jerry heard many allusions to "pedlar's 
 visit." Mrs. Chubbe wanted dimity for curtains, Betty had
 
 How the Goose-girl Met the Fairy 127 
 
 been promised red cloth for a winter pelisse. Handkerchiefs 
 for the farmer, a ribbon for Sally and Nancy, various odds 
 and ends as the time grew short. The widow had long ago 
 determined on a length of black merino. Jerry, saying very 
 little, dreamt of the treasures his money would purchase with 
 now and then a sinking of heart. 
 
 "Suppose there were no books in pedlar's pack." 
 
 The great event loomed near. Word came that pedlar had 
 arrived at the neighbouring village of Thaxton, and Jerry, 
 excitement causing his heart to beat furiously, then almost 
 stop, sought out the farmer after his morning's work was done. 
 He found him in the small inn parlour smoking a pipe with 
 Peter the Ranger, who was evidently full of news. He glanced 
 up, smiled at the small figure, and motioned him to a seat at 
 his side. Peter gave a casual nod, and went on. 
 
 "My lord's mighty pertic'lar, but he woan't find much to 
 grumble at, I'll lay my life. There's woods without a dead 
 branch in 'em, an' hedges where a rabbit couldn't go through. 
 An' there's game for more'n my lord's bringin'. 'Tis reason 
 for years there been no company oop there " jerking a 
 thumb in the direction of the Hall. "An' the birds are cryin' 
 out to be shot. There's foxes, too, in plenty. Silly creatures, 
 don't know the difference 'tween a hound an' a spaniel. But 
 they'll learn, oh, they'll learn fast enough," he added with a 
 chuckle, "when huntin' time comes, an' my lord an' his gen- 
 tlemen ride with the pack, which is eatin' its head off in the 
 kennels." 
 
 "Who's comin', Peter?" interrupted the farmer, knowing 
 that the Ranger, once set going on the subject of neglected 
 sport, was warranted to go on till forcibly stopped. 
 
 "Who's comin'? Aye, there, I don't rightly know. Mrs. 
 Lovegrove says six gentlemen, an' a young r un Sir Francis 
 Crewe's son. But there'll be fine doin's fine doin's and 
 time enough too. Maybe my lord's shaken off the trouble, 
 an' Cloudesley'll be all the better, say I an' you too, Mr. 
 Chubbe, I'll be bound. It'll bring custom." The clink of
 
 128 When Pan Pipes 
 
 money and a call interrupted the flow of conversation. The 
 ranger finished his tankard of ale with noisy appreciation, and 
 rose. 
 
 "Well, I'll be going. Good-mornin' to you, landlord ; good- 
 mornin', boy." The farmer nodded, then, motioning Jerry to 
 stay where he was, served the waiting customer, returning 
 after a short colloquy. 
 
 "An' now, laddie, what d'ye want?" 
 
 Jerry looked up, his brown eyes full of suppressed excite- 
 ment. "Oh, please, Mr. Chubbe, they say pedlar's coming 
 soon, and I want to buy a book and some things, and please, 
 if you don't mind very much, may I have my money?" The 
 farmer smiled broadly down. 
 
 "Well, well, to think on it. After savin' an' savin', an' now 
 wants to spend. What's the need, laddie? Can't ye let it 
 bide?" Jerry shook his head. 
 
 " 'Tisn't wasting it, Mr. Chubbe," he said eagerly ; "really. 
 I can read now, you know, and I do want a book of my own, 
 so very much." Again the listener smiled. 
 
 "D'ye know how much there is, my boy?" Jerry's reckon- 
 ing had been too close to allow for hesitation. 
 
 "Three and six," he answered promptly. 
 
 "Aye," said the farmer slowly. "There's that, an' more. 
 What d'ye think of five grand new shillin's?" The brown 
 face flushed hotly. 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Chubbe how good you are. Thank you, thank 
 you, very, very much." And the farmer felt repaid with in- 
 terest. . 
 
 "How much'll the book be?" 
 
 "I don't quite know, but I thought about two shillings. 
 If I might have three and six, please. I won't waste it, I 
 promise." 
 
 "Well, well," Mr. Chubbe rose leisurely, "I shouldn't won- 
 der if you want to buy a fairin', an' I know who for. You're 
 a good laddie, an' Betty's a spoilt little hussy. I can't say 
 you nay, but don't spend it all on her."
 
 How the Goose-girl Met the Fairy 129 
 
 He was opening a drawer as he spoke, and now drew out 
 a great cash box and gave into the little hand, horny and 
 grimed with work, four glittering silver shillings. Jerry re- 
 garded them with quickening breath and an expression such 
 as older people might wear when holding a million pound 
 note. Finally he produced a piece of rag, laid his property 
 in it and secured it with a string, tying it all round his neck, 
 there to keep company with the amulet till the great day ar- 
 rived. 
 
 "Take care of it, laddie," said the farmer as the child went 
 off. Jerry nodded. His thanks had been few, but they were 
 understood. 
 
 "Don't take much to make a child happy," soliloquised the 
 farmer, as he turned in to his dinner. "Well, well." 
 
 The pedlar drew nearer, arriving at length one Thursday, 
 cart and all, at the inn. But first skim was not for such 
 people as the widow. To the Hall, where his pack gave much 
 satisfaction and some hours' amusement to the crowd of idle 
 varlets and maids assembled for my lord's company; on to 
 the Dower House, where even my Lady Kezzy condescended 
 to purchase winter flannel for Christmas gifts; next to the 
 inn and large farms, then the smaller tenantry, and at last 
 at last late on the Saturday afternoon, to the cottage in the 
 lane came the pedlar, enveloped in mystery, heavy with the 
 atmosphere of London, of countryside and lonely wanderings, 
 of drugs and perfumes from the far East, of fine laces and 
 lawns from sunny France, of cashmeres soft and warm, of 
 garnets, topazes, and amethysts from blue lapped, palm-fringed 
 shores, even of gleaming pearls from wondrous tropical 
 seas. 
 
 He himself was a short, stout man, with dark, strongly 
 marked features, lustrous eyes, black hair, and a curious 
 foreign accent a Jew, without question, and with all the 
 Jew's keen, alert air, where business was concerned. Folk 
 said he must be worth a sight of money, and there were vague 
 rumours of a shop in London filled with wonders of the earth,
 
 130 When Pan Pipes 
 
 replenished from great ships whose captains traded with its 
 master. 
 
 It was only a humble pack which he unstrapped in the 
 widow's kitchen. No mystery or romance there. Within five 
 minutes chairs were draped artistically in soft colours, while 
 on the table lay sparkling brooches, belts, handkerchiefs, cheap 
 caps, shawls, fronts of various tinted hair, stockings, in fact 
 everything necessary to the toilet of a lady not too well-to-do. 
 The widow shook her head as the brightly coloured materials 
 were flaunted before her. Pedlar said little, but continued 
 to throw his wares lightly over every available article of furni- 
 ture. He stopped once, when the widow, suddenly interested, 
 handled a grey merino, whose silver folds decorated the red- 
 cushioned chair. 
 
 "Now that is strange," cried the pedlar, holding up two 
 dark podgy hands, "my lady at the house bought one similaire. 
 Her taste is goot, and yours, madame," he smiled and bowed, 
 "is quite equal. See," he moved the shimmering folds, "how 
 soft, how bekomming. And dirt cheap." He named the price, 
 but the widow, still holding the material, shook her head. 
 
 "Ach ! then I will meet you." The price came down, again 
 it was met with a sign of negation. The pedlar sighed, then 
 began to fold up. 
 
 "It is a pity, but perhaps some other time. We will now 
 see the black dress." 
 
 The material, hurriedly folded, lay on a chair, and the widow, 
 with an occasional glance at its alluring folds, inspected the 
 sombre length laid out. It was soon decided on, and the pedlar 
 proceeded to pack up. Presently she turned to the chair and 
 once more lovingly fingered the grey dress. 
 
 "It's very pretty," she murmured. The pedlar took no no- 
 tice, only Jerry, standing by the table, saw the sharp glance 
 in his eye. 
 
 "And cheap, too," came the low whisper. To the onlook- 
 ers the musings were of prices and wearing properties. In 
 the widow's brain lurked thoughts very similar to those of
 
 How the Goose-girl Met the Fairy 131 
 
 the maids at the Hall. In imagination she saw herself attired 
 in the grey dress, ministering to the wants of Mr. Padden. 
 She held it up against her, peeped into the bit of glass on the 
 wall, with precisely the same expression as Sally or Nancy 
 might have worn, and something as soft as the graceful folds, 
 crept into her face. 
 
 "Yes, I'll take it," she said suddenly. "You can put it by." 
 The pedlar, all attention now, turned from his packing. 
 
 "Ach! said I not that madame's goot taste would prevail. 
 And now a cap of Buckinghamshire lace, which is cheap, and 
 a ribbon for the neck." 
 
 The bargaining went on. To Jerry, waiting with suppressed 
 impatience, it seemed interminable. At last it was over, the 
 money paid, and the widow departed with her treasures, tell- 
 ing Jerry not to be long. 
 
 "And now, little master, what can I find for so small a cus- 
 tomer ?" The dark, keen eyes were bent on him ; they seemed 
 to read his very thoughts. 
 
 "Oh, if you please, Mr. Pedlar, have you got a book?" 
 
 "A book ?" He shook his head, and Jerry's heart sunk like 
 lead. "It is not a common thing to ask for, but we will see 
 we will see." 
 
 He turned to another part of the great pack, and undoing 
 fastenings, laid back the leather covering and disclosed wares 
 of another kind. Silks, wools, and various materials for 
 working lay on one side, on the other, a few Bibles and Prayer 
 Books, and a small pile of writing paper. The pedlar dipped 
 beneath, and produced a thickish volume of "The Keepsake," 
 a fashionable periodical of the time, elegantly bound in crim- 
 son watered silk, but somewhat stained and tattered. 
 
 "Though where I got it, I cannot say," said its owner, shak- 
 ing his head, and turning the pages thoughtfully. Jerry gazed 
 with excited longing; there were pictures he could see, and 
 big reading. Surely such a volume would be beyond his 
 means. 
 
 "Well?" the black eyes gazed curiously at him. "Shall we
 
 132 When Pan Pipes 
 
 say two shillings ?" A weight lifted itself from Jerry's heart ; 
 he breathed deeply. 
 
 "Oh, thank you, Mr. Pedlar ; yes, that will do nicely." The 
 treasure was handed over ; the money bag produced after much 
 fumbling, and, with fingers trembling with delight, two of the 
 bright shillings were counted out. Betty's ribbon and bottle 
 of scent caused much thoughtful consideration, but at last the 
 bargain was clinched, leaving threepence over, which was in- 
 vested in snuff for the farmer, and Jerry stood, shorn of his 
 riches it is true, but withal a very happy little boy. The pedlar 
 cast a sidelong glance as he stood watching the packing. 
 
 "Do you live here, my leetle boy?" he asked at length. 
 Jerry nodded. 
 
 "But I shan't always. When Margie comes home, we shall 
 live together, and keep pigs and chickens. She's my nurse, 
 you know." 
 
 The pedlar gathered up his goods, folding and packing them, 
 but said nothing. When at last the big straps were pulled and 
 buckled, he turned. 
 
 "You will not always live here, that I can see. I see much ; 
 you will come to London, will you not? And then you will 
 see many wonderful things. You will see great houses, and 
 the great people who live therein, ships, and the big river 
 which brings all the wealth of the world to London. And 
 then your wings will grow big and strong. They are sprout- 
 ing now, I feel them." He touched Jerry's shoulders lightly 
 once twice. "And then, perhaps you will fly away, but 
 not for long, oh, not for long. For once you kom to London 
 city, you must kom again. Will you kom?" The child lis- 
 tened with entrancement in his eyes. The soft tones, the sim- 
 ple words, conjured up magic pictures, vague, bewildering, yet 
 beautiful. 
 
 "Yes, I will come some day, when I am grown up." 
 
 "There are a few years to wait for zat." The pedlar smiled. 
 "But I shall kom again next year, and the next. And if you 
 want more books, I will send them if you write to me. Here
 
 How the Goose-girl Met the Fairy 133 
 
 is my address." He took out a piece of paper, and wrote, 
 giving it to Jerry. By the time the pack was fully strapped, 
 the widow returned; refreshment was provided, and the ped- 
 lar's visit was over gone, like other things, into the past. But 
 the widow and Jerry had lasting signs of its reality, and to 
 each it marked an epoch. 
 
 To Jerry it was like a magician's visit. And what did he 
 mean? Only birds had wings. Surely no, it could not be 
 "that he had used enchantment. That night, when all was still 
 and dark, Jerry crept out of bed, lighted his candle, and stole 
 noiselessly out. Past the witch's door, down the steep steps, 
 and into the warm, sleeping kitchen. As usual, all the things 
 woke. They were alive and grinning at him as he drew off 
 his night clothes, and craning his neck, managed to see the 
 back of his shoulders by the aid of the little glass in which 
 the widow had seen herself clad in soft grey. The glass 
 laughed. He saw so many things, and knew the thoughts 
 which lay behind. Jerry breathed deeply. The fear was gone. 
 There was nothing but the sturdy brown shoulders. He 
 stretched his hands behind to make sure, and, greatly com- 
 forted, went back to bed.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 A KISS FOR THE GOOSE-GIRL, A MASTER FOR THE WITCH, AND A 
 PRISON FOR THE FAIRY 
 
 THE gifts were distributed next day, but long after the 
 snuff was finished and the ribbon worn out, the charm 
 of the pedlar's visit lingered. It shed its halo round Jerry 
 as he dug turnips in the dull November morning, whistling 
 gleefully, and working like a small engine. Farmer Chubbe, 
 passing by, patted his shoulder, and one or two of the older 
 farm men smiled approval and gave words of advice. Nancy 
 brought him a hunch of cake. Altogether Jerry felt that the 
 world was good, and his brain, helped by mechanical exer- 
 cise, worked rapidly. He wondered very much what the ped- 
 lar had meant by his remark about wings, but it was secondary 
 to the great idea which had been suggested. To go to Lon- 
 don, to go into a fairy tale. Why, here, of course, was the 
 reason for saving his pennies. For the future Betty must 
 wait. He would save and save, and then, one day of that 
 he would ask the pedlar he would start off, like the miller's 
 son, to seek his fortune, and come back a great gentleman, 
 with gifts for Betty and all. Oh, but the fairy tales were 
 coming true. Here was romance, at his very feet, only wait- 
 ing to be picked up. 
 
 Time flew rapidly that morning. He was in the thick of 
 calculations, when the field gate opened and Paul came to- 
 wards him. The friendship between the children had ripened 
 quickly. Jerry, strong and sturdy, had acquired a sort of 
 protective affection for the slim delicate boy, combined with 
 admiration for his knowledge of the world and great folk. 
 Paul, utterly free from snobbishness, accepted the homage 
 
 134
 
 A Kiss, a Master, and a Prison 135 
 
 in the spirit of a knight, whose squire may or may not be as 
 well born as himself, but by virtue of fewer years is his serv- 
 ant for the nonce. 
 
 To Betty, both boys were slaves, as becomes a knight and 
 his squire to the princess they serve, and proved herself a 
 veritable little tyrant. In her absence they were as men friends, 
 discussing matters unbiassed by feminine influence. 
 
 "Did pedlar come, Jerry?" asked Paul eagerly. He knew, 
 of course, the whole history of the pennies, and was as inter- 
 ested almost as his friend. Jerry nodded, and, not neglecting 
 his turnips, plunged into details. 
 
 "And, Paul, he says I shall go to London one day. So I 
 am going to save and save, and then I shall set out one morn- 
 ing and seek my fortune." Paul listened entranced, yet with 
 the shadow of a doubt in his mind. 
 
 "But what will you do, Jerry, in London? It's so big, and 
 the people I don't think are so nice as the Cloudesley people." 
 
 "Oh, that wouldn't matter a bit," said Jerry. "You see, I 
 think I shall go straight to the king and ask him if he wants 
 a servant, and I should tell him that I was only a poor little 
 boy, but my daddy was a gentleman. And I'd work, oh, I'd 
 work so hard for him, and I'd watch, so that no one should 
 ever hurt him, and I'd fight for him." Paul, every doubt 
 dispersed by Jerry's earnest conviction, interrupted eagerly. 
 
 "I know, Jerry. You can be one of the king's pages. He 
 always has them. I know a boy who's one." Jerry's eyes 
 opened wide he almost forgot the turnips. 
 
 "And I tell you what." The interest was being fanned 
 into flame. "When you're ready, I'll ask my father to help 
 you, or I know a splendid plan," he moved closer, with 
 eyes lit with the delightful idea, "I'll ask Mary she'll be 
 coming to the Dower House soon and she'll tell the earl 
 all about you, and perhaps he'll speak to the king, and ask 
 him if he's got room for another page." 
 
 Jerry's heart almost stopped beating. Here was a royal 
 road indeed, but a doubt crept in.
 
 136 When Pan Pipes 
 
 "Do you think, will she ? Lady Mary, I mean. She doesn't 
 know me. Do you think she'd do that?" 
 
 "I'm sure she would," answered Paul confidently. "You 
 see, Mary and I are great friends. I like her almost as much 
 as Betty. Lady Kezzy wants me to marry her some day, but 
 I don't think I shall. Besides, my dad says the earl has other 
 plans. Anyhow, she'll do that if I ask her, I'm sure." 
 
 "And you will, oh, Paul, promise you will." 
 
 "I will, Jer; here's my hand. We're friends, you know." 
 And Jerry, wiping his earthy hands on his smock, took the 
 slim white hand and shook it furiously, the colour deepen- 
 ing in his little brown face, and the steady brown eyes dark- 
 ening with affection, and gratitude, and visions, and all sorts 
 of beautiful things. And then Paul had his little bit of gos- 
 sip. 
 
 "I say, Jer, all those people are coming to the Hall to-day. 
 Isn't it horrid? They'll be riding over to our house, and 
 my father and I are asked there to dinner, and I've got to 
 go because Francis Crewe's coming; and oh, Jer, I do hate 
 him so. He's sixteen, and he thinks he's a man, and he smokes 
 and drinks, and all the time he only looks silly. No one likes 
 him, but he's got lots of money. I think he's a sneak." 
 
 "Is he ? What does he do ?" Jerry was hearing wonderful 
 things. 
 
 "Oh, he's cruel to animals for one thing, and he's not truth- 
 ful, and and oh, all sorts of horrid things. I wish he 
 wasn't coming." Jerry could offer no advice. Bad boys of 
 sixteen were creatures apart from his world. He consoled 
 his friend to the best of his ability, but Paul was in the lowest 
 of spirits, and inclined to be irritable on the subject. 
 
 Cloudesley, unchecked by edicts, watched the arrival of the 
 guests that afternoon. In his travelling berlin, with postillions 
 gay in the gorgeous Fleet livery of green and gold, arrived 
 the Marquis of Fleet, accompanied by Captain Culpepper, 
 cousin and heir to the title, also by his friend, Sir Francis 
 Crewe, and his son. The Duke of Flemington drove tandem,
 
 A Kiss,, a Master, and a Prison 137 
 
 and was followed by his brother, Lord Henry Sands, a master 
 whip, whose curvetting, prancing horses and miniature groom, 
 hanging on behind for dear life, afforded infinite interest to 
 the gaping villagers. Colonel Mortimer Hayes drove four-in- 
 hand, bringing the remaining guests with him. 
 
 So, amidst whirling dust and prancing horses, voices, laugh- 
 ter, and the music of horns, the gay party drove through 
 the great gates, up the long chestnut avenue, and the Hall 
 was once more ablaze with light and colour, with the flashing 
 of gorgeous liveries, the reflections of dark, polished floors, 
 the gleam of great mirrors, the glitter of silver and glass, and 
 many-hued flowers. 
 
 Jerry watched with the others, a host of new emotions 
 roused in him. He had no envy of Paul, but the thought 
 would come that Paul was only a little boy like himself, and 
 yet, between their lives, was a great, great gulf. A longing 
 to see the wonders that wealth can bring possessed him. There 
 were marvellous tales afloat of my lord's arrangements for the 
 entertainment of his guests. A certain amount of discontent 
 at the dull routine of the cottage, and a distaste for turnips 
 and cows came upon him; but, above all, something stirred 
 newly, possibly assisted by the pedlar's words, something which 
 grown-up people would call ambition, about which hung a 
 veil of romance, giving other things a commonplace and ugly 
 look. 
 
 Excitement reigned in Cloudesley. Sport was good, and all 
 day long, from fields and covers, came the pop-pop of distant 
 guns. The village was full of strangers, London servants, 
 valets, grooms, and the Cloudesley Arms did a thriving busi- 
 ness. Now and then some of the older guests, those who had 
 visited the Hall as young men, would step inside the inn par- 
 lour to chat with its landlord and drink a glass of old port. 
 
 "Same as your lordship used to like when you was a young 
 man, and stayed at the Hall when I was butler there. I had 
 it from the cellars of His Grace of Wynderley, when his 
 grace's town house was sold to pay the debts of his son."
 
 138 When Pan Pipes 
 
 And the visitor, shaking his head in sympathy with His Grace 
 the Duke of Wynderley, would plunge into gossip of the town, 
 Mr. Chubbe listening deferentially, adding his own little bits 
 of knowledge, and enjoying it all with the zest of one who 
 lives away from the great world. 
 
 A new demon had woke in Betty, a demon of curiosity and 
 love of admiration. Her aunt declared that the last state was 
 worse than the first. No lessons were learned, needlework 
 became well nigh impossible, so hot were the little fingers. 
 In vain were tasks assigned. Betty seized every opportunity 
 to prink herself out in the new ribbon and walk in the street, 
 or lurk in corners near the inn, or, better still, to find an ex- 
 cuse to visit the inn parlour. Mrs. Chubbe was at her wits' 
 ends. 
 
 "Drat the company at the Hall, say I," was her constant 
 remark, "the sooner they're gone the better for Cloudesley. 
 A pack of idle, grinning idiots, an' their masters aren't much 
 better. Nothin' to do but turn the girls' heads, which ain't 
 much trouble, Lord knows, an' make 'em neglect their work, 
 an' that's no difficult thing, neither. It's like Bedlam itself. 
 Folks seem to ha' gone mad." 
 
 But no words affected Betty. The child's temperament 
 needed personal experience; the lesson could only be learned 
 by herself. 
 
 It was one afternoon towards the end of the week. The 
 red curtains of the inn parlour were drawn snugly. Shoot- 
 ing was over for the day, and most of the Hall folk had 
 returned. The Marquis of Fleet and Sir Francis turned in 
 for a chat and rest. Here they were joined by Paul and 
 young Francis, who brought a message for his father. 
 
 The room was comfortable, the gossip interesting, and the 
 two boys lingered, unforbidden. Mr. Chubbe, bustling in and 
 out, produced a cobwebby bottle, Sally brought glasses, and 
 the rich, crimson liquid glowed through the thick cut glass, 
 making the room sweet with its luscious aroma. 
 
 "P'raps the young gentleman will take a glass." The inn-
 
 A Kiss, a Master, and a Prison 139, 
 
 keeper, bottle poised in the air, glanced towards the arm- 
 chair in which the young gentleman lolled, regardless of the 
 marquis's evident disapproval. He accepted with a curt nod. 
 The marquis frowned, Sir Francis took no notice, and the land- 
 lord glanced towards Paul. 
 
 "No, thank you, Mr. Chubbe; my father doesn't allow 
 me to take wine." The marquis nodded approval and the 
 incident passed. The gentlemen sipped their wine slowly and 
 appreciatively; then, gossip being exhausted, donned their 
 heavy cloaks, set out, Sir Francis bidding his son not to be late 
 for dinner. 
 
 Paul hesitated and would have followed, but the other 
 plucked his sleeve, and he stayed. The landlord returned 
 to the cosy room rubbing his hands there was a sting of 
 frost outside refilled his guest's glass, and would have taken 
 up the conversation but that a farm hand arrived with a mes- 
 sage. Mr. Chubbe rose hastily. 
 
 "I hope, gentlemen, you won't take it amiss if I leave you 
 for a few minutes. The boy tells me there's something wrong 
 wi' one o' the cows." 
 
 "All right, Chubbe," Francis Crewe nodded carelessly; 
 "you go along and see after your cow ; we're all right." 
 
 "Thank you, gentlemen, thank you. I won't be long." 
 Francis Crewe looked after him. 
 
 "Old fool ! Who wants him, if he'll leave his wine behind 
 him. Come on, Paul, don't be a milksop. Hold out your 
 glass." 
 
 "I don't want any, Francis ; I don't like it." 
 
 "More fool you." He filled his glass, tossed it off, and 
 refilled it from a second bottle. 
 
 "Old Chubbe knows good wine. So do my dad and the 
 marquis. Wonder how much of the story is true, or whether 
 he nobbed it from the Cloudesley cellars." 
 
 "Francis !" The child's tone was indignant. "How can you 
 think such a thing ?" 
 
 "Ah, Master Milksop, you'll find out things when you're
 
 140 When Pcm Pipes 
 
 as old as I am. Wonder how long the old boy'll be. It's 
 cosy enough here." 
 
 There was a silence. Paul wandered out of the room in 
 search of Betty. That young person, secure in the kitchen, 
 had somehow got wind that grand folk were in the house. 
 Her aunt kept vigilant watch, but the sudden illness of the 
 cow put her off her guard. With a command to the child 
 to stay where she was, Mrs. Chubbe followed her husband 
 to the scene of action. No sooner was she alone than every 
 injunction slipped from Betty's mind. Paul was there she 
 would go and find him. She stepped cautiously across the 
 long passages, no one was about, and reached the parlour 
 without meeting a soul, Paul having gone the front way. 
 
 All was silent. Had the gentlemen gone? Betty's heart 
 sank; all that trouble for nothing. She gently pushed the 
 door and looked in. The room lay in shadow, but a sudden 
 leaping flame revealed its single occupant, and Betty moved 
 further in. The handsome dark face was turned from her, 
 and for some moments she watched, wondering at the fine 
 clothes, the sparkling ring he wore, and the whole graceful 
 negligence of the figure. It was the first time she had seen 
 a gentleman so close. 
 
 He turned, and stretching out his hand for the bottle, 
 suddenly stopped. "Hallo! Where did you spring from? 
 What's your name?" 
 
 "I'm Betty, please sir." 
 
 "Betty ! And who's Betty when she's at home ?" The child 
 stared. 
 
 "I'm just Betty, Betty Chubbe." 
 
 "Oh! so you're Betty Chubbe. Well, then, Betty, since 
 you've sneaked into a gentleman's room, you'd better speak 
 to the gentleman. Come here." 
 
 He beckoned with the sparkling finger, and the child came 
 slowly forward. Here was excitement indeed. He looked 
 her up and down, from tiny elfin feet to elfin gold curls glint- 
 ing in the firelight, and there was something in the bold, in-
 
 A KisSj a Master, and a Prison 141 
 
 solent glance which made Betty, child as she was, shrink back. 
 The boy saw the movement, and catching her dress, drew her 
 nearer. The thought passed through his mind that he would 
 like to see the fire flash in those dark eyes, the colour deepen 
 in the cheeks. 
 
 "D'ye like wine, Betty Chubbe?" he asked; "your dad's 
 wine, kept for gentlemen." She shook her head. 
 
 "I don't know, sir, I've never tasted it." He filled a glass, 
 and handed it to her with a mock bow. 
 
 "Now taste, and say 'Your health, sir.' " The rosy wine, the 
 soft firelight, the glamour of the adventure seized the child. 
 With a little bubbling laugh she took the glass, and sipped, 
 repeating the words. 
 
 "Is it good ?" he asked, still staring at her, and Betty nodded 
 rapturously. 
 
 "Go on, then finish it." She sipped again and again ; then 
 set the glass down. 
 
 "I don't want any more, thank you, sir." Already the rich 
 liquid was doing its work. Some of its crimson mounted in 
 the little face ; the dark eyes grew brilliant. Francis Crewe 
 could hardly take his glance from the beautiful picture. 
 
 "Come here," he commanded, pulling her close. He would 
 have taken her on to his knee, but Betty drew back. 
 
 "What's the matter? Do you think I'm going to hurt you, 
 little silly?" He put his arm round her, but Betty stood firm, 
 and for a moment he desisted. 
 
 "All right, then. Little girls who won't do what a gentle- 
 man asks them must be punished. I shall cut off your curls." 
 Had he searched her inmost mind, he could not have hit on 
 a more telling threat. Her curls the pride of her life. She 
 put up her hands with a gesture of fright. Francis Crewe 
 produced a small pocket-knife. 
 
 "Now, then," he drew her towards him by sheer force ; "and 
 if you scream, or make any noise, I'll cut your pretty little 
 mouth." 
 
 For a moment Betty stood motionless, the colour dying
 
 142 When Pan Pipes 
 
 away, and a look of fear in her eyes. Francis Crewe laughed 
 a cruel, malicious laugh and opened the knife. And then 
 Betty's natural temper, heightened by the wine, asserted it- 
 self. He drew her close, and pulled a curl as though to cut 
 it. At the sudden pull, fierce anger rose in the child. Swoop- 
 ing suddenly, she pounced on the hand which held her, and in 
 a second had fixed four little sharp teeth in it. 
 
 With an oath, the boy dropped the knife, started back, dis- 
 engaging his hand, and in the sudden pain and anger lifted it 
 to strike. Betty, white and shaking, glared at him. Every 
 trace of fear gone fierce rage devouring every other emotion. 
 The blazing eyes, the thin crimson lips, the intense whiteness 
 of her skin, seemed to strike him anew ; the lifted arm dropped, 
 and he laughed maliciously. 
 
 "You little vixen, but you're not going to get off like that. 
 I won't steal your curls, nor hurt you, but damme if you 
 shan't give me a kiss before you go. Two, if you don't do it 
 willingly." Every nerve in Betty's little body tingled with 
 rage. How dare he tease her like that? She, Betty Chubbe, 
 the spoilt child of the inn, who gave her kisses where she 
 chose. 
 
 "Now, then." The boy advanced with a malicious smile 
 on his face. With a choke of rage, Betty sprang forward, 
 doubled up her small fist, and hit him square on the mouth. 
 Laughing spitefully, he caught both hands. A scream, she 
 knew, would probably bring assistance at once, unless they 
 all happened to be with the cow, but Betty preferred, if pos- 
 sible, to fight her own battles. Moreover, she would have to 
 own to humbled pride. 
 
 "I'll bite if you kiss me," she said. But her enemy was un- 
 daunted. 
 
 "Oh, no, you won't, I shall hold your head." He seized 
 her, half laughing, half in real anger. The child struggled, 
 kicking and fighting with all her strength. 
 
 "Little spitfire," he cried, as he held her tightly, and stooped 
 to take the threatened kiss.
 
 A Kiss, a Master, and a Prison 143 
 
 There were footsteps along the tiled passage. For the hun- 
 dredth part of a second he paused. It was enough. Betty 
 gave in and cried out. In an instant Paul was across the 
 room. 
 
 "You you coward! You bully! All right, Betty, don't 
 cry, I'm here. He shan't tease you any more. Let her go." 
 The older boy relaxed slightly, but still held her. 
 
 "Let her go?" he answered with a sneer. "Who says so? 
 She was rude to me, and " 
 
 "Let her go, I say," shouted Paul. "Let her go, or or " 
 
 "Or what?" sneered the other. 
 
 "Or this." Paul's fist was perhaps not so strong as Jerry's, 
 but it was strong enough to cause his opponent to loosen his 
 grasp. Betty slipped away ; the tears were coming now, thick 
 and fast. 
 
 For a moment the big boy dropped back ; then, with a snarl, 
 sprang forward, and in an instant the pent up hatred between 
 a vicious nature and a proud one burst its bonds, and the two 
 were locked in a fierce struggle. Round and round the room 
 they went, struggling, tumbling, swaying, breathing heavily, 
 then gasping in long drawn sighs. Over went the table, chairs 
 fell, ornaments, even the curtains came in for a share, and 
 Betty fled, wildly screaming for help, all pride forgotten in the 
 terrible skirmish. 
 
 In less than five minutes the sick cow was deserted for a 
 worthier cause. Servants and hinds blocked the doorway. 
 Mr. Chubbe, suddenly entering, came in full collision with 
 the combatants, but they saw nothing, knew nothing. Round 
 and round, again and again they went. Francis Crewe, tall 
 and slight, and with the advantage of years, had distinctly the 
 best of it, but Paul, though his nose was bleeding, and the 
 diamond ring had cut his forehead, held on, his breath com- 
 ing in long gasping sobs. 
 
 "Gentlemen, gentlemen, for God's sake, what's it all about?" 
 Almost distracted, Mr. Chubbe made another onslaught, but 
 was again repulsed. Now two of the ostlers rushed in, and
 
 144 When Pan Pipes 
 
 by sheer force separated the boys, holding them tightly in spite 
 of their wild struggles to free themselves. 
 
 "Leave go, sirrah," cried Francis Crewe fiercely. "What 
 do you mean by interfering in a gentleman's quarrel?" The 
 landlord came forward. 
 
 "No, no, sir. You can't fight any more; or if you must, 
 take your quarrels elsewhere. And you, sir," he turned to 
 Paul, "for shame, a little boy like you." 
 
 "You don't understand, Mr. Chubbe." The haughty tone 
 was worthy of an older man. "This gentleman and I have a 
 dispute, about about " he hesitated for a moment, "about 
 a wager. But I acknowledge we had no right to settle it here. 
 I apologise for myself, and " he looked across at the other, 
 who nodded sulkily, "and Mr. Crewe. As for the damage " 
 glancing at the disordered room, "of course, you shall not 
 suffer." 
 
 The landlord stared, half laughing at the haughty tone. 
 He turned it off with a few words, and Paul, still with the 
 grand manner of one older, advanced to his opponent, who, 
 still held by each arm, glared like a tiger. 
 
 "The quarrel, Mr. Crewe, is not ended." 
 
 "No, by God," cried the other passionately; "but," the tone 
 changed to an ordinary boy's, "we'll fight it out another time." 
 It was over. With a sullen ferocious snarl, Francis Crewe 
 shook himself free, and snatching his hat and cloak, strode out. 
 The room emptied, and Paul turned. 
 
 "Good-night, Mr. Chubbe. I couldn't help it. I can't tell 
 you what it was about, but I'm sure you and Jerry would say 
 I did right." He held out his hand ; the landlord, sorely puz- 
 zled, shook it heartily, and helping him into his cloak, saw him 
 to the door. 
 
 Back in the dark, disordered parlour, he stood for a moment 
 looking vaguely at the havoc wrought yet seeing nothing, 
 for his thoughts were far away. Something in his niece's 
 tone and appearance convinced him that she knew more than
 
 A Kiss, a Master, and a Prison 145 
 
 came to the surface. What was she doing there at all ? Mr. 
 Chubbe shook his head slowly and meditatively. "Wimmen, 
 wimmen " he ejaculated musingly. Then, suddenly realis- 
 ing, stooped and picked up some broken bits of glass, ruefully 
 regarding the overturned bottles and stained carpet. 
 
 "There'll be the dickens to pay over this here business," 
 he murmured. And his wife entering suddenly, cordially as- 
 sented. 
 
 "I'll have no more of it," she said. "That child's at the 
 bottom of this. To-morrow, as early as I can get her dressed 
 and you can start, off she goes to Mrs. Plumtre's. She's 
 asked her an' Jerry many a time, an' if widow'll spare him, 
 he shall go too. He'll keep her in order, the saucy baggage. 
 An' she don't come back till every man-jack o' they fine gen- 
 tlemen be gone. A pack o' lazy good-for-nothings, quarrelling 
 an' fightin' here like a couple of pothouse fellows, an' draggin' 
 in the little count. Som'un'll have to warn his father. There'll 
 be mischief done else, or I'm much mistook. You'll ha' to see 
 the count, master." Her husband nodded. 
 
 "This very night, missis. I'll have no blame i' the matter." 
 Within an hour, Mrs. Chubbe had consulted the widow, packed 
 Betty's bundle, and made arrangements to ensure early de- 
 parture. For once, Betty, completely subdued, acquiesced 
 without a murmur. She had learned her lesson, though in 
 learning came bitter humiliation. 
 
 The count, wise man, took little outward notice, caution- 
 ing Matthew Chubbe to do the same. But for the next two 
 days he kept his son at home. The wound, and a certain 
 amount of feverishness, were sufficient reasons. On the third 
 day both father and son left for London, and the fight was 
 forgotten, save by the two most nearly concerned. The 
 smouldering enmity between the boys had blazed up and been 
 extinguished. It had yet to burn itself out. 
 
 Once more the cottage in the lane was tenanted only by 
 its mistress and the black cat. Strangely enough, both missed
 
 146 When Pan Pipes 
 
 the little square figure on the three-legged stool. Tibbie purred 
 round the kitchen, finally making a journey upwards and re- 
 turning unconsoled. 
 
 The widow found the drawing of water and the chopping 
 of wood irksome tasks; even in washing dishes she turned, 
 expecting to see a chubby brown hand stretched out for the 
 dripping utensil. It is true that the grey dress gave her food 
 for thought no light business is the garment with which Sally 
 intends to charm her admirer and when at last it was put 
 on, the red ribbon and lace tucker complete, the widow eyed 
 herself in the bit of glass with a flutter of her heart and a 
 strange emotion, something like the emotion which might rep- 
 resent love in a starfish. 
 
 There was a goose for dinner. Its savoury odours floated 
 out into the damp November morning. Inside the cottage 
 burned bright wood fires. Even the front room couldn't help 
 feeling cheerful, and the armchairs, drawn close to the hearth, 
 each with its crimson hassock and cushion, grinned at each 
 other as though they knew all about it. The widow wound 
 up the jack, popped in potatoes and greens, gave a last stir 
 to the apple sauce, a last peep at the bubbling pudding, mended 
 both fires, and stood waiting for the familiar knock. 
 
 The minister paused almost imperceptibly before entering, 
 but, in that pause, she knew that her new appearance was 
 noticed with admiration. The words of greeting fluttered in 
 her throat and, as the minister took the plump hand jn his, 
 laying his other over it in tender possession, something, which 
 in Sally might be called a blush, crept over the fat cheeks, and 
 the widow's blue eyes dropped beneath his ardent glance. 
 With a smile, meant to be encouraging, he led her into the 
 front room, slightly inhaling the fragrance from the kitchen 
 on the way. He lifted his hands in ecstasy as the blazing fire 
 and comfortable table met his eye. 
 
 "Home, happy, happy home," he murmured. The widow, 
 flattered and bashfully perturbed at the subtle allusion, 
 bridled, smiled modestly, and backed out of the room to dish
 
 A Kiss, a Master, and a Prison 147 
 
 the frizzling goose. Left alone, the minister purred around 
 the room, minutely inspected the spoons and forks, attempted 
 to lift the lid of a bureau, but, finding it locked, shook it, lis- 
 tening carefully for any sound which might betray its con- 
 tents. The smile dropped from his lips it had never been 
 in his eyes and the wild expression of fanaticism changed to 
 one of greed. He raised the horsehair mattress of the sofa, 
 where the widow kept papers, opened the big Bible, and 
 rapidly flicked its leaves, then came back to the fire, and rub- 
 bing his hands slowly together, gazed meditatively into its 
 glowing depths. 
 
 There is something in the atmosphere which tells of a 
 decision made, a step taken. Though the widow's sensitive 
 nerve was about as much developed as that of a sheep, she was 
 conscious of a difference. 
 
 The minister helped her with an air of, "With all my 
 worldly goods, I thee endow," crowning the act with that 
 dainty morsel, commonly known as the "wish bone," and 
 in passing his plate for potatoes, greens, and apple sauce, eyed 
 her with such an amorous look, that the widow's fat hands 
 trembled and the scarlet ribbon fluttered with the unwonted 
 agitation beneath. She regained her composure, however, dur- 
 ing the washing of dishes, and took her usual seat with calm 
 expectancy. 
 
 Sleep that afternoon had fled the little sitting-room. Great 
 events were about, and after a few minutes the widow fidgetted 
 under the burning gaze from the opposite chair. She closed 
 her eyes in vain. They opened mechanically. "Tick, tick; 
 tick, tick," murmured the wooden clock on the mantelshelf, 
 as though it said, "No fool like an old fool." 
 
 Kad Jerry been there he would have seen all the furni- 
 ture come alive in the silence, and wait, grinning malevo- 
 lently. 
 
 The minister nursed a thin bony knee with two thin bony 
 hands, and the widow, breathing hard, dropped her eyes un- 
 der the bold look. "Tick, tick; tick, tick," went the clock,
 
 148 When Pan Pipes 
 
 like a sledge hammer in the silence, "tick, tick," till five min- 
 utes became an eternity, and a kind of hypnotic trance fell 
 over the grey-gowned figure in the chair. "Tick, tick," the 
 hands moved slowly round. Still the minister gazed, and his 
 opposite neighbour subsided into what in Sally would have been 
 a shame-faced ecstasy. 
 
 "Tick, tick; whir-r-r-r " came the warning, then four 
 times the harsh strike, and the silence broke up. With a 
 quick movement the minister sprang to his feet, raised his 
 arms, shook them in passionate gesture, lifted his eyes to 
 the ceiling, and groaned loudly, then flung himself forward 
 on the bony knees and clasped the widow's hand in his. 
 
 "Fairest among women peerless incomparable, whose 
 eyes are as the eyes of doves, whose cheeks are as roses seen 
 through milk, whose whose " Here the minister's similes 
 came to a sudden end. He bent his head and kissed the hand 
 with fervent intensity. The widow turned her head sheep- 
 ishly. 
 
 "This lovely hand, toil-stained with honourable work, bear- 
 ing the impress of ministry to other's needs ; frail, yet strong 
 with the strength of duty done ; beautiful hand, happy indeed, 
 thrice happy, the man who possesses it." 
 
 There was a pause. Mr. Padden collected his thoughts, 
 the widow made a movement, drew her hand away and rose, 
 trembling with agitation. In a moment the minister sprang 
 to his feet, once more possessed himself of both hands, and 
 drew her slowly, slowly nearer. 
 
 "Harriet lovely name. Charming, graceful yet linked 
 with one so unworthy. Hagges! Monstrous, incredible mis- 
 take. But law and the church provide a remedy." He dropped 
 his voice as the widow, fascinated, drew nearer. "Change it, 
 loveliest of women. Take the unworthy name of one un- 
 worthier still, yet who loves thee. Take me, Harriet. I 
 Simeon Padden, lowliest of the lowly ask it. Take me lead 
 me be my darling my wife." Then, with a vague remem- 
 brance of the marriage service, "Wilt thou, Harriet ?"
 
 A Kiss, a Master, and a Prison 149 
 
 The widow trembled like a jelly. In the agitation the front 
 slipped, giving her a rakish appearance. The scarlet bow came 
 untied, even the lace tucker had a frightened droop. The min- 
 ister lifted her hands, and placing them on his shoulders, held 
 them while he whispered the question again. The widow's lips 
 trembled, the words fluttered, then fell on the silence. The 
 minister threw up his arms, gave a loud triumphant cry, and 
 clasped the grey figure to him. With a deep sigh the widow 
 yielded, and the minister put himself into a pose of delirious 
 joy head thrown back, eyes upturned, one hand caressing the 
 front laying on his arm, the other encircling the broad shoul- 
 ders leaning against him. 
 
 So the shadows fell, and perhaps even the widow's dull 
 ears heard a magic strain from deep woods and leafy glades. 
 For to the coarsest natures Pan sometimes sings a song of 
 love. But the minister heard it not. There are ears which 
 hear naught but the strain to which fauns and satyrs dance, 
 the music which has no melody, which only calls to the vilest, 
 
 lowest passions of man. 
 
 ****** 
 
 In nature's scheme, events small and large are of equal 
 value. The wooing of an ant is a small thing, yet, doubt- 
 less, to the ant, the all-important event of the universe to 
 nature also, since it is an event on which hangs the fate 
 of many generations of ants. Had any one told my Lord 
 of Cloudesley that the episode of that Sunday afternoon bore 
 any relation to his own concerns he would have been dismissed 
 in haughty silence. What are important matters to the ant 
 are worlds apart from the lion's daily life. Yet Nature has 
 equal need of each. There is no such thing as comparison 
 in her philosophy. 
 
 My lord's guests were enjoying themselves. The brilliant 
 autumn days proved irresistible, and my lord's hospitality was 
 lavish. My Lady Karen made a stately chatelaine, and her 
 sister, always a lover of life and gaiety, found the change from 
 the dull Dower House vastly to her liking. It was a fortnight
 
 150 When Pan Pipes 
 
 before the party broke up, and then by twos and threes, till 
 only Lord Henry Sands, Captain Culpepper, and Colonel Mor- 
 timer Hayes were left. Though so few guests remained, rigid 
 etiquette still prevailed, not an iota of the stately ceremonial 
 was abandoned even though the party was shorn of its great 
 nobles. But now the last evening was come. The morrow 
 would see a general exodus from the Hall servants, guests, 
 hostesses and Cloudesley would return to its ordinary life. 
 
 In the great drawing-room my Lady Karen sat by a blazing 
 fire of logs. Her embroidery frame stood before her, and 
 the long jewelled fingers flashed among the tinted silks. She 
 wore a purple velvet dress, its folds lying on the huge white 
 rug in gleaming richness. My Lady Kezzy, in stiff grey 
 brocade, sat opposite, a book on her knees, and a little pink 
 flush on her still round cheeks. In the soft light of many can- 
 dles, the room looked the picture of wealthy comfort. 
 
 The click of an opening door roused both ladies. The elder 
 raised her eyes from her work, then dropped them carelessly. 
 Lady Kezzy lifted her head with a small smile to greet her 
 brother. He came leisurely down the room and took up his 
 position on the hearthrug between his sisters, almost facing 
 Lady Karen. In his hand he held an open letter. There was 
 that in his manner which betokened absolute mastery the at- 
 titude of one superior to all around him, accustomed to per- 
 fect obedience, and brooking not the slightest opposition. 
 
 "Karen, I wrote a fortnight ago to Mother Monica." He 
 paused, my lady raised her eyes, and her sister, catching a 
 look in them, loosened her hold on the book, which slid un- 
 noticed to the ground. The earl continued: "To-day, I re- 
 ceived her answer," he tapped the letter slightly with two fin- 
 gers ; "doubtless, you can surmise its purport." 
 
 Lady Karen carefully lifted her frame to one side and rose. 
 Then, crossing the room, she picked up the fallen book, re- 
 placing it on a table. Lady Kezzy's eyes wore a frightened 
 look and she glanced timidly at the dark, stern face of her 
 brother, then at the equally haughty one above her. The earl
 
 A Kiss, a Master, and a Prison 151 
 
 followed each movement and repeated the question. Lady 
 Karen faced him; there was an implied protection in the long 
 jewelled hand resting on the back of her sister's chair. 
 
 "There can be but one answer, Edward," she replied coldly ; 
 "your terms are lavish, and the Order is poor." 
 
 "Yet it seems that the Mother can afford to dictate her 
 own terms," he answered harshly. "She accepts, it is true, 
 but conditionally." Lady Karen's lip curled. 
 
 "Accepts conditionally? Pray, who is Mother Monica that 
 there should be any conditions in accepting as pupil the daugh- 
 ter of the Earl of Cloudesley ?" 
 
 "As you say, there are no conditions in accepting my daugh- 
 ter as pupil." Lady Karen raised her eyebrows. 
 
 "Then?" 
 
 The earl's voice was smooth and even, his words courteous, 
 yet something told of depths beneath. Lady Kezzy listened 
 breathlessly. 
 
 "It may be that I did not fully explain myself. Mother 
 Monica is more than satisfied with the terms offered for board 
 and tuition. She says," he referred to the letter, " 'I am over- 
 whelmed with the munificent terms of your offer, although 
 they are only what might be expected from one who has al- 
 ways been our friend and benefactor. Lady Mary will be re- 
 ceived with open arms, for her own sweet sake, and also for 
 yours, my Lord of Cloudesley, but ' " The hand holding the 
 letter dropped, and the earl resumed his own tone, level cold. 
 "The reverend Mother has scruples, conscientious ones prob- 
 ably," he added, with a slight sneer. "She makes the condi- 
 tion that Mary shall spend her holidays away, and that, at nine- 
 teen, she shall live for a year in the world, in order, she says," 
 here again crept in the note of sarcasm, "that she may know 
 something of its temptations. After that, if she is willing, and 
 I still hold the same views for her future, she shall be received 
 back as a novice." 
 
 He paused, and gazed steadily into the face confronting him. 
 Lady Kezzy made a slight sound, and half rose, but her sis-
 
 152 When Pan Pipes 
 
 ter's hand on her shoulder gently pushed her down. Lady 
 Karen stepped forward, as cold, as haughty, as masterful now 
 as her brother, yet her first words were tactful, even gentle. 
 
 "Edward I hoped I thought that this wild, wicked 
 scheme had been abandoned. You have not mentioned it for 
 years. In the first pangs of sorrow, the first heat of anger, I 
 could understand. But surely, time, with its healing powers, 
 has cured the wounds. Would you wreak your vengeance 
 on a defenceless child? It is not worthy of you, Edward. 
 Surely you, head of one of the oldest families of England, can 
 afford to be above such pettiness." The earl smiled grimly. 
 
 "You mistake me, sister. My laws, once passed, can be 
 broken only by myself. For me exist no barriers. As you 
 say, I am above such pettiness. Nevertheless, in this case, 
 as my opinions differ not by the fraction of a hair's breadth 
 from what they were eight years ago, I do not change. Had 
 Mary been a boy it might have been different. Had you, 
 Keziah," he turned fiercely to the cowering grey figure in the 
 shadow, "obeyed my will this would not have happened. As 
 it is, the title passes," he shrugged his shoulders, "I hardly 
 know to whom. And Mary, with her dowry, and every penny 
 yes every penny," he repeated slowly, "shall go to enrich 
 the Order of St. Quentin, and, incidentally, the Convent of 
 St. Monica. This is my will. See that Jt is respected." 
 
 With a gesture of finality he turned on his heel. A sudden 
 movement from the dim corner caused him to halt in some 
 surprise. Lady Kezzy, moving with quick, agitated steps to- 
 wards him, threw herself on her knees, the tears in her soft 
 blue eyes, the sweet lips quivering. 
 
 "Brother, oh, my dear brother, think think, before you 
 do this thing. Think of Mary's bonny face, her pretty ways, 
 of her love for us, for Cloudesley, for you. Would you shut 
 her up in all the pride of her youth and beauty, deny to her 
 God's gifts of love, of wifehood, motherhood? Edward, it is 
 a living death you offer her ; good indeed for those who have 
 tasted the bitterness of life, for those weary ones who seek
 
 A Kiss, a Master, and a Prison 153 
 
 rest, for the storm-tossed, who long for peace; but for 
 Mary" 
 
 "Tush!" ejaculated the earl, drawing his hand away. But 
 Lady Kezzy was fairly launched. Impatiently, almost against 
 his will, he was compelled to listen. 
 
 "Ah, brother, don't do it. Bury your pride, your hatred. 
 Let Mary come here with the knowledge that it is her home, 
 while it is yours. Give her " 
 
 "Stop." The word came like thunder, and Lady Kezzy, 
 spent with the unusual emotion, shrank back. 
 
 "Do you dare to speak thus to me, the head of the house? 
 You are mad as mad as those women who brought the curse 
 upon Cloudesley ; as mad as she who forsook all I gave her 
 all this !" he made a comprehensive gesture, "for poverty 
 shame; as mad as your sister, who crept like some scullion 
 to a forbidden tryst. Mad as you were, thirty years ago, 
 when you refused Ross of Ardelimar. For that you suffer 
 now. I tell you, Keziah, had you married him, this might 
 have been averted, for your son, had you had one, would, 
 through his father, have inherited Cloudesley. As it is, Ross 
 is old childless, to all intents and purposes and Cloudes- 
 ley " for the first time emotion showed in a stifled groan, 
 "Cloudesley descending in a straight line for ten generations, 
 passes to an unknown heir." 
 
 There was a slight pause. The earl's breath came thick 
 and fast; Lady Kezzy, in her chair, wept quietly. My Lady 
 Karen, resting her arm on the mantelpiece, gazed scornfully 
 from one to the other. Presently my lord spoke again, and 
 his voice was as usual. 
 
 "To-night I write to the reverend Mother, accepting her 
 terms. My daughter shall see the world, shall know some- 
 thing of it, and if she finds it hollow, the better pleased will 
 she be to seek safe shelter." 
 
 "And if not?" Lady Karen broke in, her voice as even, as 
 emotionless, and frigid as her brother's. My lord turned with 
 a shrug.
 
 154 When Pan Pipes 
 
 "If not, then Mother Monica will have herself to blame. 
 And now, ladies," he glanced at the ormolu timepiece which 
 stood on the richly carved mantelpiece, "I must leave you. 
 My guests, no doubt, are wondering at my absence." 
 
 He bowed courteously, but with a touch of sarcastic mock- 
 ery, with the knowledge, too, of unlimited power to crush 
 whatever dared to pit itself against his will. Yet, even as 
 he raised his head, my Lady Karen confronted him, her dark 
 eyes almost even with his fearless, purposeful, decisive. For 
 a moment they looked at each other, then she spoke. 
 
 "Edward, is this your final answer?" He inclined his head. 
 
 "And there is no alternative; no other way?" 
 
 "None whatever." Lady Karen paused. 
 
 "And in the event of your death?" she asked at length. 
 
 The earl smiled. 
 
 "I am still a young man, my sister, not yet forty. I shall 
 not die. Yet I have made provision. Mary will obey my 
 will or go penniless. Her dowry, in any case, passes to the 
 Order." 
 
 "She will not be penniless while we live," retorted my lady 
 sharply. Again the earl smiled. 
 
 "You may perhaps remember, sister, that you are some fif- 
 teen years my senior, also that the Dower House and its 
 revenues are not at your disposal." 
 
 "No." Lady Karen's voice was still hard and cold. "Yet 
 Mary will inherit our personal property." 
 
 "A beggarly three hundred a year," sneered my lord. 
 
 "Sufficient with our savings to keep her, should love prove 
 stronger than obedience." The earl turned fiercely upon her, 
 his dark face working. 
 
 "My God, Karen, do you dare to taunt me? You, who 
 have always been a model of discretion and wisdom. Lis- 
 ten, both of you." He brought his hand down with a crash 
 on a small table near, making its silver ornaments ring. 
 "The subject is closed. My word is law. I acknowledge no
 
 A Kiss, a Master, and a Prison 155 
 
 superior. I brook no opposition." Lady Karen, undaunted, 
 spoke again. 
 
 "You may not acknowledge a superior, Edward. Never- 
 theless, you are led by one who is stronger than you, who 
 strives for a great cause. It is Father Francis, who has worked 
 on your better feelings, and done this wicked, cruel thing." 
 The earl's eyes blazed with wrath. Had a glance killed, my 
 lady would have said no more. For a moment he stood ir- 
 resolute. Then, with a mighty effort, he subdued his anger. 
 
 "Again I repeat, I own no superior. Father Francis has 
 my welfare at heart, the welfare of my family. It seems to 
 me that the matter is at an end." 
 
 "Not quite." Lady Karen drew herself to her full height, 
 her small head poised itself haughtily, the dark eyes glowed. 
 "I also own no superior. I also make my own laws, and 
 in this matter, Edward, I stand firm. It is I and " she 
 hesitated, glancing at the grey figure in the shadow, "Keziah 
 against you and Father Francis." The earl smiled grimly. 
 He was himself again. "So. We understand each other, sis- 
 ter. On this matter, it is war to the end." 
 
 "War to the end," repeated my lady. 
 
 "Then time alone will show the victor. Once more, ladies, 
 I bid you good-night." 
 
 He strode calmly to the door, opened it and let himself 
 out. The two women watched. Then, as the door shut, Lady 
 Karen gathered up her silks, closed her frame, and with a 
 curt good-night, followed his example. For a few minutes 
 Lady Kezzy sat on. Then rising, she opened the great win- 
 dow and stepped on to the terrace. A frosty moon hung in 
 the heavens; bathed in its silvery light, and seen through a 
 mist of autumn, Cloudesley lay dreaming, a picture of peace- 
 ful happiness. Yet beneath, my lady knew, lay sorrow, weari- 
 ness, cruelty, all the ills of this mortal flesh. She sighed as 
 she gazed on the beautiful scene; here, at least, she was at 
 liberty to throw off obedience and conjure up remembrance.
 
 156 When Pan Pipes 
 
 All the past rose before her. Mima, the dear young sister 
 who had taken her life into her own hands, and for love, 
 defied her brother's anger, counting the world well lost. 
 Where was she now? Lady Kezzy sighed again. Surely, 
 surely, sometime she would come back. The tears flowed 
 thick and fast ; through the mist little Mary's face laughed into 
 hers, and my lady clenched her small fingers. Never never 
 should Mary suffer as those other women had suffered. And 
 yet, might it not be better to suffer and love than know noth- 
 ing but unemotionless monotony? 
 
 She lifted her head with a perplexed look. Out on the clear 
 air Church Clock struck midnight, and to my lady's ears came 
 the sound of Pan's piping. Light, airy, as the tripping of 
 fairies' feet, heavy as the music of fauns and satyrs, melan- 
 choly, lonely, yet with a note underneath of something differ- 
 ent a note which stirred in my lady's heart, dispersing some 
 of its misery. For through nature runs ever a trickling thread 
 of gold, lighting the whole, and men call it Hope. So my 
 lady turned to the house, and, gathering up her book, sought 
 her room.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 OF SOME ODDS AND ENDS WHICH PIECE THE STORY TOGETHER 
 
 CLOUDESLEY was itself again. My lord's guests had 
 scattered to the four winds of heaven, and Mr. Chubbe 
 had been dispatched to fetch home Jerry and Betty. Re- 
 luctantly Mrs. Plumtre let them go. 
 
 "For they be dea-ar children, farmer," said she. "Little 
 miss do like her own way, to be shu-ar; but then, 'tis nat- 
 ural." 
 
 Betty's tongue, as usual, went apace. Jerry even broke in 
 with tales of the wonderful holiday they had had. Mrs. 
 Plumtre was evidently an adept in the art of spoiling, and 
 Miss Betty responded nobly. Jerry, it appeared, had held 
 long conversations with his hostess, gleaning much informa- 
 tion as to the running of an inn, the baiting of horses, and the 
 management of grooms. 
 
 "I think," continued Jerry solemnly, "that when I'm grown 
 up, quite grown up, you know, after I've been a king's page, 
 I shall be an innkeeper. Mrs. Plumtre says she'll learn me 
 the business. That's what her son ought to have been, only 
 he went away." 
 
 Mr. Chubbe nodded gravely. He knew the wretched story. 
 A spoiled child, money wasted and borrowed, and the fear 
 of a debtor's prison, mingled with shame and a certain respect 
 fo r his mother, causing a night flitting all so common, yet 
 none the less sad. 
 
 "Of course," went on the quiet little voice, "I shall go to 
 London first ; I told pedlar I would. But I've promised Mrs. 
 Plumtre to look for her son, and I'm quite sure I shall find 
 him some day." 
 
 157
 
 158 When Pan Pipes 
 
 Mr. Chubbe gazed abstractedly before him, clicking his 
 tongue so many times at Jenny, the mare, that she turned a 
 wondering head. Betty babbled on unheeded. 
 
 "So you're going to leave us, laddie," he said, after a long 
 silence. Jerry looked up. 
 
 "Yes, Mr. Chubbe. You see, I must earn some money; 
 I want such a lot, and I want to see London. But I shan't 
 go yet, not till I'm twelve, an' I shall often come back an' 
 see you all." The farmer shook his head and sighed thought- 
 fully. 
 
 "Well, well 'tis right, laddie. Young things must try their 
 wings. But 'tis hard on the old birds when the little ones 
 leave the nest. Yes, 'tis cruel hard," he added musingly. 
 Then suddenly changing his tone, "Come, Jenny, come. Most- 
 ways home, lass ; put thy best foot foremost." 
 
 And Jenny flew like the wind, causing the children to hold 
 on tight, screaming delightedly, and the journey ended amidst 
 peals of laughter, clattering hoofs, and shrill childish voices, 
 gleeful for home and for the welcome awaiting them. Lazy 
 Betty found it hard to go back to primer and slate. There 
 was much pouting and many tears before the old Adam was 
 finally mastered. Mrs. Chubbe declared that she was worse 
 than ever, and administered whippings freely. 
 
 Jerry, on the contrary, delighted in the regular exercise 
 again. Much had happened in his absence. Fields were 
 cleared, stubble ploughed in, and most things prepared for 
 winter rest. He was free now to enjoy the book. At Mrs. 
 Plumtre's there had been no time, although he had care- 
 fully packed it in his bundle. Now he returned to it with 
 keen satisfaction. The reading, at present, was beyond him, 
 but the pictures were understandable. 
 
 There was one which appealed strongly to his imagination. 
 An old castle, standing high on a mountain side, lone, bare, 
 grand in its isolation; a very setting for a tale. Jerry peo- 
 pled it with giants, fairies, knights, and all the fairy folk of 
 the stories. There were other pictures, too, which he knew
 
 Some Odds and Ends 159 
 
 were places belonging to the castle. A great hall, full of 
 marvellous things; antlers (Jerry called them horns), pictures, 
 tall dark benches, and a fireplace so big, that he wondered if 
 they could ever find enough sticks to fill it. In front lay two 
 dogs, giving it a touch of reality. There were other views, 
 but the one which attracted him most was evidently part of the 
 gardens. Lawns, with spreading trees, sloped to a running 
 stream, and on one was assembled a group of people who 
 interested Jerry keenly. A tall man, dressed in a funny kind 
 of dress, short-skirted as a girl's, with strange stockings and 
 something thrown round him like a shawl. A little boy 
 dressed in the same fashion stood by him, his arm round a 
 dog's neck. Jerry decided that they must be Indians. A lady 
 sat near, probably the little boy's mother, but with nothing 
 very remarkable about her. Underneath was written an in- 
 scription, and carefully spelling it out, he read, "Lord Ross of 
 Ardelimar Castle, with his wife, and son and heir, Gervaise." 
 
 Over these Jerry pored at every available opportunity, till 
 he had pieced the pictures together and made a whole, which 
 perhaps differed as much from the original as Ardelimar Cas- 
 tle did from Cloudesley Hall. 
 
 Life was growing very full indeed for Jerry. The book 
 only formed a small part. There was work, plenty of it, as 
 the winter broke; and work meant pennies, even shillings. 
 Then there was my lady's school, and here also was so much 
 to be learned that Jerry's head fairly buzzed. 
 
 He was having drawing lessons. Lady Kezzy, detecting 
 a budding genius, supplied them, also materials, and the small 
 pupil took to it as a duck takes to water. Modelling clay 
 was also procured, and casts which grinned at him while 
 they eluded every attempt to copy. Jerry made up his mind 
 that he would be master, and though the difficulty was so 
 great, each effort was a step nearer. One day, he thought, 
 they'll have to give in and let me copy them. 
 
 Then, too, a letter had to be written to Margery. His writ- 
 ing began to look quite grown up, and when at last the letter
 
 160 When Pan Pipes 
 
 was closed and sealed with a seal borrowed from the school, 
 and some of the precious pennies spent for postage, Jerry be- 
 gan to feel that London and independence were indeed loom- 
 ing near. 
 
 It was in the spring time that a change came, the change 
 which was but the first of many. Ever since Jerry had lived 
 in the cottage he had been used to hearing the widow's name 
 mentioned, sometimes with a mysterious smile or a half laugh. 
 At first it had heightened his suspicions that she was a witch, 
 but latterly, since commonsense told him that that was but 
 a fancy belonging to his childish days, he had sometimes won- 
 dered what was the reason. It may be added as a slight de- 
 tail that the old lurking doubts sometimes revived, at night 
 for instance, or when the broomstick was absent from the 
 cupboard, more particularly in that silent hour when he sat on 
 his three-legged stool modelling clay, while the widow dozed 
 and all the inanimate things came alive. 
 
 One Monday afternoon Jerry came home from work. He 
 changed his heavy boots for thinner ones the widow allowed 
 no dirt in her house, and Margery's teachings still lingered 
 had his tea, and took up his usual position. The widow fin- 
 ished her washing up and subsided into the red-cushioned 
 chair. Jerry worked on, then suddenly became conscious that 
 all was not as usual. Nothing had woke up, and glancing 
 quickly round, he found that the widow's blue eyes were open 
 and watching him. It was embarrassing, bringing back mem- 
 ories of that bitter time so long ago. Too polite, however, to 
 say anything, he went on with his work till supper time. The 
 next evening was the same. On the third the widow spoke. 
 
 "Is it a bowl you're making, child?" He said it was, and 
 politely showed her the wonderful curves and hollows, so 
 beautiful yet so difficult of achievement. How much the 
 widow understood was doubtful, but she creased and un- 
 creased her cheeks and mouth, and nodded many times, still 
 watching. On the next two nights it was the same, till Jerry
 
 Some Odds and Ends 161 
 
 began to wonder if some wakeful imp possessed her. On the 
 Saturday came the explanation. 
 
 "Little boy." Jerry looked up, surprised at the hesitation, 
 also at a certain something in the voice. Something softer, 
 more thoughtful, even intelligent. 
 
 She sat forward, grasping both arms of the chair, and, 
 gazing into the fire, shook her head doubtfully. 
 
 "I dunno rightly how to tell you, an' that's the truth." 
 Jerry dropped his modelling and stared. Mrs. Hagges re- 
 moved her glance from the fire and looked sheepishly down- 
 wards. Never had Jerry beheld so many creases. On the 
 ample spread of gown before her she drew patterns with a 
 fat forefinger. Presently she spoke again, in a would-be 
 coquettish tone. 
 
 "What would you say, little boy, if I told you I was agoin' 
 to git married again?" In moments of excitement the widow's 
 polished accents were apt to lose themselves. 
 
 "Get married!" gasped Jerry. It was beyond conception. 
 Sally or Nanny might, probably would do so, but an old woman, 
 and an ugly old woman, he told himself. "Get married!" he 
 repeated stupidly. She nodded coyly. 
 
 " 'Tan't anything after all to be surprised at. I'm only 
 thirty-five, or thereabouts." Mrs. Chubbe might have disputed 
 the fact, but to Jerry, thirty-five was much the same as seventy- 
 five. 
 
 "There's Hester Dyke, up at the village there " with a 
 jerk towards the window, "a'most as old as me, an' never 
 wed before, an' she's got married, an' a fine figure of a man 
 is he." 
 
 The comparison was not, to Jerry's mind, favourable to the 
 bride elect. He rather liked Hester Dyke ; she had often asked 
 him to go and see her, and the widow always had some rea- 
 son against it ready. But Hester never passed him without 
 stooping and kissing him, thereby adding another to her train 
 of admirers; and the worship of a small boy for beauty far
 
 162 When Pan Pipes 
 
 exceeds that of many an older man. He turned matters over. 
 If Mrs. Hagges were really going to get married, why nat- 
 urally some one else was about to do the same thing." 
 
 " Wh who are you going to marry, m'am ?" he stammered 
 out at length. The widow hung a bashful head. 
 
 "Why, child, his name's Simeon, which, though it's out o' 
 the Bible, ain't a very pretty name. But there you can't have 
 everything. Simeon Simeon Padclen," she repeated musingly. 
 Jerry's heart sank. He knew the long, black-coated figure 
 slightly, and, with a child's true instinct, disliked its owner. 
 The minister's would-be dulcet tones, the touch of his lank, 
 kid-gloved fingers on Jerry's head were disagreeable, almost 
 repulsive. Quickly the little brain worked, framing a ques- 
 tion. 
 
 "Will you live at Mr. Bray's, m'am ?" She tossed her head 
 disdainfully. Even a worm has instincts, and there had been 
 enmity between Harriet Hagges and Hester Bray. 
 
 "La, no, child. He'll come here. It's not far from Meetin' 
 House, an' I'll lay he'll be a sight more comfortable than 
 George Bray can make him. Pork an' beans for his dinner, 
 an' cold for his supper an' that's all he or Hester know about 
 a man's stomach. No, no, he'll be better here ; an' I couldn't 
 leave the cottage, I've lived in it since I was first married, 
 an' that's twenty-five years come June next." Which was 
 curious when compared with another statement. There was 
 a silence. Another question was trying to frame itself in 
 Jerry's mind, but it did not get beyond a few hesitating words. 
 
 "And and when?" 
 
 "When will it be?" Mrs. Hagges finished the sentence. 
 "Well, 'twon't be yet awhile. Though if I did but say the 
 word 'twould be to-day. Only last Sunday he says, 'Harriet, 
 name the happy day/ But there's a new rug to be made, an' 
 the chicks comin' on, an' the potatoes to be planted. No, 
 'twon't be till summer, nohow." 
 
 Jerry breathed ; it was a respite. Margie, of course, would 
 be back then, and they would live together with the pigs and
 
 Some Odds and Ends 163 
 
 chickens till he was twelve, which was not for nearly two 
 years. And then, hey, for London City and all its wonders! 
 
 "And now," said the widow, sitting back, "don't ask me 
 any more questions." 
 
 She put her head against the cushion ; Jerry returned to his 
 modelling, his head full of new ideas. In a moment the si- 
 lence fell and the inanimate things woke up. Oh, how they 
 grinned and jeered! They had been listening, no doubt, and 
 Jerry felt almost inclined to join with them. 
 
 Mr. Padden confined his courting to Sundays. He had 
 never visited the cottage on week days, and neither he nor 
 the widow saw any reason for altering arrangements. So 
 that, to all intents and purposes, things went on in the same way. 
 
 In its monotony, time flew. Morning after morning Jerry 
 woke wondering if the day would bring Margery's letter, 
 night after night he went to bed wondering why it had not. 
 Didn't Margery love him any more, or was she sorry she 
 had promised to come back? Mrs. Chubbe suggested that she 
 was married, but her husband shook his head, and when Jerry 
 left the room, pursed up his lips and whispered a grim word. 
 
 "Nonsense," said his wife, turning nevertheless a shade 
 paler. "Ill news travels fast. We should have heard. Mark 
 my words, Matthew, something's happened to prevent her 
 writing. Some fine day she'll turn up." But Mr. Chubbe still 
 shook his head. 
 
 Over the hills and into the woods crept Spring again. Nights 
 grew warm and short; Church Clock only struck five dark 
 hours; north wind and east wind shouted round him till one 
 day west wind and south wind drove them laughing away. 
 But Church Clock's face was grave that day. In vain did the 
 merry winds play about his tower. Grave, too, was the bril- 
 liant yellow face which rose beside him that summer night, 
 grave and cloudy. 
 
 "Church Clock, Church Clock," it cried, "are you still watch- 
 ing?" 
 
 "Still watching, friend," came the quiet answer.
 
 164 When Pan Pipes 
 
 "Ah, then you don't know you don't know." 
 
 Church Clock turned his grave face. 
 
 "I know, friend, I know. The prairie grass rustled and 
 whispered it to the east wind; east wind told south wind, 
 and hand in hand they told it to me." 
 
 "But I saw it," cried the Moon, "I saw it, Church Clock. 
 Oh, listen listen, while I tell you. Last night I rose across 
 the seas. Fair rolled the wide prairie under my silver light. 
 A little band of pioneers had made their camp; they were 
 going north to a friendly tribe with whom they hoped to 
 trade. The tribe had sent an escort, but it was not strong 
 enough. Even as I rose, among the - high grass came the 
 flutter of feathers, the glint of spear heads. Ah, Church 
 Clock, Church Clock, how can I tell it? They killed the 
 men and took the women captive. And the children, little 
 ones like those sleeping yonder " He buried his face in a 
 passing cloud, and for a space there was silence. Church 
 Clock ticked slowly on, then struck the hour. 
 
 "Be cheered, friend," he said; "they, too, sleep dream- 
 less, happy sleep. Mother earth bore them, and sooner or 
 later all things return to her brown bosom. They shall come 
 again, even as all things come again. They but rest awhile." 
 
 "But Margery oh, Church Clock, what of Margery and 
 Jean?" Church Clock paused before answering. 
 
 "It's hard, friend, it's hard. Yet it will pass, as all things 
 pass." 
 
 "But it leaves marks, Church Clock." 
 
 "Aye it leaves marks. Nature works by cruelty. Only 
 love dares to fight against it. And the two for ever wage war 
 against each other." 
 
 "And who is the stronger?" asked the Moon eagerly. 
 Gravely, solemnly, answered Church Clock: 
 
 "Love, friend. For love is stronger than anything. Love 
 governs the world. Margery will come back, for love will 
 draw her. And Jean will pass behind the curtain to where
 
 Some Odds and Ends 165 
 
 love waits. Dost understand, friend ?" And the Moon, emerg- 
 ing from a bank of dark clouds, shone brilliantly. 
 
 "I understand, Church Clock," he whispered; "I under- 
 stand."
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 THE MINISTER COMES TO THE COTTAGE AND THE KNIGHT 
 RIDES AWAY 
 
 THE widow never alluded to her love affair again. Jerry 
 sometimes wondered if he had dreamt it all. There was 
 nothing to show the contrary. But it was no dream. One 
 late summer afternoon the widow met him at the garden gate. 
 It was unusual, but Jerry, wholly unsuspicious of the real cause, 
 thought perhaps Margery's long looked- for letter had arrived. 
 She wore her Sunday dress of grey, the red ribbon fluttering 
 gaily at her throat, her face was very creasy, and the double 
 chins seemed to convey an extraordinary feeling of satisfaction 
 and well-being. She beckoned with a fat forefinger, and whis- 
 pered mysteriously: 
 
 "Tea's in the parlour to-night, there's hot cakes ; an' some- 
 one's in the kitchen." 
 
 Margery oh, how Jerry's heart beat. He flew opened the 
 kitchen door with a face of beaming delight, and there, in 
 the centre of the new cloth rug, stood a long, black-coated 
 figure. In the hideous reaction, the child's mind refused to 
 work, the room swam before him, and only the repulsive touch 
 of those thin bony fingers on his head recalled him to his 
 surroundings. The minister turned up the whites of his eyes, 
 and extending the remaining hand towards the ceiling, began 
 a ranting tirade which the occasion warranted. When, to- 
 wards the end, he advanced and would have embraced him, 
 Jerry recoiled. 
 
 "Father lovely word! Child " he placed his hands on 
 Jerry's shoulders and gazed with devout fervour into the 
 
 166
 
 The Cottage 167 
 
 little upturned face, "let me hear that word. Say after me, 
 'Father.' " Jerry shook his head. 
 
 "I'm very sorry, sir, but you see I couldn't call you father, 
 because my real father's gone away, and you are not my fa- 
 ther." 
 
 For the fraction of a second something crept into the black 
 eyes, something sinister, evil, and as Jerry shrank back, it 
 was gone. He moved away. The minister smiled, then sighed 
 deeply. 
 
 "Alas! some day " he clasped his hands together, lifting 
 them high, "some day " He broke off as his wife entered, 
 bashfully beaming, and flew to her side with all a lover's 
 ardour while she drew the cakes from the oven. Holding 
 the dish before her, much in the fashion of a sacrifice, she led 
 the way ; the minister followed gesticulating, and Jerry brought 
 up the rear. The meal was superb; never had Jerry seen 
 such a spread, and the newly-married couple did full justice 
 to it. There were interruptions, it is true. The minister, 
 every now and then would catch the plump fingers in his, 
 carrying them to his mouth, playfully pretending to bite them. 
 The widow never would Cloudesley bring its tongue to call 
 her by any other name retorted archly, "Get along wi' you 
 do." Sometimes this was accompanied by a sportive box on 
 the ears, provocative of further gallantries. Jerry kept his 
 eyes on his plate. It was not amusing, and certainly very 
 silly. He ate his tea, scornfully superior, yet with the un- 
 comfortable embarrassment of a child who sees its elders be- 
 have in an undignified manner. 
 
 He grew used to it, even to the occupation of the arm- 
 chair by two instead of one. No longer did the widow doze 
 peacefully. There were whisperings, pauses, and more whis- 
 perings, and Jerry missed the quiet hour. No longer did the 
 inanimate things awake, no longer did Tibbie wear the in- 
 scrutable expression of a witch's cat. In fact, to a certain 
 extent, the air of mystery was gone from the house. The 
 minister made work. There was mending and darning, to
 
 168 When Pan Pipes 
 
 say nothing of extra dainties to be prepared. The widow 
 showed herself in new lights. Active she never was, but the 
 comfortable, leisurely tread disappeared. There was hurry in 
 it now much to be done, ' and very little time to do it in. 
 Mr. Padden came punctually to his meals, and the widow 
 strained every nerve to be ready. The loud, unpleasant voice 
 lifted itself continually in grace, prayers, or general rhapso- 
 dizing. How Jerry hated it! He counted the months to his 
 twelfth birthday twenty months, a lifetime. It was unfor- 
 tunate, too, that it came in November. He would so much 
 rather have started in the early dawn of a summer morning. 
 The new state of things at the cottage soon began to be an 
 old state, so quickly does habit adapt itself. And then again, 
 gradually, imperceptibly, till it was accomplished, came another 1 
 change. 
 
 The minister developed a cold. The widow abdicated from 
 the red-cushioned chair, and the quiet hour was devoted to 
 strong mustard and water, hot gruel, and linseed poultices. 
 The ailment lasted several days, and the widow's heavy feet 
 toiled wearily up and down stairs, from kitchen to back'us 
 again. After a few days the cold mended, and the minister 
 went about his business as usual. The event marked an epoch. 
 The days were lengthening; duty called Mr. Padden, and he 
 tore himself away. 
 
 But it was not duty; the few days spent without seeing 
 Hester Dyke had developed the old liking into something 
 warmer. She was lost to him, and, as usual, the desire for 
 a thing grows in proportion to the difficulty of obtaining it. 
 Knowing her power, she kept him at arm's length, yet always 
 with a suggestion of relaxation postponed. The dulness of 
 the cottage and his wife, palled upon a restless, uncontrolled 
 nature, and the minister took to spending his days away 
 where, he alone knew. The widow asked no questions, but 
 once more occupied the armchair in solitary comfort, and Jerry, 
 on the three-legged stool, looked for old times. In vain. She 
 never slept again ; her eyes sought the clock, her ears listened
 
 The Cottage 169 
 
 to catch the faintest sound, for at any time the minister was 
 liable to return and demand a meal. The peace of the cottage 
 was gone, and Jerry grew to realise that calm monotony had 
 distinct advantages. Also a strange note crept into the atmos- 
 phere already tuned to a different key, the note of fear, al- 
 though it was not for many weeks that he recognised it. 
 
 As the summer came nearer, the minister's absences grew 
 more and more prolonged. There were days when he only 
 came in for his dinner and supper. Yet at times he would 
 hardly stir from the house, and it was at those times that 
 the widow's face wore a different expression. It hardly ever 
 creased and uncreased nowadays, and sometimes, to Jerry's 
 childish mind, it seemed to be smaller, less florid, and the blue, 
 lack-lustre eyes even duller and more aqueous. 
 
 That summer the geese looked after themselves. Betty was 
 getting a big girl, her aunt said, and must go to school all 
 day ; Jerry, too, was worthy of better work. 
 
 He was at his old occupation, digging potatoes, one autumn 
 morning. In the distance a plough was making its way across 
 a field, the fresh brown earth contrasting with the pale, un- 
 ploughed stubble. The trees, half naked, showed lacy outlines 
 against a thin blue sky, white-clouded. Beech woods sur- 
 rounding the Hall were rich in gold and red, and cabbage 
 fields, in the near distance, changed, gleamed iridescently, like 
 great scales of a giant fish. 
 
 Jerry, as usual, worked contentedly, filled with the beauty 
 of the day and all sorts of speculations as to the glorious 
 future drawing so near. Something entered into his thoughts, 
 something unpleasant, causing, what Mrs. Chubbe called, "a 
 wet blankety feeling." Raising his head he knew the cause. 
 The minister, passing, had seen him, and now lifted the wooden 
 gate and turned in. Jerry worked on, conscious that the black 
 figure was approaching had reached him, and was watching. 
 
 Still he kept on, vaguely determined that his visitor should 
 be the first to break the silence. For some minutes he worked 
 steadily down the row, digging and lifting out the earthy
 
 170 When Pan Pipes 
 
 masses, shaking them till the brown potatoes were free to be 
 cast on the stacked heap. Mr. Padden followed him; the 
 unctuous smile was on his lips, but the blazing eyes were dulled 
 to commonplace; he was there for a purpose. Presently he 
 spoke. 
 
 "Boy for what does man work?" Jerry raised himself, 
 spade in hand, slightly puzzled by the question, but ascribing 
 it to the minister's usual speech. 
 
 "I expect people work to keep their families. Mr. Chubbe 
 does, an' I work 'cos I like it, an' 'cos I want to get money." 
 Mr. Padden fell back; he was not used to direct answers. 
 Still smiling suavely, he looked down at the sturdy figure, and 
 Jerry started, in such contrast was the cold evil look behind 
 the thin smiling lips. It vanished so quickly that he wondered 
 if it had ever been there. 
 
 "Aye, to be sure, to be sure." Then with a deep sigh, 
 "Alas, that it should be so; that man should work for no 
 higher reward than useless dross. Still since you desire such 
 paltry recompense this yellow gold you prize, I trust you may 
 find it. I bear you no ill-feeling." Then, dropping his tone to 
 a confidential one : "Does the worthy farmer compensate you 
 sufficiently for this arduous toil, this labour in his vineyard?" 
 Jerry nodded; something seemed to be rising in him, and he 
 knew he must be careful. Just at that moment he felt that 
 he hated the minister more than anything in the wide world. 
 
 "Mr. Chubbe pays me a lot," he said, and the listener smiled 
 patronisingly. 
 
 "Ah, youth, youth! To whom a shilling is wealth, a sov- 
 ereign the mines of Golconda! And what do you call a lot?" 
 he asked softly. Jerry answered shortly. 
 
 "A shilling a week." The minister threw up his hands. 
 
 "Truly the eyes of youth are large." He turned, still with 
 the insinuating smile, which irritated Jerry almost beyond 
 endurance. "What do you do with this great wealth, child?" 
 
 "I give it to Farmer Chubbe."
 
 The Cottage 171 
 
 "Good good." The minister rubbed two thin hands to- 
 gether, then stole nearer Jerry, and placing both on his shoul- 
 ders, sighed and shook his head. 
 
 "Ungrateful boy ! Well, well has it been said, 'How sharper 
 than a serpent's tooth it is, to have a thankless child/ " Jerry 
 stared; although by this time accustomed to the minister's 
 ranting, he wondered why he was chosen for audience. After 
 a minute's gesticulating and groaning, Mr. Padden assumed 
 a parental tone of mild reproof. 
 
 "No doubt it is through ignorance that you have committed 
 this outrage. Did you never think of her who has been a 
 mother to you, who has clothed and fed you, warmed you, 
 supplied from her scanty stores your needs? And yet," the 
 voice rose shriller, "you do not trust her. You give your 
 worldly goods into another's keeping one to whom you are 
 but a hireling, who may at any time be called from this world. 
 And, though he cannot take your pittance with him, yet so 
 small a thing might be swallowed in the bigger sums." Jerry 
 listened bewildered. 
 
 "Do you mean that I ought to give my wages to Mrs. 
 Hagges?" The name slipped out unnoticed. The minister 
 groaned deeply and inclined his head. 
 
 "Oh, but I couldn't do that," cried Jerry, in eager distress. 
 "You see, Mr. Chubbe's been so kind to me. He always adds 
 something to it." Again the minister groaned, and shook his 
 head dolefully. 
 
 "Alas !" he began in a tone of mourning, "must I then re- 
 turn and tell her that she must suffer? That the child she 
 cherishes is false?" He paused; between bewilderment and 
 troubled wonder, Jerry's face was a study. The minister 
 watched warily then sighed, and half turned. 
 
 "I go, unhappy messenger of ill. Ah, well so be it. 'Tis 
 nature." Slowly he moved further, yet still watching Jerry's 
 troubled face. Presently it cleared, and he spoke. 
 
 "If you like, if you really think I've vexed Mrs. Hagges,
 
 172 When Pan Pipes 
 
 I'll ask Mr. Chubbe." The minister smiled sweetly and stepped 
 near again. 
 
 "Nay, nay, child, obey the dictates of your own heart; it 
 will respond to a noble impulse. Bring your savings; lay 
 them at the feet of her who loves you. She will guard them 
 as she has guarded you." He laid his hand on the boy's 
 shoulder, lifted the other in benediction, sighed, groaned, smiled 
 benevolently, and at length betook himself on his way. 
 
 Jerry breathed again. Yet all the glory of the day had 
 vanished; work had lost its zest, and he was sorely troubled 
 in mind. Had he hurt the widow's feelings after trying so 
 hard to be always gentle? Did Mr. Chubbe really only think 
 of him as a little servant ? The tears started in Jerry's brown 
 eyes. If it were really so, why, of course, he would willingly 
 hand over the savings, and forego the bonus ; though he thought 
 of it with a pang. 
 
 He hardly saw the minister before Saturday and the widow 
 showed no sign of emotional disturbance. When the farmer 
 paid him as usual, being extra busy, the fact that Jerry took 
 the money went unnoticed. The widow was baking cakes 
 when he returned, bustling in and out in a breathless hurry. 
 It was not until the crisp, brown buns were lifted from their 
 tins, and the larger cakes put in, that she found time to 
 drop into the armchair, wipe her hot face, and adjust the 
 front ; Jerry took the opportunity. 
 
 "If you please, m'am, I'm very sorry indeed; I can't tell 
 you how sorry I am." The widow stared in amazement. 
 
 "What's the matter, child?" then suddenly she started for- 
 ward with an agitated look. "Odds drabbit, boy, you haven't 
 broken the best teapot?" Jerry hastened to reassure her, and 
 she sank back relieved, mopping her forehead, and fanning 
 herself with her pocket handkerchief. 
 
 He tried again. 
 
 "You see, m'am, I didn't mean to be ungrateful." The 
 handkerchief dropped, as the widow listened wonderingly.
 
 The Cottage 173 
 
 "But he said you thought I was unkind, so, please, I've brought 
 it this week. And will you please save it for me?" 
 
 "What is it, child?" She stared at the silver in the brown 
 palm. "I can't be bothered with your money !" 
 
 It was Jerry's turn to look. 
 
 "But I thought The minister said you were vexed be- 
 cause Mr. Chubbe kept my money. He thought you ought to 
 keep it. And I'm very sorry, but I'll always bring it now." 
 The widow's face changed as he spoke. Bewilderment turned 
 to understanding, understanding to a look of consternation, 
 and then came fear. She sat forward, and drew Jerry near. 
 
 "Don't you give me the money," she whispered, "I don't 
 want it. But " The grasp tightened on Jerry's wrist, the 
 blue eyes wore a strained look, and he had to stoop to catch 
 her words. "You're a good little boy, I've always said so; 
 an' you won't tell him, him out there " she jerked her head 
 towards the lane, "that I told you, will you ?" 
 
 She waited breathlessly. 
 
 "No, m'am," said Jerry. 
 
 "Tell him you've made up your mind not to give it to me. 
 Tell him you're afraid I might lose it, or or take it. Will 
 you?" And again Jerry assented. It was all very strange; 
 he could not understand; but the widow's anxiety impressed 
 itself upon him, and when he next met Mr. Padden alone, 
 he put on a brave front and told his determination. 
 
 Well for Jerry that the minister's face was turned from 
 him. The look on it might have daunted an older boy, but 
 he made little comment beyond a rambling invective against 
 ingratitude, love of money, and want of trust. And on the 
 following Saturday Jerry returned his money to the usual 
 banker, who, probably thinking it forgotten before, took it 
 without a word, and so the incident passed. 
 
 As the autumn went by the widow changed visibly. The 
 portly figure grew thin, the rounded cheeks fell in arid hung 
 in flabby folds. They were quite incapable of creasing or un-
 
 174 When Pan Pipes 
 
 creasing now. One by one the comfortable double chins dis- 
 appeared, and the plump hands showed wrinkles, even knuckles 
 pushed themselves into sight. She still baked and cleaned at 
 high pressure. There was always a good meal ready when 
 her lord and master chose to arrive. She only occupied the 
 armchair now when she and Jerry were alone. The minister 
 claimed it as his right ; but on Sunday afternoons, though Jerry 
 was not there to see, all the kitchen furniture came alive. 
 For on that day Mr. Padden slept in the front room, and the 
 widow, her dishes washed, stole an hour from the past, and 
 dozed peacefully in the red-cushioned chair. 
 
 A child floats innocently in troubled waters, only vaguely 
 conscious of discomforts. Looking back from the vantage 
 point of a grown-up, Jerry wondered how he could have been 
 blind so long. All the village knew, or guessed. Mrs. Chubbe 
 asked a great many questions, then pursed up her lips and 
 shook her head mysteriously at her husband. Betty, all agog 
 for exciting gossip, and, womanlike, much quicker at piecing 
 it together, informed Jerry that "Aunt Martha says the min- 
 ister wants Mrs. Hagges's money, and Uncle Matt says she 
 was an old fool to get married. But I don't know why, Jerry," 
 wrinkling up the black brows in a perplexed manner ; "I think 
 she was quite right, and I'm sure the minister's very nice. 
 Isn't he?" 
 
 Jerry disagreed, but evaded the question. He didn't like 
 the minister, but he was sure Mr. Chubbe was wrong. Had 
 he not wanted Mrs. Hagges to take charge of Jerry's own 
 money? 
 
 That winter he really felt as though he were growing up. 
 In a few more months he would be twelve. The golden fu- 
 ture hung dazzling before him, and his heart leapt as he 
 thought of it. The shillings were accumulating. What a lot 
 there must be, he sometimes thought; it was impossible to 
 keep exact count. He talked it over with Paul, though, strange 
 to say, he never mentioned it to Betty. Paul kept the secret.
 
 The Cottage 175 
 
 He, too, had begun to dream of his future, but it was a future 
 further afield than Jerry's. The next few years were mapped 
 out for him, and spring brought a change. Betty coming 
 home from school one afternoon saw him hurrying towards 
 her. 
 
 "Come into the woods, Betty," he said excitedly, taking her 
 books from her, "I've got something to tell you." 
 
 They turned across the meadows towards the belt of trees 
 beyond, unconscious of aught but each other. Mrs. Chubbe, 
 from a window, saw them pass, and stopped in the midst of 
 her sewing with a curious expression, half pride, half per- 
 plexity. The pride was justified. Betty had grown tall; the 
 girlish form showed no ugly irregularities. Slight, graceful, 
 thin, it promised future beauty. The long bright curls tum- 
 bled over her shoulders, and as she lifted her face to Paul's, 
 the dark, deeply fringed eyes shone in response to something 
 he said. Mrs. Chubbe sighed and puckered her forehead. 
 Then, as they passed out of sight, caught snappishly at the work 
 and stitched vigorously. Her thoughts also moved in the fu- 
 ture. The girl and boy walked soberly across the field. 
 
 "What were you going to tell me, Paul?" asked Betty ex- 
 citedly. "Was it about the belt?" For Paul had promised 
 as a birthday present a certain buckle which he had seen in 
 London. He looked into the beautiful face, so full of vivacity 
 and eager interest. An onlooker might have been almost more 
 struck by his own. Features too clearly cut for pure English, 
 skin olive brown, and black hair pushed back from a thin 
 oval face, in whose dark eyes every emotion of their owner's 
 was reflected. They were smiling now. "The buckle's com- 
 ing, Bets," he said. "To-morrow, I expect." She laughed and 
 clapped her hands. 
 
 "Will it really be silver, Paul ?" He shook his head gravely, 
 and her face dropped. 
 
 "Oh !" 
 
 "Silly princess," he cried gaily, pulling her curls and call-
 
 176 When Pan Pipes 
 
 ing her by the name she loved, "I wouldn't give you silver. 
 It's guess !" She shook her head and pouted, the tears gath- 
 ering in her eyes. Paul laughed. 
 
 "Betty, it's a gold buckle. With little, tiny, crystal stones. 
 What do you think of that?" 
 
 For a moment it seemed that she was too amazed to think 
 at all. Then, as the glorious reality dawned upon her, she 
 gasped 
 
 "Oh, Paul, do you really, really mean it?" He nodded. 
 "Oh, you dear! you dear!" She flung her arms round him, 
 kissing him rapturously, and flew off to dance away some of 
 the wonder, returning breathless and panting. 
 
 "And will it really come to-morrow? Oh, I shan't sleep 
 a wink to-night." Then, as a sudden thought seized her, 
 "Paul, do you think Aunt Martha will let me wear it?" Again 
 he nodded gravely. 
 
 "Yes, I'm sure she will, because, Betty that's what I really 
 wanted to tell you I shan't be here your next birthday, nor 
 the next." 
 
 "Won't be here ?" The dark eyes grew wide with astonish- 
 ment. 
 
 "No, I'm going away. In two days most likely, it's all been 
 settled so quickly." 
 
 "Going away," repeated Betty blankly. 
 
 "Yes. My father thinks I ought to go to your great Eng- 
 lish school, and in the holidays we're going to travel and see 
 different places. I think it will be very nice, but " He hesi- 
 tated and glanced at her. They were deep in the woods now, 
 where solitude reigned. He drew her down on the soft mossy 
 ground. 
 
 "Betty," he had his face turned from her, "I I wonder " 
 A roguish expression took possession of the brilliant eyes; a 
 little smile rippled over the scarlet lips. Child as she was, 
 she was yet woman enough to read his thoughts. Suddenly 
 he turned, and threw away the tufts of moss he had idly 
 plucked.
 
 The Cottage 177 
 
 "Betty, will you miss me very much? I shall you. I shall 
 always be thinking of you, and wishing you were with us when 
 we're in strange places." Betty grew grave. 
 
 "I shall miss you, Paul, dreadfully." He seized her hand. 
 
 "I say, Bets, when I come back I shall be nearly a man, 
 and you'll be nearly grown up. Will you marry me then? 
 You won't be a princess, you know, but you'll be a countess. 
 Will you? Promise you will. Oh, Betty, do do promise." 
 She drew provokingly away and laughed. Already a knowl- 
 edge of the power of her beauty was awakening in the 
 child. 
 
 "Oh, Paul, how can I promise such a silly thing? I don't 
 know what I shall feel like then." 
 
 "But, Betty," he pleaded, "if you feel as you do now, will 
 you? No " he held her hand tightly, "I shan't let you go 
 till you promise." She laughed teasingly, and tried to with- 
 draw it. 
 
 "Let me go, Paul. You're hurting me." 
 
 "Promise, then." 
 
 "Oh, well I promise perhaps, I'll see. Now let me go." 
 Reluctantly he unloosed the little hand. 
 
 "Betty, you won't forget, will you?" Again she laughed, 
 refusing to say more. Paul waited, watched the piquant 
 changing face, then suddenly put his arms round her, and 
 drawing her close, kissed her passionately. Betty was furious. 
 Crimson with rage, hot and breathless, yet half laughing, she 
 pulled herself away. 
 
 "You rude, horrid boy," she cried. "You're as bad as 
 as " He understood, and stopped her. 
 
 "No, Betty, I'm not. I kiss you because I love you. He 
 only wanted to kiss you because because " He hesitated, 
 finding himself in unknown depths. 
 
 "Because?" asked naughty Betty innocently. 
 
 "Because oh, Betty ! because you're so pretty." 
 
 "Am I?" It was balm, coming from Paul. "After all, I 
 think I do like you a little, and perhaps if I don't really find
 
 178 When Pan Pipes 
 
 a prince perhaps, when I'm quite quite grown up, I'll 
 marry you, Paul." 
 
 He drew her arm within his till they reached the fields, then 
 dropped it. A consciousness of keeping this secret was upon 
 him. It was too beautiful to be spoken of, even Jerry must 
 not be told. 
 
 And so it came about that the knight rode away carrying 
 with him a certain hope, a glorious dream of the future. 
 And the swineherd watched him go. He, too, had his secret 
 hope, his goal. Only the goose-girl's future was dim. A veil 
 hung over it, a thin, misty veil; but behind it lay the most 
 wonderful future of all, the future which is unknown. 
 
 So, too, Mrs. Chubbe, stitching steadily, wove a dream of 
 another future, a dream which was so brightly coloured, so 
 golden hued, that she rose, and putting by the work, vowed 
 she was a foolish woman, as bad as a girl of eighteen.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 HOW THE GOOSE-GIRL CLIMBED A LADDER, HOW THE FAIRY GOD- 
 MOTHER MADE THE SWINEHERD AN OFFER, AND WHY 
 HE REJECTED IT 
 
 BETTY'S birthday had slipped into past things. The buckle 
 was now worn without great consciousness, and Mrs. 
 Chubbe's musings resolved themselves, for the present, into 
 a definite form, a form which, to use her own phrase, "set 
 Cloudesley by the ear." Neighbours shook their heads ; those 
 more intimate, remonstrated; inferiors tossed their heads at 
 such presumption ; even the farmer occasionally had his doubts. 
 But Mrs. Chubbe held her ground, though, in spite of her out- 
 wardly undaunted aspect, there was a horrible inward sink- 
 ing, when gossip, having spread till it reached the ears of those 
 in authority, the high slung barouche from the Hall stopped 
 one morning at the seldom used front door of the inn, and 
 my Lady Karen stepped out, escorted by a gorgeous footman, 
 who knocked vigorously, and departed with a rueful glance at 
 his knuckles. 
 
 Mrs. Chubbe, accompanied by Sally and the farmer, hastened 
 lo open, and with many creaks and groans, the heavy oak was 
 set back and my lady entered. 
 
 "Good morning, Chubbe," she said graciously; "good morn- 
 ing, Martha," and the graciousness was not quite so gracious. 
 "I have come to speak to you on a certain matter which has 
 reached my ears." Mrs. Chubbe curtseyed again, and led the 
 way. 
 
 "Will you step into the kitchen, my lady," she said, inwardly 
 shaking with dread of the coming interview. She drew an 
 armchair to the fire, but my lady waved it aside. 
 
 179
 
 180 When Pan Pipes 
 
 "No, thank you, Martha, I prefer a high-backed one, and 
 not so near the fire." 
 
 Mrs. Chubbe hastened to make the change. A very small 
 voice inside her whispered, "Courage, Martha stand firm; 
 you know what hangs upon it." And with renewed strength, 
 the farmer's wife faced the great lady and prepared for battle. 
 
 "A rumour has reached me, Martha," began my lady in 
 a tone of "such presumption would be unheard of" "a 
 rumour so improbable, so utterly impossible, that of course 
 it is not true. Yet, although I have traced it to its various 
 sources, and severely reprimanded those from whom it orig- 
 inated," the high forehead puckered slightly, "yet, as they per- 
 sist in asserting its truth, I feel that it is my duty as your 
 friend and well wisher, to tell you what people are saying. 
 You will then naturally be in a position to contradict such 
 unfounded statements." She paused; Martha, standing on 
 the opposite side of the table, rested her finger tips on the 
 table. They were white with the pressure, every muscle taut 
 with suppressed agitation. My lady opened her lips, but the 
 farmer's wife was first. 
 
 "I'm sorry, my lady, that you should have heard it from 
 anyone but me an' my husband." Lady Karen raised her eyes 
 haughtily. Mrs. Chubbe, still staring at her fingers, went hur- 
 riedly on. 
 
 "I expect, my lady, it's about Betty you've heard. You 
 see, my lady, she's getting a big girl, eleven last May, an' " 
 Lady Karen stopped her with a gesture. 
 
 "Kindly come to the point, Martha. Is it true?" 
 
 "Yes, my lady." Mrs. Chubbe lifted her eyes and looked 
 straight across the table. Lady Karen was silent for a min- 
 ute. Indignation struggled for mastery, but my lady's pride 
 subdued it. Only in the cold high-bred tones could it be de- 
 tected. 
 
 "I think, Martha, you hardly understand the responsibility 
 you are incurring. Naturally you are proud of Betty ; she has 
 more than her share of beauty. Indeed, it is almost a pity.
 
 Made the Swineherd an Offer 181 
 
 But to take her out of her sphere, to give her an education 
 such as as " pride stopped her for a moment, "such as my 
 lord is giving his daughter, is not only presumptuous folly, but 
 cruel, wicked pride. I trust that, before I leave you, I shall 
 be able to convince you of this." Mrs. Chubbe was silent. 
 "Betty is a great favourite of my sister's," went on my lady; 
 "it has always been our hope that, when she was old enough, 
 she should take the place that you once held so satisfactorily, 
 and stay with us till she married. But if you persist in this 
 this absurd notion," my lady's tones grew more emphatic, "she 
 will be quite unfitted for such duties. Indeed, I could not see 
 my way clear to taking her, or," with an air of finality, "of 
 recommending her to my friends." 
 
 The farmer's wife stood straight. My lady, in the high- 
 backed chair, resting her shapely arm and well gloved hand 
 on the table beneath her, rapped impatiently. Mrs. Chubbe 
 found her voice. 
 
 "It's very kind of you, my lady and my Lady Kezzy 
 she's always been kind to the child, and indeed indeed, my 
 lady, we're grateful very, very grateful. But " again the 
 pause again my lady's quick tap. "But me an' my husband 
 thought that my lady, we've thought of keepin' her at home, 
 later on, I mean. It'll be lonely, my lady, without her." 
 
 "Tut-tut," was the impatient reply. "No more lonely for 
 you than for other people. So " she rose slowly, "I am to 
 understand that you persist in this folly, that Betty is to be 
 sent to the convent, to be educated with the daughters of 
 peers, who will look down upon her and despise her, to be 
 educated above her station in life, to be taught habits of 
 which she will never know the need, and given ideas which 
 will unfit her for this village. Take care, Martha, Betty's 
 looks alone are a responsibility; you are taking a greater 
 one upon yourself. The time will come, perhaps, when you 
 will be lonelier than if she were living in safe and honest 
 service; then, perhaps, you will wish that your vanity and 
 pride had never prompted you to try and raise her above the
 
 182 When Pan Pipes 
 
 state of life to which she was called. No " she raised her 
 hand, and made her way to the door, "don't come with me, 
 I can find my way out. I'm disappointed in you, Martha 
 Chubbe, bitterly disappointed." 
 
 She swept across the kitchen and down the stone passage, 
 Martha following humbly. Mr. Chubbe, emerging from some 
 secret haunt, opened the great door, and without another 
 word, amid a rustle of silks, a flutter of feathers, and a per- 
 fume of some subtle essence, my lady passed through, and 
 entered the carriage, surrounded by a gaping, curtseying crowd 
 of villagers. 
 
 "Was she very angry, missis?" asked the farmer, following 
 his wife into the kitchen. 
 
 "Ah, she was indeed. An' you can't blame her neither. 
 Come to think o' it, 'tis presumption to send the child to the 
 convent where my Lady Mary is. But there " Mrs. Chubbe 
 poked up the fire, put on fresh billets of wood, and exhausted 
 a little pent-up temper, "if the Mother'll have her an' she 
 says she will your money's as good as my lord's, an' my 
 lady's no need to say as Betty'll go wrong because it's spent 
 on her. She won't be the first girl who's climbed to the top 
 o' the ladder. An' there's others who've climbed down, which 
 I could have said, only for not wantin' to hurt her feelings 
 more'n could be helped." 
 
 Having eased her mind of such radical sentiments, Mrs. 
 Chubbe called together maids and niece, and prepared to dish 
 the dinner. 
 
 And now indeed did Betty's near future begin to unveil 
 itself and take shape. She was to go after the summer holi- 
 days, and for once she revelled in new clothes. Frocks and 
 bonnets galore, gloves and sandalled shoes, fine white stock- 
 ings, and a pile of new handkerchiefs; the only bitter drop 
 in a cup of sweetness for to Betty's lot fell the hemming of 
 them. But they were done at last. The wooden box was 
 packed, the final solemn injunctions delivered by Mrs. Chubbe,
 
 Made the Swineherd an Offer 183 
 
 and Betty sent off to an early bed, accompanied by the unusual 
 business of a middle-week bath. 
 
 But at the last her courage failed. The sight of Jenny and 
 the cart containing all her worldly possessions, the early break- 
 fast, the arrival of Jerry, who was to go with them and return 
 as company for the farmer, combined with more than the usual 
 tartness on her aunt's part, brought reality to the child, and 
 the tears burst forth, frightening Mrs. Chubbe into amiability, 
 so rare were they. 
 
 "I don't want to go," sobbed Betty, throwing herself into 
 the farmer's arms. "Oh, Uncle Matt, I don't want to. I'm 
 afraid of of all those ladies." Mr. Chubbe patted her sol- 
 emnly on the back, and swallowed many times. His wife came 
 to the rescue. 
 
 "There, there, Betty child, dry your eyes. 'Tisn't for long. 
 An' think what a grand lady you'll be soon." 
 
 "I don't want to be a lady," wailed Betty. 
 
 "Nonsense," retorted her aunt ; then, coaxingly, "why, 'tisn't 
 like you, child, to be afraid ; an' there's no call to be. There's 
 the sisters ; they'll take care of you. An' the reverend Mother ; 
 she's as kind as kind. An' then there's Lady Mary you love 
 her, you know." 
 
 "Oh, yes," came between the sobs, "I I love Lady Mary, 
 but but oh I shall be so so lonely." 
 
 Consoling and coaxing prevailed at length, and Betty, with 
 swollen eyelids and a very red face, was kissed and lifted into 
 the cart. 
 
 The sweet July morning, helped, in spite of recent asser- 
 tions, by gleeful anticipation, soon revived doleful spirits. 
 Betty's tongue found itself, and the goose-girl was quite ready 
 at the end of the first mile to wear, for a time at least, the 
 garments and habits of a princess. 
 
 Mistress Loneliness comes in many forms, but few know 
 her as she really is; Betty, that night, between convent walls, 
 amid strange faces and strange surroundings, fancied that
 
 184 When Pan Pipes 
 
 she knew her intimately. Matthew Chubbe and his wife, lack- 
 ing the sound of tripping footsteps, the ripple of light laughter, 
 the sweet imperious voice, told themselves that she had come 
 to dwell with them indefinitely. But they were wrong. She 
 wears many masks, and unveils herself to few. 
 
 In deep woods, by flickering firesides, under the stars in 
 his little garret, for many, many months, she had dwelt with 
 Jerry, and he knew her as she really is, loving her, as all 
 must, who meet her heart to heart. For she brings with 
 her dear ghosts of the past, sweet memories, loved voices, 
 tender, fragrant scents, while about her float airily a whole 
 host of fairies the fairies of fancy, of beautiful thoughts, 
 of shadows, dreams, of song and melody. Ah, surely with 
 Loneliness the sound of Pan's piping rises clear and strong, 
 for those who know her, love her more dearly when she comes 
 hand in hand with Nature. 
 
 But the Loneliness that dwelt in the cottage now was no 
 longer a friend. Paul gone, Betty gone, and this stranger 
 who had come in the place of the quiet, restful Loneliness he 
 knew and loved so well! He counted the months to the 
 time when he should leave it all behind. The pedlar would 
 come once more, and Jerry would ask him the best things to 
 do, and then at any time he could start. 
 
 The widow had changed greatly. Even to the child's un- 
 observant eyes it was apparent, so thin was she, and the blue 
 eyes grew daily dimmer. There were red rims round them, 
 too, and dark patches beneath. Jerry wondered if she were 
 ill. Gone was the peace, gone the atmosphere of homely com- 
 fort, even it seemed that the kettle no longer sung. Tibbie 
 lived outside, and the chirping cricket had found another home. 
 Somehow it seemed to the child that the minister's ranting 
 meant something different to the actual words, which at no 
 time could he understand thoroughly. Sometimes, too, at 
 night, he fancied he heard the sound of crying, and once he 
 woke with the echo of a scream in his ears. 
 
 There were actual discomforts too. Though the minister
 
 Made the Swineherd an Offer 185 
 
 had better food than Jerry had ever seen on the widow's 
 table, their own was poor, and none too plentiful. Contrary 
 to old times, the widow piled his plate with all there was, 
 but ate little herself, though Jerry, noticing it one day, be- 
 seeched her to take more. She shook her head. 
 
 "No, child, no ; seems like as though I'd gone off my vittles 
 lately." 
 
 There was economy, too, with sticks ; Jerry spent what time 
 he could spare gathering them in the woods, but even the 
 charm of that was gone. There was no time to loiter with 
 Loneliness, for sticks must be had, and he knew that for some 
 reason or other the widow could no longer afford to buy. 
 Potatoes were scarce, indeed, only to be obtained by purchase. 
 For one day, in the autumn, a man appeared, and the widow's 
 winter store was half dug before she was aware of it. 
 
 "Minister's orders, m'am; to be sold next market day at 
 Channington." 
 
 Jerry, standing by, was surprised that she offered no re- 
 sistance. Slowly and very heavily she returned to the house, 
 and sitting down in the armchair, told him to fill the pail from 
 the pump. Left alone, a few tears, the tears of middle age, 
 dropped one by one. The marks they leave are different from 
 youthful passions, only an added dimness, a few more lines. 
 When Jerry returned she was setting the table, and the room 
 was in shadow. 
 
 "The sun hurt her eyes," she said, but he fancied she didn't 
 want to see what was going on in the garden, and several times, 
 at the sound of the spade, she roused, and put a hand across 
 her ears as though to shut out the sound. 
 
 Something happened which put such everyday occurrences 
 s potato selling quite out of his mind. The little jingling 
 chaise stopped one morning at the cottage in the lane, and 
 my Lady Kezzy herself delivered a message for Jerry. He 
 was to go up to the Dower House that evening instead of 
 to the school. Wondering greatly, and slightly afraid lest by 
 an unintentional action he had given offence, Jerry dressed
 
 186 When Pan Pipes 
 
 himself in his best, and was admitted to my lady's presence. 
 
 He was shown into a small room, and after a few minutes' 
 wait, she came to him, and for the first time he saw a lady 
 in evening dress. Hardly could he keep his attention fixed 
 for admiration of the rich silk, the flashing jewels, and last, 
 but not least, the round white arms and shoulders, which 
 would have been pretty in a woman ten years younger than 
 my lady. 
 
 She sat down by the fire and smiled up at the boy stand- 
 ing squarely before her. There was no trace of nervousness, 
 no fidgetting with his hands, and the grave brown face look- 
 ing into hers, showed no disquietude in the presence of his 
 betters. 
 
 "I'm sure you must be wondering why I sent for you, Jerry," 
 she said presently. 
 
 "Yes, my lady." 
 
 "Well, you're getting a big boy, Jerry old enough to know 
 what you want to do with your life. You don't mean to stay 
 in Cloudesley always, do you ?" 
 
 "No, my lady ; oh, no." She smiled at the vehemence in the 
 tone. 
 
 "You see, my lady," Jerry gathered confidence, "I'm saving 
 all I earn to go to London when I'm twelve, and that's almost 
 here." 
 
 "And then, Jerry, when you get to London?" Suddenly a 
 veil seemed to draw itself away. Out of the mist reality 
 dawned, and he saw his shadowy dream castles crumble away 
 till nothing was left but a little heap of glittering stones. A 
 king's page! Foolish, idle dream, a fairy tale indeed. And 
 with that knowledge came a sick helplessness. What could he 
 do in London? A little friendless boy, alone in a great city. 
 
 "I I don't know, my lady," came the answer at length, 
 and my lady looked thoughtfully at him. 
 
 "My child, you can't set out to seek your fortune nowadays, 
 like the miller's son in the fairy tales you are so fond of. YOU 
 must work now, and fight, it's true, but in a different way.
 
 Made the Swineherd an Offer 187 
 
 Your giants are temptations, and they want more fighting than 
 the giants you read of. Romance," she sighed pensively, "ah, 
 London's full of it, but it is romance which is only romance 
 to those who can read beneath. No, child, you don't under- 
 stand. But you will some day at least I think you will. And 
 now " she roused herself, the dreaminess gone from her voice, 
 "what I really wanted to say to you is this. Would you like 
 to go to London and enter a studio with the idea of working 
 at your art ? Would you work hard, and try to make a name, 
 and do us credit ?" 
 
 Jerry stood silent. It was too great a surprise to grasp at 
 once. Lady Kezzy watched the face she knew so well, watched 
 the light dawn on it, the delight break, and smiled again. 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "Oh, my lady, my lady " Jerry could say no more, but 
 she understood. 
 
 "Then I think we may consider it settled; and Jerry, you 
 shall go at once there's no time to be lost. We must speak 
 to Mrs. Hagges and arrange matters." 
 
 Here followed a discussion as to clothes, lodging, and so 
 forth. It was eight o'clock when Jerry left the Dower House. 
 
 The night was full of happy dreams, and daylight conscious- 
 ness brought the knowledge of something delightful ahead. 
 The minister lurked round the cottage that morning, and the 
 widow fidgetted in and out, glancing constantly up the lane. 
 At dinner time things seemed strange. There was no con- 
 versation, not even the customary grace. Jerry took no no- 
 tice. It was not the first uncomfortable meal by many. At 
 the top of the lane he met the post woman, and matters ex- 
 plained themselves. Of late the letters containing his board 
 money always accompanied some days of extra unpleasantness. 
 He thought no more of it. 
 
 On his return, though his head was full of glorious plans, 
 it occurred to him to hope that the minister was away; it 
 would be easier to tell the widow alone. The cottage was 
 still. He took off his shoes and entered in stockinged feet,
 
 188 When Pan Pipes 
 
 across the back'us floor, tip-toeing on the cold bricks. Every- 
 thing was very quiet, but suddenly a sound rose a sound 
 which made him stop with blanched face and quickly beating 
 pulse a low, wailing sound, rising and falling to a groan, 
 a pause, and it rose again, followed by a choking sob. 
 
 The kitchen door stood open, and Jerry flew noiselessly 
 because of the unshod feet also the occupants were too en- 
 grossed to hear. The minister sat in the armchair; he had 
 drawn his wife on his knee, and at the first glance they might 
 have been taken for lovers. But the tears were streaming 
 down the widow's cheeks; cringing and writhing she tried to 
 draw herself from the arm which held her as in a vice. 
 
 "Ah " again the low cry of pain, and Jerry saw the min- 
 ister's long pincer-like fingers nip her arm. 
 
 "Now will you ?" he hissed. 
 
 The widow shook her head, and the fingers tightened, tight- 
 ened, till it seemed the nails must meet in the soft flesh. 
 Again the choking sob. 
 
 "Damn you, you witch, tell me where it is." 
 
 Jerry stayed no longer. As once before, the room turned 
 red, a hot fire surged in him. He only knew that he sprang, 
 that he was cuffing, striking, biting. Then two iron hands 
 held him, held him till he thought he would have choked. 
 Away, far away, he heard the widow screaming. Still he 
 held on with clenched fists. He heard as in a dream the 
 screaming turn to words; it was the widow's voice, changed 
 almost beyond recognition. 
 
 "If you durst lay a finger on him, Simeon, to hurt the child, 
 I'll let the village know. Yes, even if you kill me for't." 
 
 And suddenly the hold relaxed, something threw him away, 
 the mist cleared, and he saw the kitchen swimming before him. 
 Something black for a moment he mistook it for the devil 
 seemed to stretch to the ceiling. Then he knew it for the 
 minister the minister, with his white face purple and swollen, 
 the unsightly blotches paler, and the black eyes burning like
 
 Made the Swineherd an Offer 189 
 
 fire. He was tossing his arms to the ceiling, and the widow 
 cowered in the armchair. 
 
 "Damn you damn you blast you you witch." The rant- 
 ing voice shrilled and rose to a thin scream. "Curse you you 
 and your brood. I'll make your life a hell ; I'll pinch you, and 
 burn you, and torture you, till you're like dust beneath my 
 feet, till you'll wish you were dead." Hissing like a snake, 
 pouring out curses in the high ranting voice now pitched in 
 a piercing key, shaking his fist, and gesticulating so wildly 
 that his listeners could only think of him as a madman, he 
 reached the door, rushed across the back'us, and out to the 
 lane and fields beyond. 
 
 The widow sat on, shaking like a leaf, every now and then 
 a tear rolling slowly down unheeded. Jerry pulled himself 
 together, surprised to find no hurts, and made his way to the 
 stool. There was silence, not the peaceful silence of old, but 
 tense, strained. He knew the things were listening, though 
 they showed no sign. 
 
 "He's a bad man," said the widow presently. "But he shan't 
 get it no, that he shan't." 
 
 "Shan't get what, m'am ?" asked Jerry, puzzled. 
 
 "That" said the widow vaguely. "What he wants." 
 
 "Oh!" replied Jerry, more puzzled. A longer silence fol- 
 lowed, so long that he fancied she must be asleep. But a big 
 tear dropped on the white apron, and she lifted her head. 
 
 "Come here, little boy." Jerry rose and crossed to her side. 
 Lifting her poor thin face, tear-stained and swollen, she peered 
 at him with dim blue eyes. 
 
 "You won't leave me, child, will you?" she said piteously. 
 "They're saying you're going when you're twelve. But you 
 won't " the fingers closed gently on his wrist ; they were as 
 the touch of heavy fetters. "Say you won't, little boy. He'll 
 kill me." There was a frightened look on her face. "You 
 won't let him, will you? Not when you're here. But I'm all 
 alone, an' he wants me away, so's he can have the house an'
 
 190 When Pan Pipes 
 
 my best chiney, an' the silver. But he shan't no, that he 
 shan't." Just for a moment the voice sounded like that one 
 he had heard so lately, then it fell again to its usual flat 
 monotony, only something grievously sad had got there. 
 
 "Say you won't, little boy oh, say you'll stay." 
 
 Ah, the beautiful future, the glorious fabric building so long 
 a time. Fair as a dream city, fairer still as it receded from 
 him. There was a heavy sinking at his heart. He pleaded 
 argued with himself. How could he refuse my lady's gift? 
 Would it not be wrong? A voice whispered, "No, Jerry boy, 
 no," and it sounded like the voice so long silent, so like that 
 it seemed he heard the words. What did he remember? 
 "You'll hear me, Jerry boy, sometimes. But you must be good 
 and true, ready to help those weaker than yourself." 
 
 How the voice rang! Could he? Oh, it was too much to 
 ask. The tear-dimmed, wrinkled face looked piteously at him 
 through a blurred mist, the trembling fingers rested on his 
 beseechingly. 
 
 "I told her, my lady " began Jerry falteringly. 
 
 "Yes, I know." There was a sob. "But I thought 
 maybe you'd not be hankering for going. He'll he'll " 
 again the frightened look, "he'll kill me, for sure. Look, 
 child " She drew her hand away and pushed up the sleeve 
 of her gown. The poor arm, once so plump and round, was 
 flabby now, and on it were bruises; black, blue, brown, in 
 various stages. Jerry recoiled in horrified anger. 
 
 "That's what he does when he wants things an' worse." 
 She rolled down the sleeve, still crying quietly. Again came 
 the dear voice the well remembered words and the dream 
 castle shattered and tumbled like a card house. 
 
 "I'll I'll stay," said Jerry, and just for a moment, the 
 widow sat quite quiet. Then, taking out a handkerchief, she 
 wiped her eyes, put the front straight, and rising, proceeded 
 to lay the cloth. 
 
 "You'll be wanting your tea, I'm thinkin'," she said in an 
 ordinary tone.
 
 Made the Swineherd an Offer 191 
 
 Jerry, choking down a sob, climbed the stairs to his little 
 room. There at least was peace and loneliness, though Lone^ 
 liness wore a mask and was no longer her beautiful, lovable 
 self. His death warrant was sealed, and by his own hand. 
 Gone gone were the beautiful dreams, gone the glorious task 
 of building. No longer would daily toil be sweetened by vi- 
 sions. Life stretched out dreary, commonplace full of dull 
 work. 
 
 "Oh, daddy, daddy," cried Jerry, kneeling against the win- 
 dow sill, "I can't be a gentleman. I can't do anything but farm 
 work now." 
 
 Again came the tender voice, "Be good, Jerry boy ; be brave 
 and true, and remember that it's not money and position that 
 make you so." 
 
 Slightly comforted, he lifted his eyes. A friendly face 
 looked across the fields at him; and by its side rose another. 
 Bright and round, it seemed to the child's bewildered mind 
 that they said, "Cheer up, Jerry boy. It'll pass it'll 
 pass." 
 
 Ah, but there were hard days in store. Just at first a 
 little wave of satisfied duty bore him up, but as it dropped 
 to a dead level, life indeed became a dreary thing. Labour, 
 unsweetened by dreams, duty, in an ever circling wheel, un- 
 rest in the cottage, and for a time a distaste for everything, 
 even the modelling clay. And worse than all was my Lady 
 Kezzy's disappointment. He had gone straight to her at first, 
 only to find that explanation was impossible. How could he 
 tell her that he was staying because the widow was lonely and 
 wanted him? Such a great sacrifice was not to be spoken of. 
 Instinctively he knew that a gentleman does not speak of his 
 self conquests. All he could say was that he couldn't go. 
 Lady Kezzy tried reasoning, questioning, till, suspecting more 
 than came to the surface, she let him go, and went down to 
 the cottage in the lane. 
 
 The widow knew nothing. "The boy had changed his mind," 
 she supposed. "Children were strange tkings."
 
 192 When Pan Pipes 
 
 Sorely puzzled, loath to believe Jerry changeable, my lady 
 returned. Lady Karen, hearing of it, smiled cynically. 
 
 "Another of Keziah's swans who are only ducklings," she 
 said. But in spite of outward appearances, deep down in my 
 lady's heart ran a feeling that things were not all they seemed, 
 and that her swan would some day show himself in his true 
 colours.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 THE WITCH LIFTS THE CURTAIN AND LETS JERRY OUT OF 
 THE CAGE 
 
 MISTRESS LONELINESS, with her troop of followers, 
 fled the cottage, and Dame Habit, who is a daughter of 
 Time, and from him inherits her comforting character, her 
 healing touch, and soft monotonous voice, took her place. 
 And Jerry, the widow too, almost forgot the old peacefulness, 
 the old homely routine. Fear, dread, and unrest also dwelt 
 in the cottage. Habit, it is true, bore some of their keenest 
 pain, and, as far as it was in her power, made life bearable. 
 But not even she could do more. The minister, like some 
 cruel slave driver, was here, there, and everywhere. Meals 
 must be ready, fires made up, his clothes brushed and mended, 
 and, what Jerry only guessed at, money forthcoming. 
 
 Food grew scarcer. Bread the widow gleaned from the 
 first stroke of church bell till evening fell eked out by veg- 
 etables, and these two, supplemented by odds and ends from 
 fields, formed their chief subsistence. Even then a meal sel- 
 dom passed without remonstrance from Jerry at the unequal 
 division. In truth the widow's appetite was gone, although, 
 who shall say but that among the dim, unsuspected emotions 
 stirring in the depths of her personality, the virtue of self- 
 denial had not crept in. Habit stroked down the thin frame, 
 smoothed away the old hard look in the wrinkled face, and the 
 widow, doing away with the front as it grew shabby, parted 
 the grey strands, and restored Nature's balance between skin 
 and hair. 
 
 The village looked on and pitied, only guessing at half the 
 
 193
 
 194 When Pan Pipes 
 
 happenings in the cottage, but seeing outside what its inmates 
 never suspected. 
 
 "Mrs. Hagges is losin' all her good looks," said the farmer's 
 wife, with a sniff which said plainly, "An* I know why." 
 "Marriage ain't done much for her, an' that I could ha' told 
 her. Takin' up wi' that ninimy-pinimy of a man. She ain't 
 much count, but he " 
 
 At which the farmer would shake his head solemnly with 
 a far away, troubled expression. 
 
 "I'm afeard there ain't much happiness up there, wife, an' 
 I'm afeard for the child. He's lost the look o' a child." 
 
 "He's only got hisself to blame," answered Mrs. Chubbe 
 tartly; "he should ha' taken my lady's offer. There's Betty 
 gone, an' the little count, an' after all his fine talk o' savin' 
 an' makin' hisself a gentleman, what's it all come to ? Actions 
 speak louder'n words, say I." 
 
 But the farmer saw deeper. He, too, knew Loneliness un- 
 masked; he, too, in solitary tramps and long days amid corn 
 fields and pasture lands, heard Pan's piping, and recognized 
 its different keys, and though unable to put his thoughts into 
 words, instinctively knew whom they called. 
 
 "There summat more'n what the child says," he mused to 
 himself, yet content to wait, knowing that, sooner or later, 
 truth will out. Ah, the dull dreary days. The sun never 
 seemed to shine now, skies were always grey. Betty's holi- 
 days brought a spark of happiness, but Betty too, was alter- 
 ing. She spoke softly, laughed less, and, when she thought 
 of it, stopped romping. There was much to tell that was in- 
 teresting. 
 
 "Oh, Jerry, the sisters are so kind and so gentle, and yet 
 you've got to do all they say. And it's so peaceful, and the 
 convent garden oh, I do wish you could see it. It's lovely. 
 And all the young ladies I'm a young lady now, Jerry ; isn't 
 it funny? are so nice to me, but " a soft look grew in Betty's 
 eyes, "there's not one like Lady Mary. Oh, Jerry, she's an 
 angel. I envy the girls who go to school when she's a sister.
 
 The Witch Lifts the Curtain 195 
 
 You know, she's going to take the vows when she's grown 
 up. I'm glad I'm not; I shouldn't like to be a nun; I want 
 to see things, and wear nice clothes, and and " 
 
 Betty babbled on, but Jerry hardly listened; he was think- 
 ing of Lady Mary. Again came the longing to see her. 
 
 Paul, too, was heard of. He wrote long letters to both 
 children. Betty's read of course by those in authority con- 
 tained no allusion to that last meeting. Jerry's opened up new 
 fields for thought, or would have done under other circum- 
 stances. For the present all desire for outside interests had 
 left him. And when the letters were read, and the holidays 
 over, dreariness fell again. 
 
 So the long, long years passed. In spite of a modern 
 might have said because of poor living, poor clothing, and 
 lack of comforts, Jerry grew apace, adding inches to his height 
 and pounds to his weight. The sturdy shoulders broadened 
 and deepened; he could run and lift with any man on the 
 farm. No longer did the minister lay a hand on him, that 
 gentleman had other fish to fry nowadays. During the past 
 years his love if violent passion and an almost uncontrollable 
 jealousy could be called by such a name for Hester, had 
 grown to something almost terrible in its obsession. The old 
 religious fanaticism dwarfed and paled beside its rival, yet 
 still lingered, mingling confusedly in the half crazy brain with 
 the all-absorbing desire. 
 
 He would wander about the fields and woods, talking, ges- 
 ticulating wildly ; the villagers, his own followers at least, were 
 vastly edified. " Tis minister wrastlin' wi' the devil," said 
 they, and watched secretly and with fearful awe. 
 
 The inmates of the cottage saw very little of him. For 
 that reason, or perhaps because of a look in the boy's face, 
 which would have warded off a stronger man, the widow 
 suffered less at least, there were no signs of any violence. 
 And with Father Time and Dame Habit at the helm, Jerry 
 slipped into his old ways again, working, modelling, learning, 
 even though all hope of anything different was gone. There
 
 196 When Pan Pipes 
 
 was a strange feeling of content, of duty done and self con- 
 quered. My Lady Kezzy was dimly conscious of it; Farmer 
 Chubbe knew and understood, and, if possible, Jerry grew 
 dearer every day, almost as dear as Betty. 
 
 About this time the farmer, too, began to build; but not 
 a castle, only a small nest, snug and warm, and very near 
 his heart such a humble future, yet perhaps more beauti- 
 ful than the grand palaces and cloud-capped towers which 
 younger architects were planning. It is one of Nature's laws 
 that forces gather in the quiet times. Events were drawing 
 together, shaping, and were soon about to burst like stars from 
 a rocket. 
 
 It began by a piece of news in the village. Roger Dyke 
 came in for a legacy "a bag of money" said report, ''a hun- 
 dred pounds" averred gossip. This smoke was not without 
 ' fire ; it soon became known that an old aunt had left a stock- 
 ing full of sovereigns, sixty in all, and Cloudesley wondered 
 and talked for seven days, then found another topic. Roger 
 Dyke, a thrifty man and somewhat of a miser, put the money 
 aside, meaning to bank it next market day. But the bright 
 gold was alluring, and Thursday after Thursday passed, and 
 the bag still lay hidden under one of the boards in the sitting- 
 room. 
 
 There are certain women to whom a man is a man, regard- 
 less of his character or appearance. Mrs. Hagges was such. 
 There are others who prefer a warped nature, even if coupled 
 with a repulsive ugliness, who see in him something which 
 the ordinary man does not possess. Such was Hester Dyke. 
 Handsome, bold, unscrupulous, she found in the minister a 
 fascination wholly lacking in her husband, honest man, or 
 indeed, in any one of the bucolic swains, whom, by dint of 
 smiles and jealousy of each other, she kept dangling after 
 her. 
 
 The minister, between want of her and want of the widow's 
 worldly belongings, had, like the donkey between two bundles 
 of straw, been hung up. Hester herself settled matters by
 
 The Witch Lifts the Curtain 197 
 
 her marriage. But afterwards, the old footing had been re- 
 established, and the minister consorted with the husband while 
 he made love to the wife, a love-making whose secrecy had 
 a curious fascination in it for their natures. It might have 
 gone on indefinitely, but for the money and Roger Dyke's love 
 for it. 
 
 One morning, Cloudesley had its ears tickled with the 
 choicest piece of scandal for many a long year. The minister 
 had deserted his flock, Hester Dyke was missing, and her 
 husband's bag of money was gone. 
 
 It had been well planned. She had left home on a two 
 days' visit to a friend at Channington. The minister was 
 responsible to no one but himself. They were traced to a 
 town some twenty-five rniles away, and from thence to Lon- 
 don, where, in the whirlpool of the great city, they were 
 swallowed up and forgotten, save by the few. 
 
 Roger Dyke, in a sober, phlegmatic way, loved his wife, 
 but she had ruled him, and after the first shock there was 
 a sense of freedom unknown for some years. He loved his 
 money more, and what with anger for its loss, bitter hatred 
 of the man who had led her on to take it, and the aforesaid 
 freedom, Hester was secondary. If she chose to run away 
 from a good home and husband, why, she could go, and he 
 resumed his bachelor ways without much regret. 
 
 To the cottage the news came like a bolt from the blue. 
 Peter the Ranger, that inveterate gossip, brought it. 
 
 "So you've lost him, missis," he said, standing back to the 
 fire there was no bread and cheese, and no ale forthcoming 
 in those spare days, "an' you'll not be grievin' I'm thinkin'. 
 He's been a poor sort o' husband, for sartain, out nights an' 
 days, an* never keepin' you company, nor givin' a hand wi' 
 the housework." 
 
 The widow, hesitating between the sufficiency of one egg 
 or the extravagance of two, heard but little. Peter shook 
 his head at her denseness. 
 
 "I must speak plain," he murmured to himself ; then aloud,
 
 198 When Pan Pipes 
 
 "You've lost him, widow," and, struck by the appropriateness 
 of the name, "aye you're widow indeed you'll never need 
 scold a body when he calls you that again." She looked up, 
 beating her pudding. 
 
 "What are you talking of, Peter?" Peter, to speak met- 
 aphorically, beat his breast. "How's a man to tell her?" 
 
 "Missis, the minister's gone off, gone off an' left you." 
 
 "Gone off " she repeated vaguely, "yes, I know; but he'll 
 be back soon for his dinner." 
 
 "Oh, will he?" responded Peter, with sarcastic emphasis. 
 "I tell you, widow, he's gone, gone with another man's wife, 
 an' you'll not see him again till the money's spent." The 
 widow's cheeks paled. 
 
 "Gone " she echoed. "The money " 
 
 "Yes, yes," was the impatient reply. "Gone. He went off 
 two days ago he an' that good-looking piece, Roger Dyke's 
 wife ; an' between them, they've taken sixty pounds, the legacy 
 old Aunt Jane left; an' an' why, hold up, Harriet, what's 
 amiss? I didn't ought to ha' told you so sudden like." The 
 meaning had dawned, and the widow's spoon dropped from 
 her hand. Peter caught her as she tottered to the armchair, 
 and he noticed pityingly how the plump frame had dwindled. 
 
 "Could hardly ha' carried her at one time," he muttered, 
 "an' now. There's naught to grieve on, missis," he said, 
 standing over her. " Tis no loss." She shook her head. 
 
 "A husband's a husband, Peter." 
 
 "There's some as don't deserve the name. You'd ha* done 
 better with me, Harriet, when we was young." 
 
 "Maybe, maybe." The first shock was passing, and she 
 made an effort to get on her feet. 
 
 "Sit where ye are, missis. I'll send a neighbour in as I 
 go." A look of terror came into her face. 
 
 "No, no, Peter don't ye do that. He wouldn't like it; 
 he can't abide strangers." Peter lifted his hands in dismay. 
 
 "Are ye daft, missis ? Don't you understand ? He's gone 
 gone. You can do as you like now."
 
 The Witch Lifts the Curtain 199 
 
 "Can I?" She sat plucking idly at the red-cushioned arms. 
 Peter watched, despairing of making an impression. 
 
 "I'll go an' send Mrs. Chubbe. Women understand these 
 things." The widow took no notice. After a while she 
 glanced mechanically at the clock, then stumbled to her feet 
 and returned to her pudding. But even as she stirred in 
 the flour the whole understanding burst upon her. 
 
 "He won't want it won't want any more puddings." And 
 with a groan she sank back in the chair, her hands covering 
 her face, the tears slowly oozing through as she rocked back- 
 ward and forward. So Mrs. Chubbe found her, and, looking, 
 forbore to scold. They got her to bed. There, in the rose- 
 papered room, under the patchwork counterpane, box-patterned, 
 which, with the china, had been among the joys of her life, 
 she lay, half waking, half sleeping, between consciousness and 
 dreaming, for some days. 
 
 Neighbours crept in and out, kindly, simple souls, with 
 brews and possets of their own making, and offers of assist- 
 ance. Jerry wandered about the cottage and garden, missing 
 sadly the familiar figure, wondering, surmising, but never let- 
 ting his thoughts run to the future. Tibbie, after searching 
 kitchen, back'us, and parlour, even to the high shelves where 
 perchance her mistress might lie hid, made an upward journey, 
 and having found what she wanted, took up her position on 
 the bed, where henceforth she lay undisturbed. The doctor, 
 a spare, keen-faced man, with little appearance of sympathy, 
 came from Channington, and pronounced the verdict. 
 
 "She'll linger. A fortnight a month maybe two, but " 
 He shook his head, and Mrs. Chubbe, burning with curiosity, 
 put a question. He looked at her, and hesitated for a moment. 
 
 "You're a sensible woman, and perhaps you'll believe and 
 perhaps not; but it's true, notwithstanding. There are some 
 people who have so little stamina that a sudden shock will kill 
 them, as it will a mouse. Moreover," he lifted his keen eyes, 
 "in some the shock takes the form of a broken heart. This 
 is an instance." And with an air of "Take it or leave it," the
 
 200 When Pan Pipes 
 
 doctor creaked down the narrow stairs, mounted his horse and 
 rode away, leaving Mrs. Chubbe gasping with astonishment. 
 
 "A broken heart did ever hear the like on't?" she said 
 that evening in conclusion, when retailing the news to her 
 husband. "Doctor must be daft. An' what's she had to break 
 her heart? "Tisn't grief, for sure, for a worse husband never 
 lived i' this world. But he'll get what he hain't bargained for, 
 if I know Hester Dyke. A woman who's once left a man'll 
 do it again for two pins. She'll ha' none o' his tantrums. 
 Broken heart indeed T-r-r-r-r." With a sound, expressive, 
 as no words could be, of utmost scorn, Mrs. Chubbe flounced 
 out. The farmer slowly filled his long clay pipe, pressing down 
 the tobacco meditatively, and moved his head from side to side 
 in a ruminating way. 
 
 "Wimmen, wimmen," he ejaculated softly, "they're queer 
 kittle-cattle." Then, lighting the pipe and taking a long draw, 
 he blew a pensive cloud of smoke. "Well, well 'tis a queer 
 world too." He settled himself in the chimney corner, moved 
 the pewter spittoon to a handy spot. "An' there be queer folk 
 in it, mostly wimmen." With this summary, the farmer put 
 his pipe between his lips, and succumbed to the soothing in- 
 fluence. 
 
 And so another visitor was on his way to the cottage. Day 
 by day his footsteps drew nearer, the shadow of his coming 
 grew longer. It must have touched the widow's bedroom, for 
 she grew restless. 
 
 "Send the child," she said. Mrs. Chubbe, bending over her, 
 asked if she meant Jerry. A little nod answered her, and 
 the farmer's wife went downstairs to give the message. Jerry 
 noiselessly crept up the stairs and entered the rose-patterned 
 room. The firelight glowed and flickered, long shadows ran 
 up and down the walls, in and out the furniture, and moved 
 across the bed, even playing over the tired face, familiar, yet 
 unfamiliar with a dim foreshadowing of the great knowledge 
 coming so soon. She opened her eyes as he came near, and 
 beckoned with a thin finger.
 
 The Witch Lifts the Curtain 201 
 
 "Come here, little boy; nearer nearer." The voice was 
 low and faltering, but clearly intelligent. She pulled him close 
 and whispered with some of the old frightened air. 
 
 "Has he gone ? You're sure he's not here, not in the corner, 
 nor behind the bed." 
 
 Jerry looked to reassure her, and she went on; yet all the 
 time the tired eyes moved restlessly as though seeking. 
 
 "I hain't been a good woman no, I hain't," slowly the words 
 came. " 'Twasn't a pound a month " the labouring breath 
 drew more heavily. " 'Twas 'twas three. An* at first at 
 first I spent it, I I bought a new carpet for the 
 bedroom an' an' things " 
 
 Jerry broke in. "Oh, Mrs. Hagges, dear Mrs. Hagges, it 
 doesn't matter." But she waved him aside with a troubled 
 look and he interrupted no more. 
 
 "I couldn't abide to be shabby. An' an', then, somehow 
 when I knowed ye better I I couldn't " She raised her- 
 self, holding with one bony hand on Jerry. Unlike Mrs. 
 Chubbe, who, under similar circumstances would have for- 
 bidden conversation or excitement, he made no remonstrance, 
 only propping her with pillows and holding the wasted hand 
 in his. The weak voice rose in triumphant glee. 
 
 "But I've got it all on it an' he never got it though 
 he tried an' he's cruel bad." She pulled him closer. "He 
 won't come in you're sure sartain sure?" 
 
 "No, m'am. He's not here ; he's a long way off." 
 
 "Well, then." The words came between long gasping 
 breaths. Jerry's tears fell. She was turning, hurriedly, as 
 though seeking something. "The bed post where is it?" 
 Jerry, wondering, guided her hand; with a sound, which in 
 health could only have been described as a chuckle, she held 
 his finger, drawing it slowly downwards till it touched one of 
 the richly carved roses. 
 
 "Press press " she whispered. Still wondering, but obedi- 
 ent, he pushed the wood inwards. Something creaked, stirred, 
 and behold, the whole piece of carving moved upwards, dis-
 
 202 When Pan Pipes 
 
 closing a hollow aperture. The widow's fingers fumbled, sank 
 in the hole, and found what they sought a small bag. Sink- 
 ing back on the pillows, she waited, grasping the treasure till 
 strength should return, then thrust it into Jerry's hand. 
 
 "It's yours, little boy, yours, take it. You're a good little 
 boy an' that I've always said. An' an' hide it he 
 wants it. But he shan't have it no he shan't it's all 
 3'ours little boy the cottage an' an' " The voice grew 
 weaker weaker a flicker lit the tired, worn face, and Jerry, 
 inexperienced as he was, saw another shadow, a shadow which 
 was not one of the merry, playful ones which lived in the 
 room. 
 
 "An' an' the chancy came from afar off." He flew 
 to the door and called; then, with the thought fulness of an 
 older head, replaced the bag and closed the spring. 
 
 "An* an' all " softly came from the bed; then silence, 
 broken by the creaking of the stairs. Mrs. Chubbe was stand- 
 ing by him, grave, silent for once. 
 
 And the shadow lengthened; it seemed to fill the room, 
 driving those others to shelter. Darker, dimmer, grew the 
 twilight, slowly on the stillness Church Clock struck five. 
 Mrs. Chubbe lit candles and pushed the bed curtains further 
 back. The light seemed to rouse the dying woman. Across 
 the tired, worn face came a gentle creasing and uncreasing. 
 
 "Get along wi' ye do " She had gone back to that first 
 evening. Then, suddenly opening her eyes, she moved, half 
 rose, and cried: "Simeon oh Simeon!" then fell, gasping. 
 
 Mrs. Chubbe, with a muttered cry, put her arms about her 
 and laid her gently down. 
 
 "It's over, child," she said, regardless of the tears running 
 down her cheeks ; "an* quiet she never even wanted the goose 
 pillow. An' now, run across an' tell neighbour Brown, she'll 
 come an' help me, an' keep in the kitchen till I tell you." 
 
 Within five minutes the two women were shut in the bed- 
 room. Jerry drew the red curtains of the kitchen, made up
 
 The Witch Lifts the Curtain 203 
 
 the fire and filled the kettle, knowing that when the last serv- 
 ices were over, a stimulant in the form of tea would be wel- 
 come. 
 
 And then, somehow, the intervening years became as naught. 
 In the quiet of the kitchen Mistress Loneliness peeped through 
 the door, and unmasking, was her old self. Forgetful of his 
 long legs, Jerry drew out the three-legged stool, and sitting on 
 it, was a child once more. A little lonely boy, thoughtful, but 
 not, as he knew it now, altogether unhappy. A grey mist gath- 
 ered in the red-cushioned armchair opposite, formed and took 
 shape, filling it, making dents in the cushions. Tibbie, asleep 
 again on the hearth, purred loudly, the kettle hummed, then 
 broke into singing, and suddenly, from somewhere, came the 
 chirp chirp of a cricket. In the silence he could almost hear 
 the widow's deep breathing. All around, one after another, 
 the inanimate things woke up. They had been watching, 
 watching, all those years. Now they found their voices, and 
 they were no longer malicious, jeering, nor did they grin as 
 of old in the witch's kitchen. 
 
 A witch! Strange thought now, and yet once so natural. 
 Only a poor old woman, ignorant, simple, yet with the germs 
 of nobility, of love. She was gone gone. 
 
 "What then?" cried the inanimate things. "She was here 
 for a space, as we are. She lived her little life as we live 
 ours. Nature gave her the divine spark of life, as we are 
 given it, only a larger share. She is gone, as we shall go; 
 as even you, Jerry boy, with your youth and your strength, 
 and your great thoughts, which are, after all, so puny with 
 your longings, your aspirations, your cravings for something 
 beyond will go. Even so shall we all pass, singly, uncon- 
 sciously, into the great heart of nature. And she, good mother, 
 shall do as she will with us return us to this world, pass us 
 on to another, or perhaps, if we're very, very tired, she'll let 
 us sleep and rest awhile." 
 
 They laid her in a green corner of the churchyard, amid
 
 204 When Pan Pipes 
 
 long grass and ancient stones, beneath the shadow of Church 
 Clock; and the busy tide of life swept up, closed over, and 
 flowed on its way. 
 
 Jerry was free. Yet, just at first, like a caged bird re- 
 gaining its liberty, he hardly knew how to use his freedom. 
 The story of the money had been told to Mr. Chubbe and 
 his wife, who, when necessity arose, could guard a secret like 
 death itself. Together they had drawn the bag from its hid- 
 ing place and investigated its contents. There was, first of 
 all, a sealed envelope containing the widow's will. 
 
 "Dck, dck!" ejaculated Mrs. Chubbe, "to think on it. She 
 must ha' gone into Channington to Lawyer Todd to get it 
 done." But done it was ; the widow's mark witnessed, and all 
 in order, bequeathing everything to Jerry. Beneath lay eighty 
 pounds in gold sovereigns, and Mrs. Chubbe could only murmur 
 feebly, "Dck dck dck to think on it." 
 
 And Jerry? A host of feelings seemed to rush through 
 him, the chief one surprise at the difference in himself. Five 
 years ago how he would have rejoiced, with what elation would 
 he have started off, armed with a safeguard against poverty. 
 And now romance had fled; the money was money only. 
 He would go to London, of course, but soberly, ready to take 
 up work as a man takes work. No longer Johnny-head-in-Air, 
 nor the miller's son; just a boy unfolding into a man, realising 
 reality, and prepared to face practical difficulties, the first being 
 an interview with Lady Kezzy. He was independent, he 
 wanted no one's help; but he did want her to know that his 
 resolution was still the same as it had been five years ago, 
 and, without in the least exposing his self-denial which, look- 
 ing back, he knew had only been a step for his own good 
 make her understand. There was no need. My lady, after 
 congratulating him, came to the point. 
 
 "Jerry, why didn't you accept my offer years ago?" The 
 colour mounted beneath his brown skin. He made no answer. 
 
 "Did you stay because you thought it was your duty?" He 
 raised his truthful brown eyes to hers.
 
 The Witch Lifts the Curtain 205 
 
 "My lady, would you mind if I didn't answer that? You 
 see, I've never altered, and indeed, indeed, 'twasn't because 
 I didn't want to." 
 
 And my lady understood. She turned the conversation into 
 a practical channel. 
 
 "Do you still wish to enter a studio, Jerry?" 
 
 "Yes, my lady. I was going to ask you if you would tell 
 me of one." For a moment she looked thoughtful. 
 
 "The best thing," she said presently, "will be to write a 
 letter of introduction to my old drawing master, Signer Ar- 
 digny. He has a studio and will no doubt assist you on my 
 recommendation, and your own merits," she added smilingly. 
 "I'll give you the letter now." 
 
 She rose, and going to a side table, drew ink and paper 
 towards her, writing busily. A silence fell in the lamplit 
 room, only broken by the dropping of embers, and the scratch 
 of my lady's quill. Suddenly he was conscious of a curious 
 feeling; his heart beat, something surged in his head, and a 
 thrill ran through him, like the sudden contact of ice water. 
 It was so quick, that he hardly realised that it preceded a sound 
 the sound of a fresh girlish voice, clear, and coming nearer. 
 
 "Aunt Kezzy, Aunt Kezzy, where are you?" 
 
 Again the clutch at his heart. He half rose, the handle 
 turned, and the door opened. Jerry stood up, a mist before 
 him, his heart beating till the room seemed full of sound, 
 and he knew romance had come back, that it was never 
 dead. 
 
 Framed in the dark oak of the door stood a fairy white, 
 white was her dress of finest muslin, whiter still the soft neck 
 and arms peeping from its snowy folds. Blue, blue, her eyes 
 as summer cornflowers, golden the long curls which fell around 
 her pale gold as the cornfields beneath azure skies and the 
 sound of her voice was like the rippling of brooks over pebbly 
 stones on a hot summer day. 
 
 "Aunt Kezzy, Aunt Karen says " she broke off, seeing 
 Jerry. "Oh, I'm so sorry. I didn't know you were engaged."
 
 206 When Pan Pipes 
 
 She drew back, the door closed, and all the glory of the world 
 was gone. Yet deep in Jerry's heart, flung in that moment, 
 lay a seed, and it fell on soil made ready for it. In the days 
 to come it was to germinate and bud, but the blossom lay hid 
 in the future. 
 
 My lady finished her letter, and handed it to him with many 
 injunctions. So the first step was taken. It was Mr. Chubbe 
 who made the second, promising to take charge of the main 
 sum, and bidding him see Messrs. Gardiner and Gardiner at 
 the earliest opportunity. To Mrs. Chubbe fell the third. 
 
 "You must get yourself gentleman's clothes, child, directly 
 you get there," she said. "Spend some of your money if 
 needs be, it'll pay you i' the end. An' if pedlar can't give you 
 lodgin', put up at a respectable inn till you hear of something. 
 Her busy fingers patched, mended, darned, and packed his car- 
 pet bag. The farmer went to Channington next market day, 
 and brought back strange contributions brilliant handkerchiefs 
 and cravats ; finally producing, with many winks and chuckles, 
 a gold fob chain fashioned like a ribbon, soft and pliable and 
 finished with an onyx seal. 
 
 "It'll do to wear wi' your gentleman's clothes, laddie," he 
 said, presenting it, "for 'twas bought from a gentleman, an' 
 I'll tell you how I come by it. Mrs. Plumtre was asking me 
 about ye you was always a favourite, you know, laddie an' 
 by-'n^by she slipped off upstairs an' fetched this. Says she, 
 'You take it to him, farmer 'twas my boy's once; he bought 
 it of a gentleman who'd come down i' the world, an' if Jerry 
 brings him back, he shall ha' another 'stead o' this. An' if 
 he doesn't well I'd rather he than any one else, for he's a 
 good youth, an' if he can, he'll find my boy. So gi' him my 
 blessin', farmer, an' tell him I know he'll do his best.' So 'tis 
 yours, laddie, in trust for that there ne'er-do-well." 
 
 Jerry's heart was full; but for being seventeen, the tears 
 might have fallen. He kept them back and took the gift and 
 the trust. 
 
 So, in the dark November morning he said good-bye to
 
 The Witch Lifts the Curtain 207 
 
 Cloudesley, and mounting the little cart behind Jenny, drove 
 with the farmer and Betty who had arrived unexpectedly a 
 day or two before, having been sent home with the other young 
 ladies to avoid an epidemic of measles, which had broken out 
 at the convent into Channington to meet the early coach. 
 
 It brought back memories. Margery, never heard of again ; 
 daddy, only coming in dreams ; the witch, gone, never to return ; 
 and a little boy, who had lived nine years with Loneliness, and 
 grown to love her so dearly that the parting with her was 
 almost as sharp as the parting with the farmer. 
 
 The stable yard was unchanged; just the same bustle and 
 commotion, the same people, it seemed to him, Daniel slightly 
 older, the same voices, laughter, tears, the same long tally-ho 
 of the horn, the same rattle over the cobbles, the same swing 
 into the high road, the same waving of handkerchiefs, only 
 this time he was not among those who waved. He saw the 
 farmer's red face as they turned, Betty's sparkling one, Mrs. 
 Plumtre's little round figure, and heard her shrill good-byes, 
 and then, hey ! for the long, long road, and London City, and 
 all the mystical future.
 
 Part Two: London
 
 Part Two: London 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THE SWINEHERD SEEKS HIS FORTUNE 
 
 IT was past six o'clock when the coach neared London. The 
 road ran by the little hamlets of Seven Kings and Romford, 
 across Chadwell Heath, through the forest, and by the marshes 
 and low lying land which stretched for miles along the valley 
 of the Lea. Through the villages of Poplar, Bow, and Hack- 
 ney, and the lights of London glimmered ahead. Vast, shad- 
 owy places outlined themselves against the dark sky, faintly 
 tinged with reflected light. Dim steeples and domes rose like 
 dream castles, the hum of London reached him, like the hum 
 of a swarming hive, and passengers stirred, seeking wraps and 
 luggage. 
 
 The bells of Shoreditch were ringing sweetly as they clat- 
 tered through the village, and in a few minutes had reached 
 the eastern side of the city. Through Bishopsgate, up London 
 Wall, along Cheapside, skirting London's great shadowy 
 church, down Ludgate Hill, into the Strand, and with a cry 
 and a "tally ho!" they clattered into a courtyard as St. 
 Clement's struck eight. 
 
 "Well timed, gentlemen," cried Daniel, pushing aside the 
 heavy leather, and with slow ponderous steps climbing down 
 the ladder. "An* that brings my record ahead for the year," 
 he added, burying his face in a foaming tankard tendered by 
 an ostler, who watched admiringly as the pewter tilted higher 
 and higher, and Daniel, draining the last drop, handed it back 
 with a satisfied smack. 
 
 211
 
 212 When Pan Pipes 
 
 Jerry stood for a few moments ; the new surroundings were 
 vastly interesting, and he was loath to leave the familiar faces 
 of Daniel and his fellow passengers till obliged. One by one 
 they melted away. Daniel shook hands and disappeared 
 Gathering up his courage, Jerry lifted his bag, consulted the 
 scrap of paper containing the pedlar's address, and walked out 
 of the courtyard. 
 
 He stood awhile, wondering if any great matter was in 
 hand, for people flocked down the ill-paved street, lit dimly 
 by lanterns, all intent, seemingly, on business or pleasure. 
 But Jerry, though country bred, was no fool. After waiting 
 some few minutes, it dawned upon him that this was Lon- 
 don's usual state. He laughed a little at his own stupidity, 
 and crossing the road, started in earnest for his destination. 
 
 Out of the main thoroughfare the streets were narrow, dark 
 and dirty. A few straggling loiterers directed him occasion- 
 ally, and now and then a carriage, with powdered footmen 
 and gorgeous coachmen, not unlike my Lord Cloudesley's own, 
 passed, conveying some great folk to Drury Lane or the Opera 
 House in Covent Garden. Several times he would have stayed 
 to gaze open-mouthed at the marvels around him, but one of 
 Mrs. Chubbe's many admonitions came to his mind, "Don't 
 be surprised at aught, child; keep your thoughts to yourself, 
 an' don't be 'Hail fellow, well met' with every Tom, Dick, and 
 Harry." 
 
 He had complete reliance on Mrs. Chubbe had she not 
 lived with the great ones of the earth? Besides, the advice, 
 to his mind, carried its own merits. In and out, twisting, 
 turning, asking, at last he came to where several streets met, 
 forming a kind of square, tolerably wide. A street lamp stood 
 in the midst, and its rays fell on what had no doubt been at 
 some time a nobleman's house. Three-sided it stood, enclosing 
 a small piece of ground, round which ran a paved path. The 
 middle section had long windows, gleaming darkly in the 
 lamplight; but those in the side wings were closely boarded 
 up. In the centre of the right building, facing the square,
 
 The Swineherd Seeks His Fortune 213 
 
 was a heavy door, studded with nails and bearing as knocker 
 a man's hand grasping an iron stancheon probably some her- 
 aldic device connected with the house's former occupants. 
 Over this ancient memento ran a curiously modern inscription, 
 "Reuben Gade Dealer in Antiquities." 
 
 Now the final venture had come, Jerry advanced somewhat 
 timidly, and lifting the massive knocker, gave a gentle rap. 
 He waited, then repeated the knock. A voice from within, un- 
 mistakably the pedlar's, cried, "Toby, Toby Dingle, where are 
 you?" followed, after a short interval, by the sound of foot- 
 steps, not slow like the widow's, but with the slowness of feet 
 unwilling to be brisk. They came nearer, the catch was turned, 
 the door opened a few inches, and a voice spoke. 
 
 "Who is it? What do you want?" 
 
 "Is Mr. Gade in? Will you please tell him that it's Jerry, 
 Jerry Dell, from Cloudesley?" 
 
 "From Cloudesley," the voice was full of something unde- 
 finable, "Cloudesley," it repeated monotonously, and was si- 
 lent. Presently it spoke again. "W who are you ?" Jerry 
 was beginning to grow impatient. 
 
 "Mr. Gade knows me ; oh, please tell him I've come." 
 
 This time the answer was an eye, which peeped cautiously 
 round the edge and took a survey evidently satisfactory, for 
 the door was opened, disclosing the figure of a man wrapped 
 in a loose dressing-gown. He was short and round. Indeed, 
 roundness was the one descriptive adjective summing him up. 
 A round chubby face, singularly childlike round blue eyes, 
 round cheeks pink tinted, and a round head covered with fair, 
 almost lint white hair a prepossessing face, a face which, 
 somehow, had the power to evoke cheerful mirth and light- 
 heartedness, and Jerry wondered at the mystery of its appear- 
 ance. 
 
 "Come in, I'll tell Mr. Gade." But at that moment the pedlar 
 emerged from the lighted distance and advanced into the 
 shadow. 
 
 "What is it, Toby?" Jerry stepped in.
 
 214 When Pan Pipes 
 
 "It's I, Mr. Gade; Jerry Dell, from the cottage at Cloudes- 
 ley. You told me to come." Reuben Gade threw up his 
 hands and came quickly forward. 
 
 "The little boy! And so you haf kom to London. Said I 
 not so. Kom in, kom in." He caught Jerry's hand, drawing 
 him along the wide entrance. Toby closed the great door 
 and followed, his loose slippers flopping at every step. The 
 Jew was also in deshabille, and as they turned the corner 
 Jerry caught his breath. 
 
 There were spaces on either side, dimly dark, stretching 
 into deep shadows. Shapeless outlines of massive furniture 
 loomed mysteriously, soft carpets were under his feet, and 
 there was a curious scent, subtle, indefinite, suggestive of 
 the East, yet also of gardens, warm, perfumed rooms, and 
 vaguely of the sweet scent used by the ladies of Cloudesley Hall. 
 
 They reached the end of the wing, and turning to the right, 
 came into the main hall of the house. Here, between the 
 long windows, was a great fireplace of dark oak, matching 
 the rest of the woodwork. It rose high to a narrow mantel- 
 shelf, above which was heavy carving and an escutcheon, 
 once emblazoned with coat of arms and crest. In front of 
 this was drawn a small table laid for a meal. Two high- 
 backed chairs stood at the sides, and the whole scene was lit 
 with candelabra and side sconces. To Jerry, tired, cold, hun- 
 gry, it seemed redolent of comfort and kindliness. 
 
 "And now," said the pedlar, "we will haf supper, and be 
 warm and cheerful. Another chair, Toby. Kom, sit and eat, 
 and you shall tell me all about it." 
 
 He bustled round as he spoke, laying another place, then 
 drawing the chair fetched by Toby to the fire, thrust Jerry 
 into it, refusing to hear a word. Presently Toby appeared 
 from some distant region bearing a tray of smoking dishes, 
 and a pleasant odour of roast meat and vegetables mingled 
 with the more romantic one before mentioned. 
 
 "But, Mr. Gade " Jerry's remonstrance was cut short.
 
 The Swineherd Seeks His Fortune 215 
 
 "Not yet, not yet ; when you haf eaten." The warmth and 
 good food, supplemented with a tankard of foaming brown 
 ale, was luxury indeed ; Jerry hardly knew himself. The ped- 
 lar refused to hear any words, and his guests had time to look 
 round and take in his new surroundings. 
 
 The hall was domed, its ceiling lost in misty shadow. From 
 either end sprang a wide, low staircase, with broad balustrade 
 and richly carved banisters. They met on a wide gallery, run- 
 ning the length of the hall, in the centre of which rose a great 
 arch leading to another spacious hall surrounded with doors. 
 In the hall below was a similar arch, also more spaces and 
 doors innumerable. High up, in a corner of the wing he had 
 first entered, was a smaller gallery, which, he afterwards 
 learned, was for minstrels. Doubtless, many a stately minuet, 
 many a grave sarabande or sprightly gavotte, had been danced 
 on the polished floor beneath. 
 
 The first course was followed by a dish of wonderful pas- 
 tries, which the pedlar attacked with vigour. 
 
 "I haf a sweet tooth," he said apologetically. "That is my 
 French mothaire." 
 
 After the pastries came a strange preparation of cheese. 
 Jerry, remembering Mrs. Chubbe, tasted everything, and as 
 far as possible under such marvellous circumstances, showed 
 no surprise. When at last it was over, his host gave a satis- 
 fied sigh, turned his chair to the fire and beckoned Jerry to 
 do the same. Toby cleared the table, placed glasses and 
 strange bottles, and departed. 
 
 "Be quick, Toby," said the pedlar, nodding kindly. He took 
 a huge cigar from a box, lighted it, poured out a glass of some 
 pale liquid, and settled to enjoyment. "Now tell me all 
 about it." 
 
 Jerry began, from the widow's death onwards, and the Jew 
 listened with interest. 
 
 "Poor thing poor thing," he said, when it was finished; 
 "she would not see me for two three years."
 
 216 When Pan Pipes 
 
 "I think," said Jerry, "she was afraid; and then, you see, 
 we had no money." 
 
 "Ah, no ah, no." Reuben smoked on, then flicked the ash 
 into the fire, a sterner look on his kindly features. "He was 
 a bad man, and she lost nothing when he went. But there " 
 a shrug of the great shoulders, "she could not see it. Ah 
 these poor, foolish women. And yet, we would not haf them 
 else. Poor thing poor thing." Again there was silence; 
 Toby's voice carolled in the distance. 
 
 Begone, Dull Care ; I prithee bego-one from me, 
 Begone, Dull Care; too long hast thou tarried with me. 
 
 And Toby himself presently appeared, his round cheerful 
 face reminding Jerry curiously of those friendly faces which, 
 so long ago it seemed, used to peep at him over silvery fields 
 and dark woods. A place was made, and thinking the time 
 was come, he broached the subject uppermost in his mind. 
 
 "Mr. Gade, would you mind, I mean, could you tell me 
 where I could get a room. Mrs. Chubbe thought you would 
 know. If if " Jerry hesitated, "if it could be near here; 
 you see, I know no one in London only you and " The 
 Jew put out a great, hairy paw, and laid it gently on his shoul- 
 der. 
 
 "I know, I know. I was lonely once in this great Lon- 
 don. It is to some a cruel monster, and to others a kind 
 friend; but it is always fickle like a woman." He caught 
 Toby's eye. A glance passed between them. "Why not why 
 not?" he murmured, lapsing into silence. But it was not un- 
 broken. Toby's behaviour, indeed, all that followed, was even 
 stranger than that which had gone before. Every now and 
 then a low chuckle reached Jerry's ears. The Jew frowned 
 meditatively, smoked violently, and gazed into the fire. Jerry 
 fidgetted, time was getting on. He was screwing up his cour- 
 age to speak, when his host roused. 
 
 "This room, I know one. It is near very near, and cheap ;
 
 The Swineherd Seeks His Fortune 217 
 
 oh, yes, it is cheap." Toby chuckled loudly; the Jew glared 
 at him. 
 
 "It is " He paused. "What will you pay for board and 
 lodging ?" 
 
 Jerry hesitated. Three pounds a month, and the widow 
 had saved. That would leave him fourteen pounds a year 
 without touching the bag of savings. Very timidly he sug- 
 gested it. The Jew threw up his hands, and Toby, quiet now, 
 listened with twinkling eyes. 
 
 "Ach ! it is too much. They are not robbers they are my 
 great friends. We will say " 
 
 Here Toby distinguished himself by rolling over, hiding his 
 face in the arm of the chair and shaking with uncontrolled 
 merriment. The Jew watched for a moment, then rose, and 
 punched the offender furiously. Toby took not the slightest 
 notice, and presently the laughter subsided into weak chuckles. 
 He sat straight, wiped his eyes, and looked at the other. 
 
 "You know you will you know you will," he gasped, and 
 Reuben, with a parting punch, turned, and leaping on a small, 
 square stool, reached to the high mantelshelf. 
 
 "Well, then, Toby Dingle, you shall not tell lies ; I will." 
 
 He took down two bottles. One was filled with large golden 
 beads, the other contained only a few. From the former he 
 took one, and solemnly dropping it into the latter, replaced 
 the bottle ; then went back to his chair. Jerry watched, com- 
 pletely mystified. 
 
 "And now," said the Jew, "we will continue. My friend 
 he wants five shillings a week; that will not hurt you, and it 
 will pay him well. He will sometimes want you to walk with 
 him and talk with him, but not moch oh, not moch. Will 
 that suit you ?" 
 
 "Oh!" Jerry's face was puzzled. The sum seemed ridicu- 
 lous. He thought of the widow, but commonsense told him 
 that London was more expensive. 
 
 "It seems too little, Mr. Gade," he said at length.
 
 218 When Pan Pipes 
 
 "Ah, no, ah, no" The Jew waved his hand airily. "It 
 will pay him well." And Toby chuckled again. 
 
 "Of course," Jerry began, "I should be very much obliged." 
 
 "Then we will consider it settled," put in his host, with 
 decision, "and Toby shall take you when you are ready. And 
 in the morning you must see these lawyers Gardiner and 
 Gardiner, I think you said." Jerry rose and held out his hand. 
 
 "Thank you very much, Mr. Gade ; I will do all you tell me ; 
 and I'll come in first and see you, if you don't mind." 
 
 "Kom whenever you like," returned Reuben cordially. "No, 
 no, we will not say good-bye, like you English say. We will 
 shake hands and say, 'Gott be with you.' " 
 
 The kindly face was gravely serious; Jerry's hand was 
 gripped and shaken heartily. Toby, taking a silver candle- 
 stick, led the way. When they reached the turn of the great 
 hall, instead of making for the entrance, he turned towards 
 the staircase. Wondering, but thinking that doubtless another 
 door brought them nearer, Jerry followed. Up the easy steps, 
 under the arch to the left, they went through corridors whose 
 doors led heaven knew where, and everywhere was furniture, 
 some covered with white cloths, gleaming ghost-like in the dim 
 light, some only showing dark outlines. Toby waved towards 
 some of the doors. 
 
 "All the best's in there," he said; "the finest pictures and 
 carvings and sculpture." 
 
 "It's a wonderful place," said Jerry. 
 
 "Yes and Reuben's a wonderful man." They had come 
 to a sharp turn; from what he could gather they were over 
 the boarded wing. Toby stopped, and taking a huge bunch 
 of keys from some hiding place in the dressing-gown, inserted 
 one, and flung open a door. 
 
 "There you are," he cried, his eyes twinkling and his round 
 face beaming. 
 
 "But," said Jerry bewildered, "I don't understand. Mr. 
 Gade said a friend." 
 
 "Yes, yes," cried Toby gleefully, "don't you see? He's
 
 The Swineherd Seeks His Fortune 219 
 
 the friend. He likes you, and he spoke of you, and I knew, 
 from when you first came, that he meant this." 
 
 "Oh, but I can't." Jerry glanced round the room ; he won- 
 dered if anything at Cloudesley could be finer. "I couldn't 
 take so much from him. You see, I'm a stranger; I 
 couldn't" 
 
 "You must." Toby's face and tone were serious. "Reuben 
 would be very hurt, indeed, very angry, if you refused. He's 
 one of the best men in the world, but if anyone offends him, 
 he'll not forgive them easily; and, you take my word for it, 
 if you say anything to him about not staying, he'll let you go, 
 but you'll never be his friend again." 
 
 Jerry thought. Fortunately for his pride, he had very little 
 idea of the cost of living. Five shillings a week did not seem 
 much, especially to so rich a man. On the other hand there 
 was the empty bedroom ; perhaps, after all, it might go further 
 than he thought. But conscience whispered that the offer was 
 generous, and something deeper still showed him the pedlar's 
 kindly heart, and he understood how easy it is to wound a thing 
 so soft and gentle. 
 
 "It's very, very kind of Mr. Gade, and of you too. I should 
 like to go straight back and thank him, if you think he wouldn't 
 mind." 
 
 "Wait till the morning," advised Toby ; "he's got his treas- 
 ures now, and won't want to be disturbed." 
 
 "Treasures ?" echoed Jerry. 
 
 "Yes." Toby chuckled again. "He sits up half the night 
 reading old books and manuscripts and going through his col- 
 lections. He loves them like children. I've often seen him 
 send away a good customer because he couldn't bring himself 
 to part with something or other he wanted. Oh, Reuben's a 
 queer fish, I tell you." Jerry made a plunge. 
 
 "Are you I mean, do you live here?" Toby nodded. 
 
 "Oh, yes, I live here. He couldn't do without me. I know 
 where everything is, and can manage that business," he jerked 
 a thumb towards the boarded wing, "as well as he can, better
 
 220 When Pan Pipes 
 
 p'raps," he added with a wink. "I'm not so soft." Which 
 statement Jerry questioned. "Sometimes," Toby was wound 
 up, "he'll pack his traps and go off hawking wares for weeks 
 together. Says he's fought London long enough and wants 
 to be alone in the country. So off he goes, and I expect him 
 when I see him ; he knows it's all right. The house has strong 
 bars and iron shutters. No chance for thieves." Jerry for- 
 got his fatigue in listening. Toby suddenly remembered. 
 
 "I say, though, I'm talking and keeping you up." He lit 
 a tall candle from his own. "You'll find your bed's aired 
 all right. I saw to that when you first came; I knew what 
 would happen," with another chuckle. "Good-night. Hope 
 you'll sleep well. I'll call you in the morning." 
 
 He held out his hand, and to both came that instinct which 
 precedes friendship. Jerry watched him go down the corri- 
 dor ; his song reached him, receding in the distance. "Begone, 
 Dull Care I prithee, begone from me." Closing the door, he 
 took a survey of his new surroundings, beginning at the big 
 bow window. It jutted out, half across a narrow road. A 
 street lamp, at its last gasp for want of oil, flickered, but 
 showed very little. Jerry had an idea that the street was 
 squalid and poor. Not so his room. Softly carpeted, hung 
 with rich curtains and furnished handsomely, it was quite fit, 
 its inmate thought, for even the earl. How came he to be in 
 such luxury? Jerry shook his head thoughtfully as he un- 
 dressed, and climbed into the high, darkly hung bed, soft as a 
 box mattress and down bed could make it. Before the lamp 
 gave its last flicker he was asleep. 
 
 Used to country hours, he lay awake some time waiting for 
 Toby's knock. In the twilight of a November morning his 
 surroundings seemed more wonderful than ever. A great 
 swinging pier glass in one corner caught a gleam of light from 
 somewhere, making a steely glimmer in the blackness. As 
 dawn came, things grew vague, then shadowy, and finally set- 
 tled down to their day-time shapes. In them, too, Jerry saw 
 life, but it was the life of old things, a retrospective, thought-
 
 The Swineherd Seeks His Fortune 221 
 
 ful musing. They were not interested in him, nor in anything 
 round ; theirs were remembrances of old castles and palaces, 
 of noble knights and gentle ladies, of terrors, of hideous things 
 which belonged to darker ages, of romance and love, of moon- 
 light meetings, of runaway matches. Ah! if they could only 
 tell him stories. 
 
 He pushed open the casement window; the street was, as 
 he had thought, narrow, squalid, with a few poor houses oppo- 
 site. Looking alongside, he could see that what few windows 
 there were were also boarded up. In the centre of the wing 
 a door opened to the street, and over it hung three massive 
 gilt balls. He wondered what they meant, and came to the 
 conclusion that they had something in common with the knocker 
 on the front entrance. 
 
 Toby's cheery voice called him from the window. He 
 dressed hastily, realising that London air had a curious raw- 
 ness, untempered by the soft mists and damp, decaying scents 
 of the country. A wet fog hung round, filling the room ; from 
 outside came footsteps, the voices of passers-by, muffled, dis- 
 tant, yet distinct. The narrow street was full of echoes, and 
 from far away came a sound as of a giant rousing. It was 
 London awaking for the day, humming her song of shops and 
 trade, of greatness and wealth, and Jerry, hearing it, grew 
 drunk with its intoxicating witchery. Romance was there, ro- 
 mance of life, of youth, of strength, of power to conquer. 
 It ran through his veins, thrilling, calling, drawing him to 
 London's great heart. For like a syren, her song goes on for 
 ever, and for ever men will hear her voice, calling calling 
 bringing desire and longing, and only those who are deaf to 
 its beauty can see the dark depths beneath, can hear the under- 
 current, which tells of misery, cruelty, hate, and coarse sur- 
 roundings. 
 
 At eighteen one's blood is liquid fire, and Jerry, filled with 
 excitement, found his way down to the great hall. Though 
 lacking a woman's touch, it was spick and span, even as Mrs. 
 Chubbe's kitchen, glittering with beeswax, soap, and elbow
 
 222 When Pan Pipes 
 
 grease. Toby's work, no doubt, and Jerry registered a vow 
 to assist him from henceforth. 
 
 A blazing fire roared up the chimney, white damask and 
 sparkling silver adorned the table. High above hung a dim, 
 nebulous vapour, giving the domed hall a strange loftiness. 
 Through the window grey daylight struggled in, trying in vain 
 to extinguish the cheery gleam of candles on the table. Toby 
 opened a window, the roar of London grew louder, and a 
 great gust of fog burst in triumphantly. 
 
 Oh, the wonder of it all. Even the pedlar, busy brewing 
 something which gave out a strong, fragrant aroma Jerry 
 afterwards knew it for coffee appeared as some friendly 
 genie, while Toby only needed a turban to become at once 
 his slave, bearing silver dishes heaped with precious stones 
 and gold. Jerry was meeting romance face to face. 
 
 His first act after shaking hands was to tender thanks for 
 the kindly offer. Reuben accepted them with as much grati- 
 tude in his soft eyes as in Jerry's brown ones; then waved 
 them aside and began planning for the day. 
 
 "You shall see these lawyers that is first. Then, to the 
 studio. Toby shall take you to Messrs. Gardiner, and after 
 you shall go alone. It is goot to be alone when one does busi- 
 ness ; one does not want others." 
 
 Conversation soared high, into unknown regions of politics 
 and art, while Jerry sat humbly by, longing to take his part in 
 this world of men and men's thoughts. He dressed himself in 
 his best, knowing already that they were the clothes of a coun- 
 tryman, and determined to pay an early visit to the nearest 
 shops. 
 
 With the opening of the door came the sense of being part 
 of the roar of London; even their voices helped it. They 
 turned through winding streets. Now and then a milkmaid, 
 taking her empty pails to the farmhouses round Bloomsbury, 
 passed them. Street hawkers, crying "artichokes" or "hot 
 pies," took their way citywards ; business men, riding in from
 
 The Swineherd Seeks His Fortune 223 
 
 the suburbs of Holloway and Pentonville, dismounted and 
 threw their reins to waiting ostlers, with straw swathed legs 
 and corresponding straws in their mouths. Urchins threw 
 cartwheels on the chance of odd pennies or jobs, and a few 
 orange girls nodded to them as they went by. Everything in 
 the murky gloom was hazy and indistinct, even the yellow lamp- 
 lights burned mysteriously. 
 
 Across the Strand, into the heart of the roar, then out of 
 it, to a world of sodden grassy paths, leafless trees and ancient 
 walls. Here the fog hung thick and low, the roar became a 
 distant humming, a witch's song, a syren's call. Strange fig- 
 ures appeared suddenly through the enveloping veil, black 
 robed, grey wigged, and carrying important looking rolls, then 
 vanished into nothingness; outlines of great buildings loomed 
 upon them, receding again as they went. Toby never faltered ; 
 how he knew his way was, of all the marvellous things, most 
 marvellous. Presently he turned up a narrow, paved court 
 and stopped. 
 
 "Here you are," he said. "Reuben told me to leave you, 
 but you'll find me somewhere hereabouts when you've done. 
 You'd never find your way in this fog. Sure you're all right ?" 
 he added anxiously, and Jerry, suppressing horrible qualms, 
 answered sturdily: 
 
 "Quite all right. And Toby, don't wait. I can find my 
 way to the studio, and they may keep me a long while here." 
 Toby nodded approval. 
 
 "All right. Then I'll go." He gave him new directions, 
 then vanished down the court. Jerry gathered his courage 
 together and lifted the heavy knocker. It fell with a thud, 
 which seemed to wake every echo of London. They clustered 
 round him, mingling with the quick beating of his heart, and 
 the distant call, mocking, taunting. "You, Jerry Dell " they 
 cried, "you country boy clodhopper who wants to be a 
 gentleman ha ha " 
 
 In the midst of the din the door was thrown back by a
 
 224 When Pan Pipes 
 
 deferential page ; Jerry turned, and all the deference was gone. 
 Grinning insolently, he stuck his tongue into his cheek and did 
 a few steps of a warlike dance on the mat. 
 
 "Veil, young Hodge, an' oo may you be a-vanting of?" 
 
 "My name's not Hodge," said Jerry, "it's Dell." The imp 
 in buttons rocked with suppressed laughter. 
 
 "Oh, ain't it, though then it oughter be. P'raps you're 
 Mister Dell oh, my!" Another silent convulsion, and Jerry, 
 conscious of his appearance, reddened angrily. 
 
 "I want to see Messrs. Gardiner and Gardiner." The imp 
 became a page boy, but a page boy with a wicked grin. 
 
 "Yes, sir, shall I take yer card, sir ?" 
 
 "I haven't got a card." Once more Jerry became profoundly 
 aware of his defects. The goblin page turned, and was once 
 more convulsed with inward merriment. 
 
 "'E ain't got a card a card oh, my poor sides they'll 
 split if 'e stays. 'Ow'd yer leave the country, young Hodge? 
 'Spect yer makin' a mistake, an' it's the 'ousekeeper yer vants. 
 Round the corner, 'ousekeeper's rooms ta-ta." 
 
 The door banged to and wrath rose in Jerry. Forgetful 
 of his clothes, himself, everything but his errand, he knocked 
 again furiously this time. The door opened a chink, and 
 the imp's head appeared, with an expression of mock terror 
 on it. 
 
 "Ho at it agin, young Hodge. An' vot " With a quick 
 stride Jerry pushed open the door, seized the urchin by the 
 collar, and gave him a shake. The sham expression turned to 
 a real one. 
 
 "Now, look here, master pageboy," he lifted him as he 
 would lift a little worrying dog, shaking him gently, "I don't 
 like jokes. Go and tell your master that Mr. Dell would be 
 glad to see him if he can spare time." The urchin, released, 
 grinned again. 
 
 "Yer ain't as green as yer look, young Hodge." Jerry made 
 a stride, and he vanished up the staircase, presently returning 
 by way of the broad balustrading, and beckoned a grubby fin-
 
 The Swineherd Seeks His Fortune 225 
 
 ger. Jerry followed, and with a mocking bow of respect, he 
 flung open the door and announced loudly, "Mr. Dell." 
 
 An elderly man, tall and thin, wearing long mutton-chop 
 whiskers and a preoccupied air of weariness, rose and bowed. 
 Jerry returned the bow. 
 
 "Be seated, Mr. Dell, I pray," said the bewhiskered one, 
 pulling a chair forward and dropping back again into his 
 own, as though overcome with the exertion. For a few min- 
 utes he sat silently fondling the whiskers and gazing abstract- 
 edly into mid air. Jerry waited, then opened the ball. 
 
 "I believe, sir, you knew my father many years ago Jeremy 
 Dell." 
 
 "Ha " the lawyer roused slightly, "Jeremy Dell, to be sure, 
 to be sure." Jerry continued. 
 
 "I am his son. You have been sending money regularly, 
 I believe, to Mrs. Hagges for me ?" 
 
 "Ha yes. To be sure, to be sure. So you're Jerry Dell's 
 son." The abstracted glance became more human. 
 
 "Yes, sir. And you see, Mrs. Hagges is dead, so will you 
 let me have the money instead? It's three pounds a month, I 
 think." 
 
 The lawyer showed no signs of absent-mindedness now, he 
 was alert. 
 
 "Three pounds a month. Ha! I suppose you know there 
 is considerably more than that?" Jerry opened his eyes. 
 "Your father left a thousand pounds with us from the in- 
 terest, which is good, we have been in the habit of sending, as 
 you say, three pounds a month ; but the rest has accumulated ; 
 it is about sixty-five pounds a year at present." Jerry's eyes 
 shone. There would be no difficulty about paying Reuben 
 more now. 
 
 "But," the lawyer continued, "you must, of course, prove 
 your identity." 
 
 "I think there will be no difficulty about that, sir; you see, 
 Mrs. Hagges has left me a large sum of money." The lawyer 
 stared.
 
 226 When Pan Pipes 
 
 "Ha, you're a fortunate young man." 
 
 "And if you will, sir," continued Jerry, "I should be glad 
 if you would take charge of it, and let me have the interest 
 on it to use. Then there's the cottage." He dived into the 
 carpet bag and produced rolls of paper and the heavy bag. 
 The lawyer drew his chair in closer and beckoned his client 
 to do the same. 
 
 "A cottage too? Ha, it sounds interesting; almost, I might 
 say, romantic." For an hour or more they were buried in 
 business. Jerry, emerging, felt as though he had learned a 
 lifetime's knowledge. At the end of the time the lawyer pushed 
 his chair from the table, and crossing his legs, lay back. 
 
 "I am glad, Mr. Dell, to have met you," he said; "also, 
 that although our guardianship is ended, you are still willing 
 to trust us with your affairs. At present, it seems," he smiled 
 frostily, "that you are in no need of money, but London's a 
 large city, an expensive one, and young men are young men. 
 There is a clause in the will which, perhaps you do not know, 
 provides that the pieces of sculpture executed by your father 
 in his lifetime, can be sold if necessary, with one exception, 
 that is " Jerry started up. 
 
 "The casts, sir, do you say? My father's work? Oh, 
 where are they? Let me have them not to sell, of course." 
 Mr. Gardiner silenced him with an uplifted hand. 
 
 "Not so fast, Mr. Dell; I fear I have not made myself 
 understood. The pieces are not in our hands. Your father 
 thought fit," here the tone grew icy, "to entrust them to a 
 fellow artist, a man called Gallagher, a worthless, good-for- 
 nothing rascal. Some years ago, the fellow was hard up; 
 in fact, I may say, penniless, and probably the temptation 
 proved too great ; he raised money on the works left in trust, 
 no doubt meaning to redeem them at some future time, which 
 time never came," he added drily. Jerry looked bewildered. 
 
 "Do you mean, sir, that my father's work is lost, sold?" 
 The lawyer coughed. 
 
 "Well, hardly perhaps what you might call sold. In Lon-
 
 The Swineherd Seeks His Fortune 227 
 
 don we have an institution commonly called 'the poor man's 
 bank,' to speak plainly, a pawnshop." 
 
 "I see," replied Jerry gravely ; "you mean that if the pawn- 
 broker has not sold them I can buy them back ?" 
 
 "Exactly," replied the lawyer, still more drily; "though 
 whether you can do so depends upon certain conditions. The 
 pawn tickets not being forthcoming they were probably burnt 
 with the rubbish you are at the mercy of the pawnbroker. 
 Moreover, which again you may not know, your father's work 
 has, since his death, acquired value. It is possible that even 
 your total wealth may not be sufficient. The statue of Pan 
 alone, I understood, was valued at five hundred pounds, some 
 years since." Pan! How the name conjured up scenes of 
 childhood. For a minute Jerry sat quiet, filled with memories. 
 Then commonsense returned. 
 
 "Can you tell me how to find the pawnbroker who bought 
 them?" he asked. The lawyer drew a massive parchment- 
 bound volume towards him. 
 
 "It so happens, Mr. Dell, that I can tell you myself. I was 
 interested in your father. He struck me as, well, as a man 
 with a romantic past. Not that I know anything of his life," 
 he added hastily, "oh, dear me, no, but " he stole a glance 
 from under drooping lids at Jerry, "you may find it an advan- 
 tage, young man, to investigate your father's history. Well, 
 as I said, I was interested; more especially as, in spite of all 
 we could urge, he refused to leave the things with us. We 
 kept an eye on them, and though powerless to prevent the sale 
 they were left unconditionally with Gallagher we traced 
 them to a well known establishment. It is owned by a wealthy 
 man, one Reuben Gade, a " 
 
 "Reuben Gade!" Jerry started to his feet. "Why I live 
 there." The lawyer lifted his hands in amazement. 
 
 "Romance, romance " he murmured. "Ha, our wonder- 
 ful lives. Mr. Dell," he turned solemnly to Jerry, "I advise 
 you to go straight back to Reuben Gade; lose no time, and 
 inquire of him as to the history of those works of art."
 
 228 When Pan Pipes 
 
 "I will, indeed," replied Jerry fervently, "and Reuben will 
 treat me fairly, I know. Good-bye, sir, and thank you very 
 much for your kindness." 
 
 The lawyer rose and shook hands amicably, if somewhat 
 flabbily ; then, touching a bell, he opened a door, saw his visitor 
 out, and returned to his musings. 
 
 Toby was waiting at the end of the court; after all, he 
 had not found the courage to leave his friend. But studios 
 were out of the question; with a hasty explanation, they 
 turned homewards. The curtain of fog was lifting lifting, 
 and behind it a clear November sun was shining. They had 
 come from the further end of the court, and as Jerry raised 
 his eyes, something gleamed between the trees. A ribbon of 
 light it seemed, and he knew it for London's great river. For 
 a moment all else was forgotten; silently he touched Toby's 
 arm and drew him nearer, till the gardens merged into mud- 
 banks and landing stages, and the broad murky river, flecked 
 with dull gold where the chill wintry sun caught it, rolled by in 
 solemn splendour. Yet, it too had a mocking note. 
 
 Jerry could have watched all day, magic was round him; 
 but for Toby the river was an everyday thing, and at last he 
 reminded his companion of the time. It was noon as they 
 reached the Strand, and crossed the human tide making its 
 way towards eating-houses and inns, with no thought save 
 only of its stomach. Fragrant scents came on the keen air, 
 of steaks grilling, of onions frizzling, of sausages gently bub- 
 bling, and huge sirloins turning and twisting before mighty 
 fires, and Jerry, too, had to descend from Olympian heights 
 and confess to a healthy growing lad's hunger. 
 
 Although Toby seemed to know all the business of the place, 
 some instinct of refinement told Jerry that the discussion of 
 such strictly private affairs should be confined to those who 
 were already cognisant of them. He had to control his im- 
 patience till after supper, for the Jew was busy with a wealthy 
 customer in the afternoon. It was not, therefore, until Toby
 
 The Swineherd Seeks His Fortune 229 
 
 had carried away the empty dishes and Reuben's big cigar was 
 lit that the opportunity came. 
 
 "Well," there was a twinkle in the kindly eye which showed 
 that Jerry's impatience had not passed unnoticed, "and how 
 went the business ?" He listened with smiling interest as Jerry 
 poured out the amazing tale; but the smile grew less, a look 
 of gravity took its place ; it was accompanied by a sterner ex- 
 pression. Presently he thrust back his chair and stood up. 
 
 "They were not his to sell." Throwing the unfinished cigar 
 into the fire, he paced angrily up and down, as though to con- 
 trol himself, finally bringing up by Jerry's chair and laying a 
 big soft hand on his shoulder. 
 
 "I knew it not, mein yongling." There was a wistful touch 
 in the voice. "He told me they were left to him that he was 
 penniless ach! such a tale. And I, like a fool, believed 
 him." 
 
 "But it doesn't really matter what he was," cried Jerry, 
 turning and jumping up. "The things, they are all that mat- 
 ters, and you'll let me buy them back, Mr. Gade, won't you? 
 Oh, I know you will," he added, for there was something in 
 the kind dark face, the gentle eyes, which raised a momentary 
 doubt in his mind. "I'll pay anything, all I've got, and I'll 
 work, oh, I'll work; for you know they're worth more than 
 anything in the world to me, since I've known they're in exist- 
 ence." He paused, waiting for the answer. It was some 
 time before it came, and the doubt grew to a fear. Slowly 
 the Jew turned away. 
 
 "They are not here; they are gone." 
 
 "Gone !" echoed Jerry sharply. "Gone !" Then, as the deal- 
 er's rights dawned, reason told him that no shadow of injustice 
 could rest upon him. Not so did Reuben regard it. There 
 was such a look of trouble in his face that Jerry's heart went 
 out to him. 
 
 "Don't worry, Mr. Gade," he said, "perhaps you can tell 
 me who bought them." The Jew shook his head sadly.
 
 230 When Pan Pipes 
 
 "I know not," he said; then, half turning, he beckoned. 
 "Kom, I will tell you. Two heads are better than one, espe- 
 cially when that one is old and silly," he added, smiling, "and 
 we will put them together." 
 
 He lighted another cigar, and sat back in the great arm- 
 chair. Toby entering, was dismissed with a silent wave of 
 the hand. Jerry leaned against the dark wood mantelpiece and 
 listened. 
 
 "It was last summer. One hot morning a gentleman came 
 in. He was a great nobleman." 
 
 "How did you know? Did he tell you his name?" inter- 
 rupted Jerry, eagerly. 
 
 "No," the Jew shook his head, "it was written in his face, 
 and I see many in my life. Well, he asked, had I any sculp- 
 ture clay, stone, bronze, anything. It was a strange request, 
 but I took him upstairs and showed him all I had, which was 
 not much, except that for which you ask. He was long, and 
 I watch, and make my little romance. He was old, and sad, 
 there was trouble in his face and loneliness. Ach, my friend, 
 I say to myself, you haf loved, you haf lost, but death has 
 not taken all, there is hope in your eyes. And, even as I 
 watched, it sprang to life. Something rolled back, and I saw 
 the sunlight dawn. His hand, so thin and wrinkled, yet the 
 hand of an aristocrat, rested on the statue of Pan. I saw it 
 tremble; the trembling spread; he turned to me as if to ask 
 my pardon. 'I fear I must trouble you to wait, Mr. Gade, 
 while I recover myself ; I arn not so young as I was, and the 
 heat of the day has overcome me.' I gave him a chair and 
 some liqueur and left him, poor gentleman, for I knew it was 
 not heat or age; it was just the flood of hope. When I re- 
 turned he was standing up quite recovered. 'There are cer- 
 tain things I would buy of you, Mr. Gade/ he said, 'if you will 
 kindly tell me your price; this one especially' that one was 
 the Pan. And then came that witch " He emphasised the 
 words with a bang on the table which made Jerry jump, and 
 brought Toby's face to the door. "That witch Temptation.
 
 The Swineherd Seeks His Fortune 231 
 
 Ach, mein yongling" such a grave, sweet face it was now "I 
 am mizaire, I like money so well, and it was a struggle. I 
 knew I could ask moch. 'I will consult my books, my lord,' 
 I said; and then, below, I wrestled with her, that witch, till 
 she fled. But it was one great fight, and then I went to my 
 lord, and without one word he paid me what I asked. There 
 was no address. 'See that they are packed, Mr. Gade,' he said, 
 'and I will send this afternoon.' " 
 
 "And didn't you ask ?" questioned Jerry eagerly. 
 
 "No!" The Jew hesitated. "He did not wish it known 
 evidently, and" the dark eyes looked straight into Jerry's 
 "a gentleman's wishes should be respected. But" again the 
 hesitation; Jerry leaned forward breathlessly "but, after he 
 was gone, I looked at the things ; it was perhaps idle curiosity," 
 he added apologetically, "we are but frail, and there, in the 
 corner, were initials, G. R., and the date." Jerry's face fell. 
 
 "G. R.," he repeated wonderingly, "but they were not my 
 father's initials " 
 
 "Maybe, maybe," replied the Jew; "and yet, perhaps, who 
 knows, they may have been his father's." 
 
 The tale was told. In vain Jerry questioned, surmised. 
 Reuben could add nothing, and at last the subject was dis- 
 missed. Toby was summoned and the evening passed as be- 
 fore. Only, at the back of Jerry's mind, lay a firm determina- 
 tion that, as he grew older, more experienced in the ways of 
 men and cities, he would find his father's work and the meaning 
 of those unknown initials. 
 
 A strange impulse came over him as he undressed. The 
 tiny bag hanging round his neck had grown to be part of 
 himself, and passed as unnoticed as his hands and feet. That 
 night he touched it, turned it over, wondering what it con- 
 tained ; and as he had longed for his twelfth birthday, so now 
 he longed for the day when he should be twenty and free to 
 solve the mystery of the amulet. Thus youth wishes time away.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 THE SWINEHERD NO LONGER A SWINEHERD. HOW THE BLACK 
 
 KNIGHT STEPS INTO THE STORY, AND THE WHITE KNIGHT 
 
 SEEKS THE GOOSE-GIRL, AND OF OTHER THINGS 
 
 LONDON, the syren, cast her spells upon Jerry. Softly, 
 lightly, they bound him, yet strong were the silken fet- 
 ters, and the Jew laughed cheerily at the fulfilment of his 
 prophecy. 
 
 "London is like a lovely woman when she puts out her 
 strength, what man can resist? But take care, take care, 
 mein yongling, wear her chains lightly, else, maybe, they will 
 become fetters of iron. For me " he shrugged his shoulders, 
 "I can throw them off ; not always, but in the wild, sweet coun- 
 try, I find fresh strength to withstand the witchcraft of Lon- 
 don city." 
 
 There was work plenty of it. Art was a hard master, 
 though a good servant. Difficulties, overcome, melted away. 
 The casts no longer grinned and chuckled at his attempts; 
 they succumbed and were forgotten. It was life which met 
 him now. To quicken stone and marble, to give expression 
 to sightless eyes, touch to inanimate hands, and life life, 
 quivering, joyous life to the perfectly formed figures which 
 grew under his touch. And day after day the youth within 
 him expanded, gaining knowledge and experience, the strength 
 and power of manhood. Outwardly too, was development; 
 the regular life, the atmosphere of comfort and cheeriness, 
 the good food Reuben owned to a weakness for dainty liv- 
 ing, pleading his foreign parentage had their effect, and every 
 week it seemed that Jerry grew taller and broader, till it be- 
 came a joke in the household. And with it all was a new 
 feeling.
 
 And of Other Things 233 
 
 He began to understand Betty's love of finery. The coun- 
 try-made clothes were gradually exchanged for more modish 
 garments. Often he handled the elegant fob chain, longing, 
 yet not daring to wear it. He had many chances of seeing 
 the latest fashions. Reuben's shop was a favourite lounge in 
 the morning. In those wonderful closed rooms above were 
 stored treasures almost priceless; the result of many years' 
 patient ransacking of England and the continent. Paintings 
 by famous old masters; carved ivories of the middle ages, 
 yellow and stained ; fans and snuff boxes from French courts ; 
 tapestries embroidered by slender fingers, dust now for hun- 
 dreds of years; vellum manuscripts, rich with gold and bril- 
 liant colourings, the work of patient monks long since gone to 
 their rest; swords, whose hilts and scabbards were masses 
 of fine metal work and precious stones; priceless carpets, 
 gems, and women's jewellery necklaces, rings, bracelets. To 
 those rooms came noblemen, merchants, lovers of the beau- 
 tiful, and those who were willing to buy because it was the 
 correct thing to possess antiques. With such the Jew had 
 little patience; but there were others, very often shabbily 
 dressed, some even with a look of starvation in their eyes, 
 who were welcomed at any time. For these, he would some- 
 times turn off a wealthy client to loiter by their side, tenderly 
 touching the lovely things, telling their history, bringing the 
 centuries near as yesterday, while great names became the 
 names of ordinary men and women as he fingered the things 
 they wore, the furniture they used. 
 
 Younger men, the fops of the period, made the place fash- 
 ionable. A few were collectors, others bought stones and 
 jewels, but the majority came and went without any pretext 
 of buying. It was some time before Jerry knew that the old 
 house held secrets of noble families, and the power in many 
 cases to ruin those who stood in the full sunlight of the great 
 city. 
 
 In a small room behind the hall they lay padlocked boxes, 
 safely closed and barred from prying- eyes, held them parch-
 
 '234 When Pan Pipes 
 
 ments, bonds, signed with historic names, waiting redemption. 
 And so the morning saw a constant stream of the youth and 
 fashion of London. Gossip floated airily, cards fell softly on 
 tables set for that purpose, dice rattled, while here and there 
 a slow finger pushed silently and meditatively the carved crim- 
 son and white chessmen. And under all ran a current of 
 something deeper, the essence of London's power, the passing 
 of money, the glittering, golden mesh of the syren. 
 
 There were times when even the delights of water and 
 clay grew grey against the dazzling pictures spread in the 
 hall below, and Jerry would steal from his work to a spot in 
 the wide gallery, where, safely hidden behind massive furni- 
 ture, he could see without being seen; and here Toby would 
 join him for a few minutes at a time, frankly delighted to give 
 information. There were names hitherto only known from 
 books, sometimes disappointingly attached. Men of the town, 
 dissipated, weak, sometimes of even vicious appearance; 
 wealthy citizens, fathers, maybe, of future generations of peers, 
 but at present excluded by a hard and fast line called trade. 
 Yet all had their histories, great and small, and Toby's gossip 
 was, unknowingly, brimful of romance; as full indeed as the 
 old stories of childhood. 
 
 And in each tale Reuben figured, hard, inexorable in some 
 cases, but in most playing the part of the good genie. Help, 
 pity, rescue, were the notes he struck, and Jerry noticed how, 
 with few exceptions, clients turned to him as friend to friend. 
 There was one in particular. 
 
 "His Grace the Duke of Wynderley," whispered Toby, indi- 
 cating a tall, grave man of forty. "Years ago he went the 
 pace, they say gaming and women. He used to come here 
 to buy diamonds and emeralds, till Reuben learnt what they 
 were for and refused to sell to him. There was a row, I 
 tell you, and my lord took his custom elsewhere. They say 
 the old duke thanked Reuben himself, but that I don't know 
 it was before my time, and Reuben doesn't talk. Then the 
 crash came; the town house was sold, with all the plate and
 
 And of Other Things 235 
 
 jewels, and Reuben bought them, and ran up against my lord 
 again. It killed the old duke, but it brought his son to his 
 senses, for he wasn't thoroughly bad, and Reuben talked to 
 him like a grandfather. Well, the end was that he lent him 
 money at a low interest, and set him on his feet. In time he 
 bought back everything hard work, but his grace turned to 
 it like a good 'un ; dismissed his steward, and looked after the 
 estate himself, and retrenched everywhere. For the last five 
 years he's been free, got married to a nice lady with plenty of 
 money, and now comes to Reuben for everything. I think he 
 looks upon him as a second father. Oh, he's always doing 
 that sort of thing." Here followed more stories. Jerry lis- 
 tened bewildered. 
 
 "And yet he says he's fond of money, and a miser?" Toby's 
 cheerful round face broadened into a grin. 
 
 "That's his nonsense, although he really thinks he is. 
 Haven't you seen his jar of beads?" Jerry nodded, remember- 
 ing the glass bottle on the mantelpiece. 
 
 "Well, whenever he helps anyone, or takes less than he's 
 entitled to, he declares he never does it willingly, and each 
 time he crows over it as though he'd gained a victory, and 
 drops a gold bead into the 'jar of good deeds,' as he calls it. 
 At the end of the week he counts them up, and I can tell 
 you there's the dickens to pay if it's shorter than the week 
 before." 
 
 And so on, till London became indeed a city of romance, 
 of which Reuben held the keys and Toby was showman. 
 Jerry's longings flew high. To belong to that magic circle 
 whose lives, it seemed to him, were mystical as the lives of 
 gods, whose homes were ancestral, whose names stood through 
 the ages. It was a foolish wish, so utterly impossible, that 
 he thought of it as he thought of the world of Faerie, a beau- 
 tiful dream. 
 
 But another road was open to him the road to fame and 
 riches. And here was reality; work led that way work and 
 patience. Of such dreams he could speak. Day after day
 
 236 When Pan Pipes 
 
 rose, waned, and fell into the past, leaving a consciousness of 
 something done, a step gained. The Jew watched approvingly, 
 giving good advice, and teaching of things outside the world 
 of ordinary life. Somehow Jerry recalled long talks with his 
 father, to which he had listened without understanding, yet 
 which now came back, fraught with a new meaning. 
 
 Often at night, when all was quiet, they would leave the 
 warm fireside, and passing through silent streets, make their 
 way to the river flowing, flowing, ever flowing. Here rose 
 the moon among narrow streets and dark corners it was for- 
 gotten even by the river it was another moon, no longer the 
 friendly, watching face of Cloudesley, but a majestic shining 
 thing, as far apart as the frequenters of the Hall were from 
 its inmates. 
 
 And, oh! the squalor, the vileness of London by night. 
 On the river banks, under its dark arches, in bylanes and 
 short cuts, the syren threw aside her golden robes and showed 
 the misery and foulness beneath. Men and women, in filthy 
 rags, with the faces of the lost, slunk from their daytime hid- 
 ing places, as bats move out at night. What they did Jerry 
 hardly knew. The riverside held its secrets, and the moon 
 above cast long rays of silver, giving evil things beauty and 
 romance. 
 
 It cast deceptive shadows too. In some of the faces he 
 saw strange likenesses to people he had known ; once a woman 
 brushed swiftly by him; a tall, graceful figure, muffled in a 
 dark cloak. As she passed her hood fell slightly back, and the 
 face was the face of Hester Dyke, older, thinner, yet even 
 more beautiful. Jerry started forward, but it was gone. So 
 quick was the movement that it was unnoticed by Reuben, and 
 Jerry told himself that the idea was only fancy. The Jew cast 
 glances of pity as they went. 
 
 "They are the faces of devils," he said, "and they are devils 
 now. But not always, ah, not always. Some time they will 
 throw off those vile bodies, and put on new ones, and each 
 one shall be better than the last, and so shall they win freedom
 
 And of Other Things 237 
 
 by their own work. You say, the Lord Christ died to give 
 salvation. Maybe, maybe, but it is a lazy religion. Who 
 knows, in the ages gone by, we you and I, mein yongling 
 were perhaps as these are ; and so, it will all kom right in the 
 end, when the good God, who watches over all, shall see fit. 
 For He is Life, and Life is everywhere in me, in you, in 
 these poor things, in wood, in stone, in the earth, in the skies 
 and it is for us to use it well. 
 
 Great vistas opened before the boy; problems, riddles 
 broadening his outlook, widening his sympathies, bringing him 
 in such close contact with those dear ones that he could hear 
 the well known voice at times. "Be good, Jerry boy ; be gen- 
 tle, be true, and all will come right." 
 
 It was one summer morning in the height of the season. 
 London was wearing her sweetest smile. Green trees in the 
 parks whispered love stories to each other, flowers in the gar- 
 dens shed sweet fragrance, youth donned its daintiest garments 
 and went a merrymaking, and the great heart of London 
 throbbed and beat in unison. 
 
 Jerry had stolen from his work and was sitting at the peep- 
 hole in the gallery with Toby, off duty for a while, by his 
 side. Below, the stream of custom, the murmur of voices, went 
 on as usual. The size of the peep-hole necessitated close prox- 
 imity ; shoulders and heads touched each other. Toby's cheer- 
 ful voice babbled its stories, then suddenly stopped. Some- 
 thing, a thrill of coldness, seemed to run through him, com- 
 municating itself to Jerry. Surprised, he turned. A look 
 was on the round, good-humoured face a look, which he re- 
 membered to have seen once or twice before, particularly on 
 that first night a look of fear, of fascination. He was gazing 
 at the bend of the staircase someone had come in and was 
 turning into the main hall, a tall, slight man; young, dark, 
 slender, foppish in his dress, and with an air, which in one less 
 aristocratic might have been termed rakish. 
 
 For a moment he stood, casting a glance over the assembled 
 company, a glance almost contemptuous; the thin dark lips
 
 238 When Pan Pipes 
 
 seemed to curl cynically, yet it might have been their natural 
 expression. Reuben, displaying a case of Indian workman- 
 ship, lifted his eyes as the stranger advanced, then dropped 
 them quickly. Jerry fancied he had no liking for the new- 
 comer. 
 
 "Who is it, Toby ?" he asked. His companion paused a mo- 
 ment ; the look of fear was gone, but so was the light cheerful- 
 ness. 
 
 "Who is which do you mean?" Jerry nodded to the 
 stranger, now shaking hands and exchanging greetings with 
 acquaintances. 
 
 "That? Oh, that's Sir Francis Crewe." 
 
 "Sir Francis Crewe." The name recalled memories. He 
 cast back in his mind and placed it. Francis Crewe was the 
 boy who had fought Paul. 
 
 "Does he live in London?" he whispered. "I haven't seen 
 him here before." 
 
 "No," Toby answered briefly. "He's been away for a year. 
 His father was ill." 
 
 "And is he dead?" asked Jerry, noticing now that the object 
 of his interest was attired in deep mourning. 
 
 "Yes. He's Sir Francis now." 
 
 The Jew looked up. Toby, knowing the signal, hurried 
 away, and Jerry sat on alone. He watched, with fascinated 
 eyes, the elegant figure as it passed from one to another, and 
 was even more conscious of his own height, and breadth, and 
 ungainly movements. Unconsciously, almost as a child imi- 
 tates, he caught, during the months which followed, something 
 of the other's courtly grace and carriage, though never to any 
 great extent. 
 
 Sir Francis Crewe was known and quoted in fashionable 
 circles. What he wore to-day the world would wear to-mor- 
 row. His gestures, words, nay, even his expressions, were 
 mimicked, and report said that he could marry any woman at 
 court, not excepting some who were unnamed, even by gossip. 
 
 The new baronet seemed at present to have no thought
 
 "And of Other Things 239 
 
 of marriage; he was here, there* everywhere, like a butterfly 
 newly hatched, trying his wings; settling would come later. 
 All this Jerry learned by the way; beyond answering ques- 
 tions, Toby never mentioned him, and Jerry wondered at 
 times what had caused that sudden look of fear. For fear 
 it was, and for many a long month it lay somewhere at the 
 back of the round rosy face, ready to appear at an unexpected 
 moment a rapping at the door, a quick call from Reuben, 
 more than all, at unexpected visits from Sir Francis himself. 
 He would come at all times, despite the fact that the Jew 
 treated him with scant respect. And at his slightest com- 
 mand Toby cringed like a whipped dog. There were times 
 when he would go with him for hours at a stretch, returning 
 with some excuse that so good a customer must not be neg- 
 lected. 
 
 It was at such times that a different atmosphere crept into 
 the cheerful household; an atmosphere taking Jerry back to 
 those dark days in the cottage. He wondered if it were fancy, 
 and, if so, what connection was there between him and Sir 
 Francis Crewe, or whether Toby really had something on his 
 mind. Some days the shadow seemed to lift and Toby was 
 his own gay self, busy, light-hearted, carolling his ditty as 
 though with never a care in the world : 
 
 Begone, Dull Care; I prithee, begone from me. 
 
 In work and play, in shade and sunshine, the summer days 
 passed. London shook off the gay throng and showed a dull, 
 sullen face to the world. Her magic toils relaxed under the 
 August sun; work grew wearisome, even ambition dwindled 
 to an occasional thought only. Cloudesley, the dim, leafy 
 lanes, cool, where breezes murmured, and tiny springs dripped 
 in the rocks, the hot yellow cornfields, and Mrs. Chubbe's grey 
 shadowy dairy, held out alluring hands to Jerry. 
 
 Why not? He had plenty of money. Several evenings he 
 met the coach as it drew up at the inn in the Strand. Daniel, 
 in very few words, gave him news, and the little village seemed
 
 240 When Pan Pipes 
 
 every day to draw him nearer. But a holiday would mean 
 work lost, money spent, and in the end he put away temptation. 
 
 Not so Reuben. At night all seemed as usual, but in the 
 morning he was gone. 
 
 "Packed up his traps and went," said Toby, laughing; "and 
 we shall be alone now for weeks, perhaps months. It's noth- 
 ing," he added, seeing Jerry's wondering look, "he does it 
 every year. He'll turn up one day when he's had enough of a 
 roving life." It seemed strange without the kindly presence, 
 the genial personality. Jerry had no liking for it, and said 
 so ; Toby grew vehement. 
 
 "It's no use telling him how he's missed, he wouldn't be- 
 lieve. Never had anyone so low an opinion of himself." A 
 break came in the monotony. It was one Saturday evening. 
 Jerry, working in his room, was disturbed by Toby, Toby with 
 a face of delight. 
 
 "Gentleman wants you," he said. "No, he wouldn't give 
 his name said he'd surprise you." 
 
 There in the entrance stood Paul, his thin dark face full 
 of friendly welcome, his eyes sparkling at Jerry's astonish- 
 ment. 
 
 "Paul!" 
 
 "Jer, old fellow, how are you?" Jerry had his hand, hold- 
 ing it so tightly that its owner winced. 
 
 "Jerry, you giant. Do you realise that your hand's a vice, 
 and mine, well " he laughed and looked down at the slight 
 white fingers released from the iron grasp. Jerry followed 
 his glance somewhat ruefully. 
 
 "I'm really very sorry, Paul ; I forgot how strong I was." 
 
 "Yes," he smiled, "just the same old Jerry; big and sol- 
 emn and thoughtful. Take me somewhere, will you, and let's 
 have our talk out. How did you get here ? I only came back 
 last night. I'm going down to Cloudesley to-morrow, and I 
 thought I'd give you a look in. Betty told me all about you." 
 
 They were making their way upstairs ; Paul threw inquisi- 
 tive glances round as they mounted. In Jerry's room his in-
 
 And of Other Things 241 
 
 terest culminated. He looked curiously at the massive furni- 
 ture, the thick carpet, then sauntered to the window, gave a 
 long glance downwards, and turned. 
 
 "How did you manage it, Jerry ? Who is this Reuben Gade, 
 and where did you come across him ? You're in clover here ; 
 tell me all about it." Nothing loath, Jerry launched forth, 
 from the buying of the book in the beginning. 
 
 "So he's your pedlar," cried Paul in astonishment. "Why, 
 what does he want with peddling? He must be a rich man." 
 
 And explanations had to be given, more questions asked, 
 till the subject was thrashed dry, and it was Paul's turn to 
 relate. Sitting there in the bend of the window Jerry could 
 see the length of the street, the golden balls gleaming in the 
 light of the lamp, the few stray passers-by, loiterers, or now 
 and then, one, who with stealthy steps, sought the doorway 
 beneath. He knew now why that side was boarded up. Reu- 
 ben, in his feeling for others, refused to let goods in pawn, 
 or even those past redemption, be exposed to prying eyes. 
 
 "I would not like my neighbour to see my poverty," he had 
 said. 
 
 Paul gossipped on; questioning, then relating, and Jerry 
 listened to tales of far-off lands, as to some fairy tale of child- 
 hood. There was no moon, and the street below lay in dark- 
 ness, save for the flickering lamp at the corner. People had 
 gone home, night birds were not yet out, and loneliness fell. 
 So silent was everything, that the stealthy opening of a door 
 somewhere, sounded loud, even in the room. 
 
 Gazing abstractedly through the window, Jerry's attention 
 was caught by a movement under the golden balls. It was 
 a customer leaving, yet what customer could be in the shop 
 so late? Toby had locked up an hour ago. Surprised, he 
 watched ; Paul, facing him, saw nothing and talked on. Slowly 
 the door opened, and Toby's face peeped out. It had lost its 
 cheerful smile, but the look on it was not fear for himself, 
 rather watchfulness. Presently it withdrew. Through the 
 door, someone gave a hurried glance up and down ; Toby f ol-
 
 242 When Pan Pipes 
 
 lowed to the threshold. The second figure pressed something 
 into his hand and passed rapidly down the street. There was 
 no mistaking its slight elegance, and a gleam of light on the 
 face as it turned showed the dark, haughty features. Toby 
 watched him go, then, with a quick movement and a curious 
 sound of angry hatred, he hurled something from him and 
 vanished within. It fell far off, with the ring of money. 
 
 Full of wonderment, Jerry's eyes followed the baronet to 
 the end of the narrow street. Just before he turned, another 
 figure, that of a tall woman, closely veiled, stole quietly from 
 beneath a porch, and noiselessly, with a gliding footstep, fol- 
 lowed. Something in the figure even beneath its draperies 
 brought back the remembrance of Hester Dyke, and with it, 
 the conviction that his first impulse had been right. It was 
 Hester he had seen ; moreover, this woman was the same. 
 
 Paul talked on; it may be that in the darkness his friend's 
 absorption was not noticed. 
 
 The woman passed like a ghost, as silent, as swiftly. At 
 the corner a gust of wind caught the lamp; its flame scat- 
 tered, then flared up, throwing strange shadows. In its gleam 
 another shadow seemed to emerge from its lurking place, the 
 light sank, but it remained ; then moved, stealthily, cautiously, 
 hugging the dark wall, till Jerry hardly knew if it were real 
 or a shape sprung from the darkness and flickering flame. 
 Creeping, lurking, a thing of blackness, it went along, van- 
 ishing at length where the street dissolved into dark spaces. 
 
 What did it mean? In an ordinary way he would have 
 taken little notice, such things were common enough. The 
 presence of Toby and Sir Francis Crewe as actors gave a 
 significance to the incident. Jerry, learning experience in the 
 ways of the world, put this and that together, and concluded 
 that Toby held perhaps some secret of the baronet's. Yet, 
 why should he? Was it possible that he owed money? And 
 why should he require money ? Jerry turned it over and over, 
 pondering the whys and wherefores. Paul's voice broke on 
 his musings.
 
 And of Other Things 243 
 
 "So you see, old fellow, I shan't be back again for a few 
 weeks. My father intends spending Christmas in London, 
 so I shall see you then, I hope very often. Term starts in 
 January, and at Easter we go abroad for a short time. 
 Cloudesley to-morrow. Hurrah, Jerry !" He leaned forward 
 and laid his hand on his friend's arm. "You can't think how 
 I'm counting the hours the minutes till I get there. Often, 
 among glorious mountains and wild valleys, I've thought of 
 peaceful little Cloudesley, the fields and woods in the spring- 
 time, and the pond where we used to sit and play fairy tales, 
 you and I and and " his voice dropped, "and Betty. 
 Jerry, what's she like? You've seen her since I have. Is she 
 just as beautiful?" 
 
 "Beautiful?" Jerry looked uncertain. He had never 
 thought about it. Was Betty beautiful? Suddenly another 
 face rose up, fair, sweet, with deep blue eyes, and hair like 
 the cornfields in summer. That was beauty, indeed. He shook 
 his head. 
 
 "I never thought of Betty as being beautiful." 
 
 "Betty not beautiful !" Paul's voice was indignant. "Why, 
 she's the most beautiful girl I've ever seen, and I've seen a 
 few. I don't think you know what you are talking about." 
 
 The lamp outside gave a flicker and went out, leaving the 
 room in darkness and bringing the two to their feet. 
 
 "Jer, it must be nearly midnight. I must get off. I wouldn't 
 miss that coach for all the gold in the world." Jerry made a 
 light and accompanied him downstairs. 
 
 "Good-bye, Jer, old fellow." 
 
 "Good-bye, Paul, good-bye. See you again soon." 
 
 "Yes, at Christmas." 
 
 He was gone. Jerry watched him cross the square and turn 
 into a by street ; then closed and barred the massive door and 
 went to bed.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 WHICH TELLS OF THE GOOSE-GIRL AND THE WHITE KNIGHT, 
 
 AND HOW THE BLACK KNIGHT FOUGHT AND 
 
 WAS VANQUISHED 
 
 THE pedlar came home, satiated with the country. 
 "There is wickedness in the country," said he ; "yes, as 
 much as in London, only she hides it differently. The veil 
 of London is gold and glitter, and it is called Pleasure, but 
 that of the country is green and soft and restful, and she 
 calls it Peace. But they are both veils to hide their wicked- 
 ness." 
 
 "He's always like this," whispered Toby. "Things seem to 
 upset him more in the country. I expect he's been hearing 
 all sorts of tales. They talk so much more there, you know. 
 He'll be himself in a day or two." 
 
 Which prophecy was verified. The pedlar put off his trav- 
 elling clothes and became Reuben Gade, the business man, the 
 kind master, and gentle friend. Walks and talks were re- 
 sumed, and the empty hall was again filled with the presence 
 of its owner; Jerry's work went better, customers flocked 
 again, and Toby's song carolled from kitchen regions: 
 
 Begone, Dull Care ; I prithee, begone from me. 
 
 And Christmas brought Paul. The broad light of day 
 showed him older, changed in many ways. The dark thin 
 face was thinner and longer, the black eyes deepened with 
 knowledge of men and the world. He had adopted a loose 
 style of dress, and wore his hair according to the fashion 
 of the day among those who worshipped the young poet of 
 the early century. Its short curls rested against his low collar, 
 
 244
 
 The Goose-girl and White Knight 245 
 
 fastened with a loose silk tie. There was none of the stylish 
 elegance of Sir Francis, but in his own way Paul challenged 
 comparison. A woman, unbiassed, perhaps could hardly have 
 put one before the other. Remembering the quarrel, Jerry 
 made no mention of his name. Sir Francis being out of town, 
 there was no meeting, and Paul went off to Oxford without 
 an idea that the same roof which sheltered his friend often 
 covered his enemy. 
 
 The visit to Cloudesley was not altogether satisfactory; 
 Betty, home from the convent only some three months, was 
 not yet settled down, and her aunt, contrary to all expecta- 
 tions and much to the surprise of neighbours, allowed her 
 infinite freedom. From a lovely child she had developed into 
 a lovely maiden, with the manners and ease of a lady born, 
 and the refinement which comes of constant intercourse with 
 good women. 
 
 But the old Betty was still there ; wilful, passionate, daring, 
 and the farm woke up again after its quiet sleep of years. The 
 farmer's eyes rarely left her ; they would follow every grace- 
 ful movement, every pretty action, and when, in the winter 
 evenings, she perched herself upon his knee, and put her arms 
 round his neck, there was nothing in the world that he could 
 deny her. 
 
 Mrs. Chubbe, too, watched; but, mingled with admiring 
 pride, was an expression almost apprehensive. Did she re- 
 member my lady's words ? Or was it only a mother's fear of 
 the world, and its pitfalls and temptations? 
 
 Betty herself, light hearted, careless, happy, sang through 
 the house, decked herself in her little bits of finery, and tried 
 her prentice hand on the village lads, who, nothing loath, 
 responded nobly. Mrs. Chubbe's fears vanished, her scolding 
 tongue returned, and Miss Betty was threatened with "serv- 
 ice." 
 
 "The child'll have her head turned," she said, "with all this 
 gallivantin' an' nonsense. The sooner she's at work the bet- 
 ter." The farmer slowly pressed in a plug of tobacco, drew
 
 246 When Pan Pipes 
 
 a spill from the shelf, pushed it between the bars, and lit his 
 pipe. 
 
 "Our Betty don't go to service, missis," he said, taking a 
 long draw, and puffing out a cloud of sweet smoke. 
 
 Mrs. Chubbe turned sharply from the fire. 
 
 "Why not, pray, I should like to know?" she answered 
 testily. "Service was good enough for me an' you, an' serv- 
 ice'll be good enough for her, I'm thinkin'." 
 
 "No," the farmer took his pipe out and gazed solemnly into 
 the fire. "No," he lifted the tankard of ale at his side, took 
 a deep, fortifying draught, put his pipe in again, and set the 
 measure down with a decisive thump. "This home's been too 
 quiet for my likin' the few years past, an' now the child's home, 
 why, to tell the honest truth, missis, I can't spare her again. 
 An' as long as I've got a roof an' a bit, she'll stay wi' us, 
 service or no service, an' that's my last word, missis." Mrs. 
 Chubbe laid down her knitting and shook her head at him. 
 
 "You be as artful as Old Nick hisself, master. You'll let 
 me go on an' on thinkin' I'm gettin' my way, an' then, all 
 of a sudden like, you'll out an' say me nay, an' when you 
 say it like that, I know 'tain't no good to strive against you." 
 The farmer chuckled. 
 
 "I couldn't spare her, wife " and Mrs. Chubbe burst out : 
 
 "No more couldn't I, Matthew, an' that's the solemn truth ; 
 no more'n I could spare the sunshine, an' so we'll keep her 
 to home. But work she must." 
 
 "Aye," interrupted the farmer, "work's good for all. Gi' 
 her the dairy, wife." But Mrs. Chubbe shot out her horns 
 again. 
 
 "If 'tisn't just like a man. Gi' her the dairy! A giddy, 
 thoughtless wench like our Betty, wi' the milk o' six cows to 
 deal wi' ? No, no, master, she shall ha' the care o' the poultry 
 yard, an' the makin' o' the butter, an' that's enough for the 
 present." 
 
 "Well, well," agreed the farmer. 
 
 "An' as soon as the young count's gone she shall start.
 
 The Goose-girl and White Knight 247 
 
 Twould be hard on her now he's here, an' likely wantin' her 
 when her hand's in the butter but after " 
 
 With a shake of the head, Mrs. Chubbe bent over her work 
 and dismissed the subject; the long pipe smoked steadily on. 
 There was a silence, broken at last by the farmer. 
 
 "Missis," she looked up, startled by the tone, "d'ye think it's 
 wise?" 
 
 "Wise?" repeated his wife interrogatively. 
 
 "They're but young things, an' an' " The farmer bent, 
 frowned, knocked the ashes from his pipe into the fire, and 
 laid it beside him thoughtfully. "Betty's a good looking lass, 
 an' he's a gentleman. 'Twould be better to set her to work, 
 wife." 
 
 Mrs. Chubbe's head was bent over her work. Her hus- 
 band watched her curiously and waited, but there was no 
 reply. 
 
 "Best be on the safe side she'll have nought to do wi' the 
 village lads; but there's no many lasses could say nay to the 
 young count, an' so I say, 'Steer on the safe side.' Now, if 
 it had been our Jerry ?" 
 
 "Jerry !" Mrs. Chubbe pushed back her chair with a quick 
 grating sound and dropped her work angrily. "Jerry! 'twill 
 be time to think o' him when he's made his way i' the world. 
 All my Lady Kezzy's fine talk of what he's goin' to do wi' 
 his bits o' clay and water what good's them likely goin' to do 
 him? A deal better ha' stayed here, an' made a farmer of 
 him. Our Betty's not for the likes o' him. Not but what 
 I'm fond o' the boy, for he's a good boy; but he's not good 
 enough for her, an' that's my last word, master. 'Sides which, 
 he hasn't asked her yet, an' you can take my word for it, 
 hasn't a thought for her 'cept as a sister, nor she for him." 
 Gathering up her work she rose with a bustling finality, turned 
 down the lamp, and bidding the farmer see to bolts and bars, 
 flounced out of the room. 
 
 "Jerry!" she ejaculated contemptuously, when safe in the 
 shelter of her own room. "Jerry!" Opening and shutting
 
 248 When Pan Pipes 
 
 drawers with vigorous bangs seemed to work off righteous in- 
 dignation. She put away her work, shook up the pillows, 
 wound up her watch and hung it in the pocket of the bed cur- 
 tain, then, taking off the lace collar she wore in the afternoon, 
 she shook it, wrapped it in white paper and laid it in a drawer. 
 A sudden thought seemed to strike her; she drew the drawer 
 further out, lifted various articles from it, finally fetching up 
 a soft parcel, neatly tied in tissue paper. Before opening it, 
 she shot to the bolt of the door. "Best be on the safe side," 
 she murmured, turning back the wrappings with gentle fingers. 
 Inside the many layers, lavender scented, lay a crimson sash, 
 broad, long, and softly rich. Mrs. Chubbe unfolded it, gazing 
 long and lovingly as she ran it through her hands, then care- 
 fully put it away again and closed the drawer. 
 
 "Jerry, indeed! an' with a thing like that?" she muttered 
 with vague meaning. "All right " as the farmer shook the 
 door. "Don't you be in such a mighty hurry ; I'm comin'." 
 
 And so Betty's freedom continued, free from work, free 
 from care, free from every tie. It was not until the last night 
 of his stay that Paul spoke of that which was uppermost. 
 They were coming home from Channington in the late winter 
 afternoon; the snow crumbled and bound under their feet, 
 frost glittered on every twig. The sunset's crimson glow fell 
 on her face, tinting the paleness. Paul slipped his arm through 
 hers, drawing her close. 
 
 "Betty, do you remember once, long ago, in this place, I 
 asked you if you'd marry me? Do you remember?" She 
 turned her face coquettishly from his, the sparkling, vivid face, 
 in its youthful beauty, and nodded. 
 
 "Betty, I ask you again, will you marry me? I am not 
 rich, but there's enough for us, and in the future I hope 
 very far off there'll be plenty, and you'll be a countess. 
 Will you, Betty?" He had stopped and was bending over 
 her, still holding her arm. "Ah, Betty, you don't know how 
 I've wanted you how I want you. Every day, every hour, 
 every minute, I love you more. All the beautiful world is
 
 The Goose-girl and White Knight 249 
 
 nothing without you. Will you, Betty? Soon I shall have 
 finished at Oxford, and then then " 
 
 His voice broke in its intensity; he would have drawn her 
 nearer, would have lifted her to his heart, but there was no 
 soft yielding in the slender form beside him, no hint of pas- 
 sionate longing, of the abandonment which tells of love. 
 
 "Betty, dearest, you promised." 
 
 "Oh, Paul." She turned her head ; the dark eyes with their 
 love and longing might have swayed her. "I'm so young, I've 
 seen nothing yet ; I want, oh, ever so many things." 
 
 It was the old cry. Even at that moment Paul smiled, 
 loving her all the more for the answer. He drew her closer, 
 and slid his arm round her. She made no resistance, yet 
 there was no sign of yielding. 
 
 "What do you want, Betty? There's nothing you shall not 
 have money, friends, gaiety, anything." She stood silent, 
 half turned from him, one little foot tracing patterns in the 
 snow. Paul waited, then went on. 
 
 "New clothes, Betty, you shall have them every day. Jew- 
 els? Betty, you love sparkling things, I'd have the diamonds 
 re-set for you, and the emeralds. Oh, Betty," he almost for- 
 got the present, as a vision rose of his love, the gleaming green 
 stones resting on her fair neck, flashing from her copper red 
 hair, clasping the round white arms. The same magic must 
 have conjured up a similar picture in her mind, for she lifted 
 her face with a deep gasp of delight. 
 
 "Oh, Paul emeralds? How lovely but " she shook her 
 head, and turned again to the weaving of patterns. 
 
 "But what ?" Suddenly she turned, laid her soft face against 
 him, her little mittened hand on his arm. 
 
 "Paul, I do like you very, very much, but I like something 
 better." The thrill of her touch, the rapture of holding her, 
 turned him giddy. He would have lifted her face to his, but 
 she pushed his hand away. 
 
 "What is it, Betty, that you love more than you love me?" 
 he whispered.
 
 250 When Pan Pipes 
 
 "My freedom " came in low tones. 
 
 "You shall have it, Betty. Dearest, you shall be as free 
 as a 'bird; you shall come and go without any questioning 
 from me. Only love me, Betty, and promise that some day 
 you'll come to me for ever." 
 
 "No," she drew herself from his reluctant arms and stood 
 upright. "No. That would not be freedom. Come," she put 
 her arm in his, "let us go, and forget this. Before I promise 
 anything to any man I must see more. You don't really mind, 
 dear Paul, do you?" 
 
 He knew she was fancy free. The cool, endearing term 
 alone would have told him. Not yet had love shot his arrow 
 into Betty's heart, not yet had she known the sweetness of 
 his chains. Freedom ! Paul could have laughed, but for the 
 aching in his heart. Having once been love's prisoner, who 
 would wish for liberty? 
 
 He whispered something of this as they walked slowly on, 
 urging, persuading, but Betty stood firm. He lifted her over 
 the last stile, then, still holding her, put the final question. 
 
 "Betty, is there anyone else you love?" 
 
 "No, Paul." The answer rang clear and true ; he breathed 
 a sigh of relief. 
 
 "One question more, dearest, and I'll let you go. Betty, if 
 if anyone asks you what I've asked you will you tell me 
 first before anyone else ? Let me hear your answer from you 
 will you?" And again came the answer, innocent as a 
 child's. 
 
 "Yes, of course, Paul. You shall be the very first one to 
 be told. But I don't think there'll be anyone else. It's only 
 that I want to see things." And with that he let her go. It 
 was not altogether unsatisfactory; she was heart whole; and 
 in little Cloudesley who should win her from him? Sooner 
 or later he must prevail and gain her love. 
 
 Paul's castle grew that night like Aladdin's palace. Fair 
 and glorious, its turrets and spires stretching into the sky, the 
 fairest castle that ever was built, and in his dreams Betty
 
 The Goose-girl and White Knight 251 
 
 threw off her gown of homespun, and wore a glittering robe 
 of silver, with a glamour of green emeralds and sparkling 
 diamonds. Long ago he had told her she was like a princess. 
 A princess ! A queen ! Queen of beauty, queen of his heart, 
 queen to rule wherever she dwelt. His last thought was that 
 queens must be guarded. Cloudesley and he would guard their 
 queen, and some day, under his wing, she should see the beau- 
 tiful world. 
 
 The farmer breathed more freely after Paul's departure. 
 Though not perhaps of brilliant intelligence, he was quick- 
 witted enough to have caught the whisper of the village: 
 "Mrs. Chubbe's bringing up that gal o' hers like a lady, an' 
 she'll live to rue the day." Also he read in my Lady Karen's 
 face an expression meaning, "I wash my hands of such doings ; 
 I warned you long ago." 
 
 It hurt his pride, and Matthew Chubbe had more than his 
 share of that sturdy independent pride which, while deferring 
 socially to its betters in station, knows no superior in the 
 sight of God. Paul was gone, however ; for the time the un- 
 pleasantness was over. When he returned, Betty would have 
 settled to the life of a farmer's daughter, and there would be 
 no time for gallivanting. 
 
 Which hope seemed to be fulfilled. Betty took to the work 
 willingly. The old hens were a constant source of amusement 
 to her, while looking after them, even to her aunt's satisfac- 
 tion, and the soft downy chicks roused something very tender 
 in the dark, flashing eyes. The butter, too, seemed to come by 
 magic, and not even in her dream silks and jewels could Betty 
 have looked lovelier than in the shadowy dairy, with its low 
 colourings of greys and browns and creamy whiteness. Na- 
 ture, too, lent a hand, tanning and flushing the delicate paleness 
 of her cheeks, filling out the slender figure, giving the fresh 
 ness and fragrance of wind, and dew, and sun, and perfumed 
 things. 
 
 The whispers died away; the village showed its surprise, 
 almost its disappointment, that its forebodings had not come
 
 252 When Pan Pipes 
 
 to pass, and my Lady Karen even condescended to visit the 
 dairy when Betty was making up the butter for market and 
 express her approval. 
 
 "Mother Monica and the sisters have shown themselves sen- 
 sible women, Keziah," she said that evening. "They've put 
 no absurd notions into the girl's head ; she seems to have taken 
 up her proper position without any nonsense. I own I never 
 expected her to settle in Cloudesley. And she's kept her good 
 looks; yes " my lady laid her work in her lap and spoke 
 thoughtfully, "I must say the child made an impression on me ; 
 indeed, she is very winsome." Lady Kezzy listened delight- 
 edly. 
 
 "I was sure, sister, that Betty always meant well; she is 
 young, and girls are thoughtless and giddy." 
 
 "Yes," Lady Karen answered musingly. Youth, with its 
 careless light-heartedness, thrust itself flauntingly before her, 
 and memories of that dear one, gay, careless, beautiful, even 
 as Betty herself, rose up in her mind. Her sister probably 
 had the same thought, and for a short time both ladies sat 
 silent, living again the past. The entrance of the tea tray 
 sent memories flying back to their own place, and the evening 
 finished as usual. 
 
 But underneath Betty's demure exterior lay longings and 
 cravings, and all sorts of strange emotions. The convent had 
 taught self-control, and she kept them to herself. Indeed, 
 there was no one to whom she could speak of such things, and 
 even if there had been, it is doubtful if such vague, intangible 
 feelings could have been put into words. The farmer might 
 have understood, Jerry have sympathised, having had much 
 the same experience. But only a woman could have told her 
 that it was the passing of childhood, the desire for knowledge 
 of a sphere beyond little Cloudesley, the craving of an eager, 
 restless nature for excitement, life, morally speaking, a ride 
 on the merry-go-round of the world. Jerry's letters, without 
 meaning to do so, intensified these longings. What wonder 
 that the dull monotony palled slightly as the months went by?
 
 The Goose- girl and White Knight 253 
 
 The farmer saw and understood ; his wife saw, understood, 
 and chided. But both did what they could in the way of small 
 gaieties. Market day saw Betty in the covered place, de- 
 murely seated, knitting in hand, on a low chair, beside her 
 white-draped stall, temptingly spread with yellow butter, 
 brown eggs, and limp poultry. The farmers' wives and daugh- 
 ters were friendly, yet, somehow, between them and the inn- 
 keeper's niece a broad gulf fixed itself, indefinable, yet always 
 apparent. There were neighbourly visits, little outings, in 
 which she joined with all a young girl's pleasure, but she made 
 no intimate friends, keeping her best for home. There were 
 times when the farmer wondered; he knew that, beneath the 
 sweetness, the ready smile, the loving embrace, lay something 
 deeper, only waiting the touch of a magic wand to stir it into 
 a vigorous, seething life. 
 
 So the spring and early summer passed. Paul and his 
 father went abroad during the long vacation, and to Betty, 
 counting the weeks to his return, came a feeling of anger, 
 that after such professions of love, he had not troubled to 
 stay with her and break the monotony. True, he had snatched 
 a couple of days before he started, and his letters were as fre- 
 quent as possible for letters to be ; many a time did Mrs. Chubbe 
 remark on the cost of franking. But there was a reason for 
 Paul's seeming neglect. Village rumours had reached his ear, 
 and should a knight allow even a breath to tarnish the fair 
 fame of his princess? Till she owned to loving him, even if 
 it killed him he would not molest her. To carry her banner 
 high and glorious, unsullied through a world where an idle 
 word might smirch its glittering surface, proclaiming his lady's 
 beauty and virtue throughout Christendom, might have been 
 Paul's mission had he lived in earlier ages. As it was, he was 
 only conscious of a hungry desire to shield and protect her 
 from everything that had the faintest suspicion of ugliness. 
 
 Day after day, night after night, came the wild longing to 
 take her, guard her, love her to build a hedge for so fair a 
 flower, a high wall where none but he could enter a garden
 
 254 When Pan Pipes 
 
 of flowers, of sunshine, of everlasting love. For such is love's 
 young dream and youth knows not that true love is free- 
 dom, that its chains are rosy garlands reaching throughout 
 space, yet ever drawing their captives with them. And amongst 
 Pan's merry May music which calls to lovers and loved ones, 
 runs the harshness of spring, of youth, of nature ; but beneath, 
 to those who can hear it, flows a deeper, fuller strain, melodi- 
 ous, ever recurring. 
 
 He whispered something of this while urging his suit, and 
 the whisper woke Betty's vanity, making her toss her saucy 
 head till the red-gold curls glittered again. 
 
 "How silly you are, Paul," she cried ; "as though I couldn't 
 take care of myself." He caught her, holding her close in spite 
 of her laughing struggles. 
 
 "Betty, Betty, give me the right to guard you, to come 
 here openly as your lover. You're so young and pretty, and," 
 his voice dropped to the old words, the world's refrain, "I 
 love you, Betty, I love you so." She freed herself, still laugh- 
 ing, her breath coming quick with the exertion, her face 
 flushed. 
 
 "I don't want to, Paul ; I keep telling you ; not yet, anyhow." 
 He stood for a moment gravely watching her; then took her 
 hands. 
 
 "Betty, I can't wait much longer. I must know before I 
 return to Oxford ; you must tell me when I come back." She 
 loosened a hand and slipped it under his arm. 
 
 "Very well, Paul, I'll tell you then " adding saucily, "Per- 
 haps." And do what he would, he could get no other answer. 
 
 During those summer months she did her work as usual, 
 moving demurely among the feathered brood, patting and 
 kneading the butter in the cool dairy, and only she herself 
 knew the turmoil within the clamour of mixed longings, 
 of love, of freedom, and the dread of the hive of bees she 
 would bring about her head if she accepted Paul. The count's 
 anger, Lady Karen's cold contempt, Lady Kezzy's tears and 
 disappointment, the gossip of the village. Betty, refined by
 
 The Goose-girl and White Knight 255 
 
 nature, doubly so with convent training, shrank from the pic- 
 ture. There also still remained, against all reason, a little 
 pique that Paul should think she was not able to take care of 
 herself. Altogether, Betty was in that state of mind when a 
 diversion proves a welcome relief. And it came, suddenly 
 overwhelming her with its quick flood. 
 
 Paul returned, but not to Oxford. Once more my lord 
 threw open the doors of Cloudesley, once more the village 
 roused to echoes of London voices, of London footfalls. 
 Down came the Marquis of Fleet, still in his travelling berlin, 
 an old man now, too old to make changes, he said ; down came 
 Captain Culpepper, greyer, somewhat wrinkled, but upright and 
 soldierly, as becomes an officer of his Majesty. Down, too, 
 came Lord Henry Sands, no longer a younger brother. Small- 
 pox had carried off the duke when love and hope had tinted 
 the world rose colour. The title descended, sobering the wild 
 young peer. No longer did he drive tandem; Sir Francis 
 Crewe did so instead, and the superb black horses, perfectly 
 matched, fresh and fiery, and the cold handsome features of 
 their owner, divided between them the admiration of the vil- 
 lagers. 
 
 Again the great gates were set open, again the quiet house 
 put on its gala dress, again my lord entertained his guests, as 
 royalty entertains. The count and his son arrived a week later ; 
 they had been detained in Paris, and Paul's first visit was to 
 Betty Betty, loving, sweet, yet still undecided. And so, from 
 day to day, she put off her answer, now almost yielding, now 
 reiterating the demand for freedom, till the Thursday before 
 the Saturday fixed for the breaking up of the party. 
 
 The fortnight had, as before, tried the landlady's patience. 
 Well for those servants and grooms who were frequenters 
 of the Cloudesley Arms that its mistress had no hand in the 
 serving of them; they might have heard unpalatable home 
 truths. Betty, certainly, no longer needed watching ; the gaiety 
 of the village possessed no charm for her, and she was apt 
 to laugh and agree with her aunt when she wished it over.
 
 256 When Pan Pipes 
 
 Very few of the company knew that the inn covered aught but 
 its master and mistress. 
 
 Yet there were certain of the older guests who were wel- 
 comed by Mr. Chubbe as friends of the past. To the old 
 marquis and one or two others, the farmer would proudly, 
 and with their leave, present his niece. It was on one such 
 occasion that Francis Crewe happened to be of the party. He 
 had accompanied them, half from an invitation to do so, half 
 to while away an hour or two of a visit only undertaken for 
 personal motives, and becoming every day more irksome. 
 
 He sat somewhat apart, sipping his wine and letting his 
 thoughts run to London. The conversation had turned on 
 topics at least thirty years old, of no interest whatever to him. 
 He heard the door open behind, the talk suddenly flag. Pres- 
 ently a light footfall passed close to him, a soft dress brushed 
 against his chair. The murmur of voices went on, broken by 
 a new one, clear, low, vibrating the voice of a lady. Won- 
 dering somewhat, he raised his eyes. She was pouring out 
 wine for the marquis, who held his glass. Standing there, the 
 cobwebby bottle in her small brown hand, the dimples coming 
 and going in her sunburnt face, the dark eyes coquettishly low- 
 ered, she might have posed for Hebe. 
 
 She placed the bottle on the table, inclined her head smil- 
 ingly, as the marquis, his hand on his heart, bowed in courtly 
 fashion ere he lifted his glass to his lips, then raised her head, 
 caught the ardent glance fixed upon her and flushed rosily red. 
 The flush spread from the white neck, veiled neath its muslin 
 handkerchief, to the roots of the copper-gold hair, and in an 
 instant each knew that remembrance had come to the other. 
 
 "By gad, what a beauty !" murmured Sir Francis, Cloudesley 
 taking on a new value. But Betty said nothing, only, in her 
 room that night the hot colour surged and burned as she thought 
 of that other time. With all a woman's instinct she knew that 
 he would come again, and the sense of power to draw a fine 
 London gentleman was like incense to Betty's vanity. He 
 came, a message from my ladies to Mrs. Chubbe on the subject
 
 The Goose-girl and White Knight 257 
 
 of dairy produce, forming the pretext. Soft words, flattery, 
 and praise of the landlady's housewifery, did the rest. 
 
 Betty, busy making elderberry wine, knew that the hand- 
 some bold eyes were fixed on her, knew that she was worth 
 looking at, in spite of the plain stuff dress and crimson stained 
 fingers, and, with a shy side glance, coyly raised the long, 
 curling lashes. It was enough. Taking a measure of corn, 
 she started out to the yard; within five minutes he joined her, 
 and, half-frightened, half-flattered, Betty chattered gaily, using 
 all her girlish arts to test this sudden new-found power. 
 
 It was no fresh experience to Francis Crewe; yet beauty 
 such as this came not every day, and even his blunted nature 
 received a fresh fillip in the youthful loveliness and innocent 
 coquetries of this country maiden. Fascinated, he found his 
 way to the farmhouse again and again. Betty, trying her 
 wings, knew them to be strong and powerful, and forthwith 
 began that dangerous game played since time began which 
 will be played till time is no more. Little wonder that Paul's 
 answer tarried. But of Paul, Betty said nothing, and the days 
 passed in one delicious flutter, while Cloudesley no longer 
 seemed irksome to Sir Francis. 
 
 The last day came; he left her, after extracting a half 
 promise to allow him to write. In the afternoon came Paul, 
 pleading, urging, using every argument he could think of; 
 but she would give no answer, only promising to love him 
 dearly always always, and perhaps, some day, when she was 
 quite, quite old and tired of seeing things, she would think 
 about getting married. But to the suggestion of anything more 
 she refused to listen. So Paul had to leave, his fate hanging 
 in the balance. 
 
 "But you'll write to me, Betty, won't you?" he pleaded. 
 "I shall write every day, and you will answer? Dearest, say 
 you will." The dark arched eyebrows went up; there was a 
 little look of fear. 
 
 "Paul, you mustn't write too often. Aunt Martha would 
 wonder and ask questions."
 
 258 When Pan Pipes 
 
 "And what if she did? Tell her, Betty." She shook her 
 head decisively. 
 
 "No, I'm not going to be scolded. Oh, Paul" a little weary 
 sigh "I do wish you wouldn't worry so. Can't you under- 
 stand that I won't I won't," with an emphatic stamp, "be 
 tied. I'll write, sometimes, and you can, sometimes, but not 
 too often." Again came the feeling of protection, the remem- 
 brance of village tongues. He knew that every letter was 
 turned over and commented upon by the post mistress, and, 
 knowing it, he understood. 
 
 "Very well, Betty, so be it. I shall write as often as you 
 let me, until you tell me it is too often." She stretched her 
 white arms upwards as though the subject wearied her. 
 
 "Don't expect too much from me," she said, laughing; "but 
 I'll write, Paul, I really will. And now I must go; it's tea 
 time, and Aunt Martha will be calling me. You can come in 
 before you go to-morrow and say good-bye." 
 
 Church Clock struck the half hour after six as he hastened 
 homewards. Not too much time to dress for the seven o'clock 
 dinner. It was a state affair that night the last of the visit. 
 Course succeeded course, side dishes fluttered in between, re- 
 moves ushered in still more dishes, and when at last the glis- 
 tening cloth was lifted, and the dark mahogany reflected silver 
 gilt epergnes and gleaming candelabra, it was nearly ten o'clock. 
 Some of the older men found it long, and after the usual toasts 
 of "The King God bless him" and "The Ladies," left the 
 room with their host, and apologies to the younger men, with- 
 out sitting long over the port. 
 
 The thick, rose-cut decanters went round and round, tongues, 
 even discreet ones, loosened, stories, light, ribald, passed from 
 mouth to mouth, toasts were given, and talk veered from 
 gossip to scandal, from scandal even to names. There was a 
 general loosening of cravats, flushed faces told their own tale, 
 and through it all ran that suggestion of self-control relaxed, 
 which comes with wine. It was the moment when older and
 
 The Goose-girl and White Knight 259 
 
 wiser men would have dispersed the company. Failing that, 
 glasses were re-filled, more toasts given and drunk, and the 
 excitement grew and strained, like a tightened wire, which, 
 stretched to its utmost tension, hummed and sang higher, 
 shriller, to breaking point. 
 
 Already several heads nodded, and legs stretched further be- 
 neath the polished table. Unsteady hands poured more wine, 
 leaving small trickling streams, voices grew thicker, and the 
 candles burnt low. A toast, the name of a reigning beauty, 
 roused every man for a moment, though he sank back the next. 
 A few, only slightly the worse for drink, maintained the con- 
 versation, if conversation it could be called, among them Sir 
 Francis Crewe, upon whom no wine seemed to have any effect, 
 and Paul, who, from no great liking for it, had drunk sparingly. 
 But even on those few it had had a certain effect. 
 
 A cavalry officer, who had been dozing heavily, suddenly 
 awoke, stumbled unsteadily to his feet, and waving a glass 
 in his unsteady hands, hiccoughed the name of a well known 
 dancer. 
 
 " 'Shure you gentlemen most peerlesh beauty in in 
 thish town. Genelm'n Louish da Shilva Lile Lu." The 
 company, such of it as could, stood upon its legs, glasses waved 
 frantically, for it was a popular toast. 
 
 "Louise da Silva, Little Lu," came the shout, and each man 
 sank back, either on to his chair or the floor, sometimes helped 
 back, sometimes pushed further under. Sir Francis rose, his 
 dark face flushed, his eyes glittering, the lace at his throat 
 falling open, the diamonds on his fingers flashing as he lifted 
 his glass. 
 
 "Gentlemen Major Crowley has given us as a toast, an elf 
 a fairy our Lulu. I'll give you another to a new found 
 beauty. Gentlemen, a beauty, to whom Louise is a hag." A 
 little subdued hiss went round. Sir Francis bowed. "I mean, 
 gentlemen, figuratively speaking. One day, perhaps, you your- 
 selves may judge of their comparative merits. Gentlemen, fill
 
 260 When Pan Pipes 
 
 your glasses to the brim, and drink deeply to the greatest beauty 
 in the world, the daughter of the Cloudesley Arms Betty 
 Chubbe." 
 
 "Betty Chubbe, Betty Chubbe," came the roar of voices, 
 the tinkle of glasses, the scraping of heavy chairs quickly 
 pushed back. Then clear, through the hubbub, Paul's voice. 
 
 "Gentlemen, I call upon you to take back that toast. Sir 
 Francis, you forget yourself. A lady's name cannot be coupled 
 with the name of a London light-o'-love. Take back your 
 toast, I say ; apologise, or, by the Lord " 
 
 He strode to the end of the table where Sir Francis stood, 
 glass in hand, staring in wonderment. Presently a slow smile 
 of enlightenment curved the cynical lips. 
 
 "I understand. Gentlemen, as gentlemen, we understand. 
 This," he glanced round, the curl on his lips deepening, "this 
 lady belongs to our friend." He bowed to Paul. "I hardly 
 gave him credit for the discovery of so much beauty. Yet, 
 under the circumstances, I fail to see the need of an apology. 
 The lady is without peer, one day doubtless will be the toast 
 of every club in London. Gentlemen, again I give you, Betty 
 Chubbe." 
 
 There was a subdued murmur, like the threatening of a 
 distant storm. Paul moved nearer, his voice, thick with rage, 
 controlled. 
 
 "Again, sir, I call upon you to apologise." 
 
 Sir Francis smiled slowly, deliberately, and for one tense 
 moment the two men held each other in check. Paul took a 
 step nearer. 
 
 "You refuse, sir you refuse? Then, by God, sir " he 
 snatched a glass of wine from the table and flung it furiously 
 at the haughty face before him, "take that." 
 
 The glass, thick and heavy, struck, its sharp points tear- 
 ing the pale skin, its ruddy contents staining the white ruffled 
 shirt, then fell to the ground, struck the carved table, shivered 
 and broke. But before it could touch, the tension snapped.
 
 The Goose-girl and White Knight 261 
 
 Closing together, the two men grappled and gripped, as so long 
 ago they had done in the inn parlour. 
 
 Sobered by the sudden attack, several guests dragged them 
 apart by main force, holding each in spite of his struggles. 
 There was no need. Self-control asserted itself, and shaking 
 himself free, Sir Francis stepped forward, the smouldering 
 rage only apparent in shaking fingers and the sullen glare in his 
 eyes. 
 
 "Count Paul, you will give me satisfaction for this insult." 
 There was a quick stir in the group behind. Paul bowed. 
 
 "At your pleasure, Sir Francis." He beckoned to the officer 
 so unintentionally the promoter of the quarrel, who, now com- 
 pletely sobered, moved nearer. After a short colloquy, Paul 
 turned. 
 
 "Sir Francis, Major Crowley will wait upon any gentle- 
 man you may elect as your representative at his convenience. 
 May I suggest that, as we part to-morrow, the sooner this little 
 affair is settled the better for those concerned ?" 
 
 They faced each other again, and instinctively each guest 
 moved closer. There was something in the atmosphere which 
 told of fierce hatred united to the anger of provocation, some- 
 thing deeper, of longer standing, than a momentary brawl over 
 a lady's name. Sir Francis bowed. 
 
 "The sooner the better, for my part. Here in an hour 
 when you please." 
 
 "Then " Paul took out his watch, calmly regarding it as 
 it lay in his hand, the bunch of handsome seals dangling from 
 the fob chain, "shall we say at dawn? That is, four hours 
 from now." 
 
 "As you please," replied Sir Francis, putting his hand be- 
 fore his face to conceal a well-feigned yawn. "My friend 
 Sir Jasper Vance, and Major Crowley will, no doubt, settle the 
 preliminaries." 
 
 Again Paul bowed, and both men turned unconcernedly, 
 as though there had been no break in the evening's amuse-
 
 262 When Pan Pipes 
 
 ment. But all thought of jollity had gone. There was a 
 vague uneasiness in each member of the party, a general 
 inclination to disperse, and within an hour the old grey house 
 lay silent as a grave. Only those four concerned kept watch, 
 and the ceremonious preliminaries being disposed of, Major 
 Crowley and Sir Jasper Vance snatched a couple of hours' 
 sleep. 
 
 From outside, the Moon's golden face stared in, grave and 
 solemn. He looked into the stately roqm where my lord slept 
 a dreamless, unbroken sleep, the sleep of those who have 
 stifled passion, dulled conscience, and shut themselves out of 
 the living world; into other rooms, where, with the emblems 
 of civilisation thrown from them, men became equal; along 
 dim corridors, where shadows ran swiftly, noiselessly. Black, 
 grey, golden, they passed, and entered through the closed doors. 
 They were the dreams the dreams, which at night haunt 
 every house. Two doors they passed, for the inmates were not 
 yet ready for them, perhaps one would never more be ready, 
 or perhaps, in his last long sleep, they would be pleasant com- 
 pany, those ghosts of daylight thoughts. 
 
 At a table Paul sat writing; there was much to be done 
 in the little time remaining, letters, injunctions, messages. 
 But at last they were finished, all but one, that one so difficult 
 to write. 
 
 "Ah, Betty, Betty." He flung his arms across the table, 
 laying his head upon them. "Betty, darling, if I die, who'll 
 look after you?" And in that last solemn hour Paul fell on 
 his knees and prayed as only those pray who touch death's 
 dark mantle. "Shield her, O God. Be with her, guardian 
 angels. Mary, Mother, look down and keep her from harm 
 and the assaults of the devil from the world and its tempta- 
 tions." 
 
 Slightly comforted, he rose, drew paper and ink towards 
 him and wrote wrote till Church Clock's warning bade him 
 remember the night was passing. The flow of impassioned 
 words, of longing, was finished, practical matters took its
 
 The Goose-girl and White Knight 263 
 
 place, the last injunction being the most important. "Even 
 if I live, Betty, there'll be danger. Dearest, I shall have to 
 flee the country if that should happen. And in that case, 
 I cannot write direct to you, nor you to me. Dearest, you 
 will write, won't you? Send them to Jerry, and I will do 
 the same. He's so true and steady, and oh, my darling, be 
 careful. Remember, such a little may part us for ever. Only 
 Jerry will have my address. Burn every letter you receive 
 from me, especially this, directly you have read it. For a few 
 weeks I dare not write; it would not be safe. But when the 
 first hue and cry has abated, then I will do so, and every mo- 
 ment I shall be thinking of you. Betty, Betty don't forget 
 me. Love me, darling, and perhaps, who knows, this trouble 
 may pass. God bless you, my darling." 
 
 "Yes, it'll pass it'll pass," said Church Clock, as he struck 
 four, "as all things pass." The Moon beamed softly and 
 turned his yellow face to the silver fields, the deep dark lane, 
 the deserted cottage. Together they peeped once more into 
 the empty garret, then, with smiling glances, into the little 
 white room of the inn. The Moon's bright rays fell on the 
 narrow bed, on the wealth of red-gold hair tumbling over white 
 pillows, on Betty's small face; a happy smile flitted across it, 
 and the Moon's round visage grew rounder as he smiled back. 
 
 "Such happy, happy dreams," he murmured ; "will they, too, 
 pass, Church Clock?" 
 
 "Yes, they'll pass, they'll pass," ticked Church Clock. "Yet 
 sometimes dreams become realities, and realities, sooner or 
 later, always become dreams."
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 HOW THE BLACK KNIGHT FOUGHT THE WHITE KNIGHT AND 
 
 WAS VANQUISHED; AND HOW THE GOOSE-GIRL 
 
 CRIED FOR THE MOON 
 
 THERE was a place where the lane broadened out into a 
 grass-grown circle. Here, in the grey twilight which 
 precedes dawn, came Sir Francis and his second. Close be- 
 hind him followed Paul and Major Crowley. The surgeons, 
 fetched hurriedly from Channington, were already in their 
 places. All four men wore thick warm cloaks, for the early 
 October morning was chilly. 
 
 There was some little time to wait for daylight, and each 
 employed it in giving last messages ; letters and more important 
 matters having been previously settled. Then, as the east 
 grew lighter, the seconds met together, conferred, and pro- 
 ceeded to measure the ground, their principals meanwhile di- 
 vesting themselves of their heavy wraps. Both wore black 
 beneath, closely buttoned. Paul had choice of position, and 
 took that on the right ; from thence he could see the chimney 
 stack of the inn, and a gable window which he knew to be 
 Betty's. It gave him confidence, and as he took the pistol 
 from Major Crowley a flutter of excitement seized him. What 
 was this death which lurked near? What was beyond? Ob- 
 livion, dreams, or a coming again ? In less than fifteen minutes 
 he might know the great secret. On the other hand he 
 glanced across at Sir Francis. To all appearance he was in- 
 different; carelessly fingering his weapon, he chatted idly to 
 Sir Jasper. Did he, too, wonder? The dawn lightened, a 
 tree trunk caught his eye, and for the time became the most 
 important thing in the world. Its outline grew more definable ; 
 
 264
 
 The Black Knight Vanquished 265 
 
 in a few minutes the first beam of morning would catch its 
 surface. He watched idly, the murmuring voices reached him, 
 then stopped. The seconds withdrew, and Major Crowley 
 spoke. 
 
 "There is still time, sir an apology " Paul silenced him 
 with as haughty a gesture as that of Sir Francis, and the 
 two gentlemen again consulted. The tree trunk stood free of 
 shadows, the light in the east grew and grew. A shadowy 
 radiance hung, then brightened. Clouds, tipped crimson, 
 drifted backwards; like a curtain the shadows fell away, and 
 glorious from behind, rose the sun. A ruddy glow spread 
 over all, and a golden beam struck the tree trunk. The watch- 
 ing was over, and Paul breathed again. 
 
 "Gentlemen, take your places. When I give the word, fire." 
 
 The two seconds, watches in hand, compared them, said a 
 few words to each other and stood upright. A hasty adjust- 
 ment of attire, a glance at the beauty round, then, mechanically, 
 each looked across at his rival, and knew that the hatred 
 of youth, perhaps an older hatred still, was there also, the 
 spirit of manhood, the glory of killing one's enemy, the cour- 
 age which comes to all at the last. The seconds drew closer, 
 their pale faces tinged with the crimson of the dawn. Paul 
 lifted his pistol and covered his opponent; Sir Francis did the 
 same. A stir a sudden clearing of every sense "Fire !" rang 
 the word, and together the two shots woke the echoes. My- 
 riads of birds roused in their nests, twittering with fear, flut- 
 tering the leaves as they rose in sudden flight. 
 
 Paul stood silent, the pistol dropped from his hand, gazing 
 at the still form opposite, black like a shadow, on the green 
 grass. The surgeons were stooping over him; their grave 
 faces grew graver as they undid the close coat, and disclosed 
 the white shirt stained crimson as the dawn. Hours seemed 
 to pass, yet he felt nothing not even awe. The surgeons 
 moved. One rose, and turned to Major Crowley. Paul heard 
 the words, faintly, as from another sphere. 
 
 "Get your man away; there's no chance." He knew that
 
 266 When Pan Pipes 
 
 his friend was speaking, speaking in his ear. Long after, the 
 sense of what he said came back. 
 
 "Paul, we must go. I've got horses waiting at the bottom 
 of the lane; there's money. Everything else will be sent as 
 soon as possible. Come away, man to London first, and then 
 to Dover, and by the first boat to France. We're safe there. 
 Jasper Vance will follow when he's got help." 
 
 Mechanically Paul hurried down the lane; in five minutes 
 the clatter of hoofs sounded on the high road which cut be- 
 tween the lane and the woods. A ploughman stopped to stare 
 open-mouthed. Major Crowley stooped as he passed, and bade 
 him go to the top of the lane. 
 
 "There's been an accident, boy, and they want help." But 
 by the time he reached the place it was empty; only the 
 trodden grass, wet in places with something darker than dew, 
 and a torn handkerchief, showed signs of what had happened, 
 and the slow-footed ploughboy stood and gazed in wonder- 
 ment. 
 
 Meanwhile, a small cavalcade carefully wended its way over 
 the fields. A hurdle hastily torn up was piled with cloaks, 
 and the unconscious body laid upon it. Two farm hands, 
 summoned from their work, assisted the doctors, and having 
 done all that could be done, Sir Jasper Vance hastened down 
 the lane, mounted the remaining horse, and rode for dear life 
 Londonwards. 
 
 The village inn had before this, on one or two memorable 
 occasions, received death. Mrs. Chubbe, up betimes it was 
 churning day caught sight of the dark procession coming to- 
 wards the back'us door, and stopped, silent for once, in utter 
 amazement. Into the stackyard they came, the hurdle lifted 
 steadily over the stile. 
 
 "Lord-a-mussey !" ejaculated the farmer's wife softly, "if 
 'tain't doctor from Channington, an' an' " The red cheeks 
 paled, the hard face softened as she saw what lay upon the 
 stretcher.
 
 The Black Knight Vanquished 267 
 
 "W-who is it?" she whispered, and for answer the doc- 
 tor drew aside the covering cloak, replacing it gently. 
 
 "Lord-a-mussey !" reiterated Mrs. Chubbe, crossing herself. 
 
 "We must bring him in, Mrs. Chubbe. Get a room ready, 
 not upstairs." She fled, calling on the astonished maids as 
 she passed. The measured tread came after her, and as she 
 quickly piled pillows on the table they carried him into the 
 little inn parlour, closing doors and drawing curtains to shut 
 out prying eyes. 
 
 They cut away the closely fitting clothes, covering him with 
 blankets. The doctors shook their heads as they staunched 
 and dressed the wound, Mrs. Chubbe standing by with water 
 and basins. "Is is he?" she whispered, and the slight in- 
 clination told her the surgeon's answer. 
 
 "But, of course, everything must be done," he added, 
 "though " with a shrug, "it is useless." At last it was over ; 
 the doctors stood up, gravely watching the still form, the hand- 
 some face, rigid and cold, then turned away, and demanded 
 breakfast. 
 
 Mrs. Chubbe mounted guard in the little room. Death was 
 no unfamiliar visitor to her; but this so sudden so unfore- 
 seen had given her a shock ; moreover, she had a lurking par- 
 tiality for the dead man; his good looks, fine manners and 
 deferential courtesy, had won upon her. Few women could 
 withstand Francis Crewe when he put forth his blandishments. 
 She stood gazing gazing then roused. Her glance fell on a 
 bottle of stimulant used by the doctors and left standing on 
 the mantelshelf. She lifted it to put it in its accustomed place, 
 then, struck by a sudden thought, set it down on the table and 
 looked again at the still form. 
 
 "Why not ?" she whispered ; "he's dead. There can't be no 
 harm in tryin'; doctors ain't always right." 
 
 She took the bottle in her hand, weighing chances. Then, 
 with her usual decision, made up her mind. Pouring a few 
 drops into a teaspoon, she gently inserted it between the
 
 268 When Pan Pipes 
 
 clenched teeth, then waited. It trickled out, but nothing 
 daunted, she tried again again and again. There was a stir 
 outside the doctors were returning. Hastily hiding the tell- 
 tale spoon she let them in. For a few moments they stood 
 silent, uncovered, then whispered a few directions to the land- 
 lady. 
 
 "You will stay with him, Mrs. Chubbe, till we return from 
 our sad errand. Count de Cosse must be told, and the earl ; 
 he will probably be moved to the Hall later on in the day. 
 We shall spend the night here; doubtless we shall be needed. 
 There will, of course, be an inquiry." 
 
 The farmer accompanied them to the entrance. Left alone, 
 his wife barred the door and once more applied herself to her 
 task. Afterwards, she wondered what possessed her to per- 
 severe in such an apparently hopeless case. And later still, 
 she solved the enigma " 'Twas the devil hisself lookin' after 
 his own." 
 
 For an hour she toiled. The sounds of everyday life fell 
 unheeded on her ears. Sally, at the door, got sharper repri- 
 mands than usual. "Drat the gals comin' here just out o' 
 idle curiosity. If they think they're coming in, well, they don't 
 know Martha Chubbe." 
 
 Drop by drop the strong liquid fell between the tightly 
 closed teeth. In describing the process, Mrs. Chubbe said 
 that there was a time when it might have been her fancy 
 but, somehow, there didn't seem so much difficulty in forcing 
 open the clenched jaw. Fancy or no fancy, it gave her fresh 
 encouragement. And here it may be mentioned that not alto- 
 gether for Francis Crewe's sake did Mrs. Chubbe take so much 
 trouble. There was always a lurking opinion, hardly owned 
 to, that most things, if left to her, would be improved upon. 
 
 It was no fancy. Some instinct bade her hold a mirror 
 to the white lips. A dimness, so slight that it was almost 
 imperceptible, rested a second on the clear surface, then passed. 
 Again she persevered, and an hour went by. But there was 
 no mistake now; Francis Crevve lived, if so faint a spark could
 
 The Black Knight Vanquished 269 
 
 be called life. The farmer tried the door; his wife quickly 
 unbarred it, returning at once to her task. 
 
 "Why why missis. Whatever be you a-doin' of?" She 
 held up a warning finger and beckoned. Tip-toeing across, 
 he stood by her. She held the mirror again, showing him the 
 surface in silence. Nodding his head, he watched her monot- 
 onous task. Even as he stood came the faint flicker of an eye- 
 lid. 
 
 "Go fetch doctors," whispered his wife, in an excited under- 
 tone, and the farmer tip-toed again to the door. 
 
 "Who'd ha' thought it ?" he murmured ; "who iver could 
 ha' thought it?" 
 
 There was a bustle at the inn; a rushing of excited legs 
 from every field and farm in the neighbourhood. Even mid- 
 day dinner suffered. The doctors, with angry disapproval at 
 the back of their minds that a layman and a woman should 
 dare to interfere and resuscitate life, when they had declared 
 it extinct, showed outward delight, and complimented the land- 
 lady on her promptitude and patience. 
 
 "And now, Mrs. Chubbe," the doctor's tone was light, "hav- 
 ing brought our I should say, your patient so far, you must 
 continue the treatment. We cannot afford to lose so good a 
 nurse. You've brought back life; whether it will stay is an- 
 other matter. But he cannot be moved from here ; indeed, for 
 a day or so, he must stay just where he is." Mrs. Chubbe 
 curtseyed. 
 
 "I'll do my best, sir, for the poor gentleman." 
 
 "I'm sure you will," replied the doctor, adding jocosely, 
 "You know what they say about saving a drowning man 
 eh?" 
 
 "What's that, sir?" 
 
 "Well, perhaps it doesn't apply in this case. But it is said 
 that a man saved from the sea will bring trouble upon his 
 rescuer." The landlady smiled grimly. 
 
 " 'Twon't apply here, sir. There's little harm a gentleman 
 like Sir Francis would do to a poor woman. Besides, in a few
 
 270 When Pan Pipes 
 
 weeks he'll be up an' away, an' forget all we village folk." 
 Her listener shook his head. 
 
 "Not yet not yet. I should not like to say how long 
 you'll have him on your hands more than a few weeks. 
 But you'll be at no loss, mistress; Sir Francis is a wealthy 
 man." 
 
 "Nay, sir, I'm not afeard o' that. He's always been gen- 
 erous an' free wi' his money." 
 
 And Betty upstairs in the little white chamber, oblivious of 
 cold, of bustle below, of everything save her own thoughts 
 sat on and on. Paul's letter, delivered into her hands by his 
 own man, lay on her lap, and the dark eyes, soft and grave 
 now by turns, looked thoughtfully into vacancy or rested on 
 the familiar handwriting. 
 
 She had hardly grasped its meaning. That Paul wrote it 
 before fighting Sir Francis Crewe she understood. She had 
 heard that gentlemen sometimes fought each other. She knew, 
 too, that it was about some London lady that much had 
 trickled through in gossip; Paul had not mentioned it and 
 that he had killed his opponent, and had had to flee the coun- 
 try. But and here was the troubling wonder who was the 
 lady? Hitherto she had thought of Paul's love as hers only. 
 Yet, to fight and kill a man for a lady's sake must mean that 
 he loved her. It is true that every line of the letter breathed 
 passionate devotion, but Betty's vain little heart wanted more 
 than words. No one had ever fought for her, and the child- 
 ish mind built up visions of herself as a grand lady, with fine 
 lovers like like that dead man below, worshipping her very 
 footprints, ready to fight, if necessary to die for her. And 
 with the picture came thoughts of Sir Francis. His dark eyes, 
 which gazed at hers so boldly, that even at the remembrance 
 her cheeks burned fiercely. His elegant bearing, the deferen- 
 tial manner of listening to her chatter, and the way in which, 
 only two days ago she blushed hotly again he had lifted 
 her fingers to his lips and kissed them.
 
 The Black Knight Vanquished 271 
 
 She glanced down at the small hands and made an im- 
 patient movement. Ladies' hands were white; in spite of all 
 she could do, hers were slightly coarsened by work and expo- 
 sure. She glanced again at the letter. Poor Paul, a knight 
 errant indeed. Her thoughts went back back to childhood. 
 Little things came to her memory, small kindnesses, gifts, 
 shieldings from blame, and Betty knew that in each case she 
 had been the culprit. 
 
 Suddenly came the thought of the quarrel in the inn parlour. 
 How Paul had protected her; and yet, had she really needed 
 protection? A kiss snatched from a child, what was it? She 
 had been silly to make such a fuss. Still, Paul was good, and 
 a few tears fell as she thought of him banished to a distant 
 country. Betty's ideas of law were vague. His father and 
 the count no doubt could manage things so that he would come 
 back soon, and then she would ask him about the London lady. 
 Meanwhile, she would write to him whenever she wrote to 
 Jerry. With these comforting thoughts she rose, bathed her 
 eyes in cool water, and went downstairs. Here, indeed, was 
 news. Sir Francis lived thanks to her aunt. 
 
 It was two days before there was any real improvement. 
 Mrs. Chubbe spent them in the inn parlour, doors barred to 
 all save her husband and the doctors; even to the earl, who 
 came himself to inquire. She emerged occasionally, it is true, 
 "as cross as the sticks," Sally was heard to observe, gave sharp 
 orders, scolded right and left, and disappeared again. In a 
 week the best chamber of the inn was prepared the crimson 
 hangings of the great bedstead taken down, shaken and re- 
 placed, the best sheets, spun by the farmer's mother and only 
 used on state occasions, brought from the lavender-scented 
 press, the knitted counterpane a wonderful thing of flowers 
 and leaves, and heavily knotted fringe laid on top; fires lit, 
 windows closed, and the bright copper warming-pan filled with 
 clear embers and moved up and down in the bed, then taken 
 out, as, with gentle hands, and whispered directions from Mrs.
 
 272 When Pan Pipes 
 
 Chubbe, the farmer and doctors lifted the sick man from his 
 impromptu resting place to the comfortable chamber above, 
 and laid him between the sweet-smelling linen. 
 
 From that time the change was marked; yet weeks went 
 by before the danger was entirely past. A day came at last 
 when he was allowed to leave the bed for a short time in the 
 day. Mrs. Chubbe relaxed her efforts, even allowing a village 
 woman to share the nursing, and appeared in the house pale 
 and tired, but triumphant, her tongue, after its complete rest, 
 going faster than ever. 
 
 "Did'st ever see the like?" she complained bitterly to the 
 farmer; "turn your back for a few days, and they're off, an' 
 the work left, an' the place all o' a muck. There's dirt here, 
 an' dust there an' Betty's as bad Dck dck to think that 
 Sally, who's been wi' me nigh upon ten years, couldn't ha' 
 remembered my ways, an' made the puddings an' mincemeat. 
 There'll be Christmas here, an' no Christmas fare, an' you'll 
 be the first, master, to scold if there ain't no Christmas pud- 
 ding." 
 
 "Well, well, missis," said the farmer soothingly. "Set the 
 wenches to it at once, an' if needs be, get a hand from the 
 village." 
 
 "Nay, that I never will." Mrs. Chubbe's face and voice 
 were rigid. "I never have had help in, and it shan't be said 
 that Martha Chubbe's gettin' old and can't do what she has 
 done." 
 
 Somehow things got finished; the kitchen once more satis- 
 fied the keen eye of its mistress, who, having set the wheels 
 of the household running smoothly, had time to look further 
 afield, and made the discovery that Betty was moping. 
 
 "Misses the young count, I'll be bound," she told herself. 
 "Well, well, he'll be back in a few months now the danger's 
 over." 
 
 It was true, but perhaps Mrs. Chubbe's vision was blurred 
 by personal wishes. Life was very dull to Betty. She sadly 
 missed the company, the gaiety and commotion which had hung
 
 The Black Knight Vanquished 273 
 
 over the village before the departure of my lord's guests. 
 More than that, too, was the miss of Sir Francis Crewe's visits, 
 the timing of them to avoid Paul's, and the delightful excite- 
 ment of two admirers. 
 
 She wished Paul would come back, that she could go to 
 him, that Sir Francis would get well enough to come down- 
 stairs and talk to her anything, to break the dull monotony. 
 And to crown Betty's discontent, came a letter from Lady 
 Alary telling her that she was to leave the convent in January, 
 to spend the year with her father in London. 
 
 "But, Betty dear," she wrote, "I have no wish to enter the 
 gay world. Every day I shall count as lost from the beauti- 
 ful life before me. You know how peaceful the convent is. 
 Oh, Betty, I can hardly be grateful enough to my father for 
 letting me devote my life to religion. The time will be one 
 long dream of holy peace. I am frightened when I think of 
 the wickedness outside, and that for a time I must see some- 
 thing of it. I wish my father would let me go to Cloudesley, 
 to my aunts; I know they want to have me, but he refuses, 
 and my obedience is to him. So, dear Betty, unless I come on 
 a visit, I shall not see you. But you will write to me, won't 
 you, and I'll tell you all about my life in London." Betty read 
 it through, then sighed and beat her little foot impatiently. 
 
 "Why aren't things fairly divided?" she cried angrily. 
 "Why can't my lady stay in the convent and I take her place ? 
 It's a shame a shame." 
 
 But thus is life a longing for the unattainable, and every 
 man thinks his pack heavier than his neighbour's. 
 
 Paul's letter came at length. He was moving restlessly 
 from one place to another and the good news had not yet 
 reached him. Betty, in her discontent, harboured feelings of 
 resentment against everyone. Why could not Paul have told 
 her the reason of the quarrel? Why did he not trust her with 
 his address? Why this and why that, till never a blacker 
 world was made than that in which she lived. Too much in 
 awe of her aunt to show temper, she did her work as usual,
 
 274 When Pan Pipes 
 
 only the sparkling charm was gone, and a cheerless apathy 
 characterised every movement. Hence Mrs. Chubbe's term, 
 moping. 
 
 Towards Christmas the atmosphere cleared. Bright, frosty 
 mornings, busy preparations, the mysteries of Christmas gifts, 
 are bound to have an effect even on older people ; how much 
 more on a young careless nature. Once more Betty's voice 
 carolled out, the gay smile came back, and hope whispered 
 promises of delights to come. Moreover, Sir Francis was to 
 eat his Christmas dinner downstairs. Mrs. Chubbe, looking 
 upon him much as a hen looks upon its offspring, metaphoric- 
 ally speaking, gathered him under her wing, shielding from in- 
 quisitive eyes, and prepared the inn parlour for his reception. 
 Betty and Sally, assisted by the farmer, decked the great 
 kitchen with boughs of evergreen and scarlet-berried holly; 
 the gnarled apple tree in the orchard was stripped of its mistle- 
 toe, which, hung on the huge beam running across the ceiling, 
 would be the chief feature of the evening. 
 
 Betty pondered in her mind, as they passed from kitchen 
 to passages, decking bare walls and corners, to the parlour, 
 which was to be a bower of Christmas greenery, whether it 
 would be an impertinence to hang a second bunch. Sally 
 solved the difficulty by the deed. 
 
 "Poor young man," she said, tying up the stiff sprigs, "there 
 won't be much to pleasure him ; no grand folk, nor fine ladies. 
 But I'll warrant he won't taste a better turkey'n the missis's, 
 no, not in all London town. An' he wouldn't find a bonnier 
 lass for kissin* than you, Miss Betty, I'll be bound. Though, 
 for sure, I'd rather be kissed by our Dickon than him. I dunna 
 care for thin cheeks an' black eyes." 
 
 Betty coloured at the girl's remarks, but said nothing; 
 mistletoe is suggestive, even if such things have never been 
 thought of before. When it came to the critical moment, 
 when, with much ceremony and deference the farmer and 
 Dickon arrived to carry their guest downstairs, Sir Francis 
 took matters into his own hands. A casual word acquainted
 
 The Black Knight Vanquished 275 
 
 him with his destination, and a flat refusal followed. He 
 would join the family dinner party in the kitchen, or stay 
 upstairs, and listening to the merriment below, mope his heart 
 out. 
 
 In vain Mrs. Chubbe flattered, no doubt, yet, to use her 
 own expression, "flummuxed" protested, urging the loss of 
 dignity, the bad effect of excitement. He would hear noth- 
 ing. A compromise was made ; the chimney corner given over 
 to him, could be screened off if necessary, and a table placed 
 there would allow him to see, or be seen, according to his 
 fancy. In fact, it would take the place of the dais of years 
 gone by. At the farm meals, lingered, unknowingly, the cus- 
 tom of the salt ; the household sitting below the break of tables, 
 the family above. 
 
 Even to the satiated sight of a townsman the farm kitchen 
 presented a picture of warmth, comfort, even beauty, to those 
 who saw with right eyes. The fireplace, piled with logs half 
 way up the great chimney, flared and roared a cheery welcome ; 
 not yet had it settled to a steady glow. Brasses, copper, silver, 
 gleamed and sparkled, red bricks, crimson curtains and cush- 
 ions gave a ruddy tint, oaken beams glimmered dully, and, seen 
 through the casement windows, were trees and fields, and woods 
 white with snow, glittering with frost as the pale mid-day sun 
 caught them. 
 
 Mrs. Chubbe had donned her best black silk gown; the 
 bright steel of the carving knife, wielded skilfully by the 
 farmer, reflected the scarlet of his waistcoat, the ruddy round- 
 ness of his jovial face. Maids and men curtseyed and scraped 
 as they entered, shy and awkward in the consciousness of best 
 clothes and the presence of the "quality." 
 
 To Sir Francis the scene was new, and therefore interesting. 
 From his corner he surveyed it critically, as he would the 
 setting of some scene. His quick eye caught the sound of 
 light footsteps on the steep wooden stairs which ran up 
 behind the kitchen. He heard the door in the wall behind 
 the projecting chimney corner open and shut. More curtsey-
 
 276 When Pan Pipes 
 
 ing from the maids, shuffling pulls of the forelock from the 
 men, and Betty tripped airily in, Betty in her maroon merino 
 frock, made like my Lady Mary's own, with low cut bodice 
 and short sleeves, displaying the white arms and neck, shapely, 
 though as yet lacking the roundness which comes with ma- 
 turity. The red-gold curls were piled high, here and there 
 escaping in kinks and ringlets, curling and clustering over 
 small ears and white forehead. She wore no ornament, ex- 
 cept the gold buckle, Paul's gift, and a small brooch, teased out 
 of her aunt in a weak moment. 
 
 No longer was the room a picture. It was alive with vivid 
 life life which drew him in, making him part of it. The 
 steaming turkey, the great sirloin, was real, he would share 
 it. If he had only been well enough, he fancied himself tak- 
 ing part in the evening's jollities; kissing Sally and Nancy 
 perhaps Mrs. Chubbe, perhaps a thrill ran through him 
 as his eyes turned to Betty; to the crimson, smiling lips, the 
 soft white neck, and he let his thoughts wander in dreams. 
 
 The ice thawed as dinner proceeded. With healths to the 
 master, the mistress, and young miss, men and maids found 
 tongue. But when all was cleared away, the hearth swept, 
 the fire made up, and the kettle hung for tea, the farmer and 
 his own family gathered round, with many apologies to their 
 guest, and a certain stiffness, which Francis Crewe, putting 
 forth all his powers, dispersed in a short time. The farmer, 
 in the opposite corner, smoked vigorously, his wife, shorn of 
 her everyday occupations, lacking even the comfort of knitting, 
 dozed off. Presently the farmer laid down his pipe, and again 
 apologizing, departed for the usual Sunday afternoon stroll 
 round barns and stackyards. 
 
 Betty, on a low stool, her open book on her knee, stared 
 dreamily into the glowing fire, conscious of the dark eyes 
 gazing at her with an expression not altogether new some- 
 thing which made her heart thrill and beat wildly, and the hot 
 blush come and go till her eyes smarted with the fire from her 
 cheeks. He watched it rise, from snowy shoulders, up, up,
 
 The Black Knight Vanquished 277 
 
 flushing the fair neck, the pale cheeks rosy, tipping tiny ears, 
 higher, till it met and vanished beneath red-gold curls. The 
 look deepened ardent, passionate. There was a surging in 
 Betty's ears, her heart beat so loudly that she felt sure her 
 aunt would hear it. Through it all she could hear every 
 sound, Mrs. Chubbe's deep respirations, the crackle of the fire, 
 the kettle singing, even his quick breath coming and going. 
 It was painful, yet a pain which she would not have exchanged 
 for any pleasure. 
 
 When at last Mrs. Chubbe roused, and the bustle of the 
 day began again, she slipped away to her room to bathe her 
 hot face and still the restless beating of every pulse. Francis 
 Crewe smiled as he followed the light figure; the tedium of 
 illness became no longer tedium. To make love was second 
 nature ; he foresaw an easy victory. But beneath the passion 
 of a love triumph lay a deeper passion still, the all absorbing 
 one of hatred. Things were shaping themselves to his hand. 
 
 Convalescence came quickly. He was strong, none but an 
 exceptional constitution could have recovered at all, the doc- 
 tors said. But there were weeks before he would be his own 
 man again. The inn parlour was turned over to him, yet 
 more often he found his way to the kitchen, sitting quietly in 
 the chimney corner, watching the busy household go its way, 
 meeting the glance of Betty's bright eyes, every now and 
 then touching her hands as she brought him a cup of beef 
 tea, eggs, milk, or one of the numerous dainties concocted by 
 her aunt under the name of kitchen physic. For Mrs. Chubbe, 
 having taken matters into her own hands, had no intention of 
 turning back, her one endeavour being to get her patient into 
 such a condition as to cap every previous condition. For each 
 pound he put on his hostess would make it two. And Sir 
 Francis acquiesced laughingly, refusing even my lord's pressing 
 invitation to stay at the Hall. 
 
 "No, no, Mrs. Chubbe," he said, "you've begun the job, you 
 must finish it." And, being agreeable to all concerned, things 
 went on as usual.
 
 278 When Pan Pipes 
 
 But not for all. To restless Betty, longing for excitement, 
 experience, life's tide was flowing swiftly. There was danger 
 in the smoothly rolling flood, subtle, unguessed-of depths. 
 Stolen moments of bliss, when he could let his ardent glance 
 run riot, and the blushes might come and go with no fear of 
 watching eyes. Long silences in the afternoons, when the 
 women sewed, and Betty's fingers grew hot and sticky with 
 the knowledge of his presence. 
 
 Ah, danger lurked close, and Pan's music, beneath its airy 
 lightness, had a note of menace, of warning. Betty, in her 
 lightheartedness, looked not beyond the passing hour, nor 
 thought of the end, yet the question lay at the back of her 
 mind, "Who was the lady for whom Paul fought?" One day, 
 she told herself, she would ask Sir Francis; he, of course, 
 would know. 
 
 In those winter days, when life means stagnation for older 
 folk, and even young ones need an outside stimulus, Sir Fran- 
 cis built a castle. Not the airy, glistening fabric of dreams, 
 rather a fortress of massive walls, of dreary dungeons, of 
 chains and misery. Day by day it rose, blacker, gloomier, a 
 very citadel of woe ; only to its creator was it a thing of beauty, 
 for a warped soul sees beauty where is naught but hideousness. 
 
 The days tripped lightly by. Betty's good intentions told 
 her to write to Paul, also that it was time Jerry had a letter. 
 But the winter days were short and fully occupied, and it 
 was not until January that she brought herself to write. The 
 following day, with the thought of Paul new upon her, she 
 found the opportunity she sought. 
 
 "Missis," the landlord's face appeared round the door, 
 "here's tinker. There's them pans you want mendin', ain't 
 there ?" Mrs. Chubbe started up, dropping her work. 
 
 "Ah, so he's come at last. I thought maybe he'd dropped 
 into a fortune, an' given up the tinkerin' " this by way of 
 sarcasm. "Sally, bring them saucepans, an' the shovel you 
 broke last week; we'll see if 't can be mended. An' p'raps
 
 The Black Knight Vanquished 279 
 
 he's got some o' they tin cutters. There's a sight o' things 
 we be needin' of." 
 
 She bustled out. Betty, certain of an hour's absence, led 
 the conversation to my ladies, from thence to the Hall, and 
 backwards to the company in the autumn. Sir Francis an- 
 swered smiling, yet slightly puzzled; he had not yet found 
 the motive. When he did, his heart gave a leap; it was the 
 finishing touch to his castle, the corner stone for which he 
 had been searching. Henceforth he saw a solidity hitherto 
 wanting. 
 
 "Isn't it very exciting to fight a duel?" asked artless Betty, 
 stitching vigorously at a new shirt for her uncle. 
 
 "Very," replied Sir Francis, smiling at her. 
 
 "And doesn't it hurt very much to be shot?" 
 
 "No. In fact, it doesn't hurt at all. It's the coming to life 
 again which hurts most." 
 
 "Oh!" A long pause. Betty's needle clicked on the thim- 
 ble ; presently she went on, "It's very silly to fight each other, 
 I think." 
 
 "It's custom, you know," he answered, still wondering ; "and 
 then it depends a great deal on the cause." 
 
 Betty raised her eyes, suddenly interested, then dropped 
 them again. 
 
 "The cause oh, yes, of course." He watched her silently, 
 light gradually dawning. 
 
 "What was the cause this time?" she asked at length, won- 
 dering greatly at her daring, and Sir Francis understood. 
 
 "Well," he began slowly, still watching the bent face, "you 
 know, quarrels between gentlemen generally mean one of two 
 things, cheating at cards, or, an insult to a lady." 
 
 "And ?" queried Betty eagerly. The work dropped, she had 
 forgotten her mask. Again the listener smiled. 
 
 "And, in this case, it was the second cause." 
 
 "A lady?" He inclined his head. Betty's eyes dropped; 
 she picked up her work again.
 
 280 When Pan Pipes 
 
 "And w-who was the lady?" she asked timidly. Sir 
 Francis shook his head at her and hesitated. 
 
 "The lady? That's rather like telling tales out of school, 
 isn't it, Miss Betty?" The scarlet lips pouted gently, the 
 red-gold head turned saucily. 
 
 "I'm sure Paul wouldn't mind me knowing; I'll ask him 
 next time I write, if you won't tell me." Again he hesitated, 
 feeling his way. 
 
 "There's not much to tell. There was a health drunk, and 
 a dispute, something about a London lady, I believe. Indeed, 
 I hardly know what it was, only Count Paul took the matter 
 up and " 
 
 "But who was it? What was her name?" demanded Betty. 
 
 "Well, if you persist in knowing, her name is Louise da 
 Silva." Betty was silent, counting threads three forwards 
 three back again. She lifted the work and slowly contemplated 
 it, her whole mind apparently absorbed. Not till she had set- 
 tled to it again did she speak. 
 
 "What a pretty name, Louise da Silva. Does Paul know 
 her well?" 
 
 "Very well indeed, I believe." Again he smiled. 
 
 "You must know a person very well to fight for her." 
 
 "Indeed you must." Again the twisting and turning of the 
 work, again a silence. 
 
 "Is she young?" 
 
 "I believe so quite young." 
 
 "And and is she beautiful?" He laughed out. 
 
 "Why, yes, Miss Betty, very beautiful. Men don't fight for 
 old women, nor ugly ones." 
 
 "Don't they?" Something seemed to hurt, like a prick at 
 her heart. A question trembled on her lips, half whispered 
 it came. 
 
 "Do men love the ladies they fight for?" He leaned 
 forward, bending his handsome face nearer, with an amused 
 expression. 
 
 "Do you think we'd fight for anything which we didn't
 
 The Black Knight Vanquished 281 
 
 value, Betty? Men generally want what they fight for." 
 
 Her face was low; she stabbed her needle absently into 
 the linen before her, in and out, in and out. He stooped nearer 
 to catch the next words. 
 
 "Did Paul?" Unconsciously his voice dropped to a whis- 
 per, he laid his hand on hers, closing over the little fingers. 
 
 "Betty, Paul is like most other men. You know, don't you, 
 'Men were deceivers ever to one thing constant never.' " 
 Then, in a graver tone, "Let him have his fling now ; his wings 
 will soon be clipped," he added mysteriously. 
 
 "How, what do you mean ?" Betty looked up, startled ; the 
 close grasp tightened. 
 
 "Didn't you know? Men in Paul's position can't do quite 
 as they like; they must marry for worldly reasons. Paul's 
 wife is chosen. When he returns from abroad, which he can 
 do now, he will settle down, no doubt." 
 
 "And then will he forget the other lady ?" 
 
 "Perhaps." There was a note in the voice, a look in the 
 eye so close to hers which made Betty flush scarlet, and, draw- 
 ing her hand away, hurriedly picked up her work again. 
 
 Sir Francis leaned back, well satisfied to let the seed sown 
 grow without further help. The subject was dropped, and 
 the shirt progressed rapidly. The crimson died from her face ; 
 she was scarcely conscious of Sir Francis' presence; while 
 he, versed in that dangerous lore, the knowledge of women, 
 understood, and realised for the first time, that with a little 
 careful play, the cards were his and the game won.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 A BARGAIN WITH TOBY 
 
 \ LTHOUGH not an unfrequent occurrence, a duel between 
 -tV two men of high standing the cause, a lady's name 
 was of sufficient importance to make town-talk for at least 
 nine days. Toby, sorting papers in the quiet of the October 
 afternoon, was startled by the clatter of horse's hoofs on the 
 paved stones of the square. Before he could reach the door 
 Paul entered, and Toby held up his hands in dismay at the 
 travel-stained garments, the worn look in his face. He pushed 
 him away gently, yet decisively. 
 
 "Don't stop me, Toby; I want Jerry. See to my horse, 
 there's a good fellow." He brushed hastily past him, taking 
 the broad staircase in two or three leaps, and leaving Toby 
 bewildered, but clear as to the necessity for food and an im- 
 promptu rub down for the panting, foam-flecked animal out- 
 side. 
 
 "Jer dear old fellow don't talk, just listen." For Jerry, 
 startled at the sudden appearance of his friend, would have 
 greeted him with questions and offers of assistance. Hur- 
 riedly Paul poured out the story, omitting nothing but Betty's 
 name. 
 
 "It was a lady, Jerry I can tell you nothing more ; I hope 
 that others will feel the same about it. I think they will; 
 they are men of honour, and he Jerry, I've blood upon my 
 hands. It was a righteous cause, but the fact remains, I'm 
 a murderer. Oh, Jerry, Jerry." For a short moment he 
 clasped his hands before his eyes, as though to shut out re- 
 membrance. Then, dropping them, he seized Jerry's and be- 
 gan again. 
 
 282
 
 A Bargain with Toby 283 
 
 "There will be letters. I dare not let my address be known ; 
 I do not even know it myself yet. Jerry, will you send on 
 any I enclose to their right destination, and any that come 
 for me? I will send to you directly I get safely there. My 
 father, you'll send his on, won't you? and and there'll be 
 others; Betty and and oh, you'll know what to do. And 
 I can trust you, dear old fellow, can't I ?" 
 
 Jerry had no words ; he gripped the slender fingers together 
 and nodded his head. 
 
 "Some day it'll come right. They won't search for me 
 always ; and then I shall come back, and we'll be happy again. 
 Good-bye. I must go ; they're waiting for me, and there's no 
 time to spare. Good-bye, Jer, old fellow dear old fellow." 
 
 "Good-bye, Paul, dear old Paul, good-bye; and here's to 
 your coming again." 
 
 They shook hands again and again, with thoughts too deep 
 for words. Jerry accompanied him to the door. There was 
 a quick greeting and good-bye to Reuben, a hearty shake of 
 Toby's hand; then, leaping on his horse, now rested and fed 
 and impatient to be off, he clattered across the stones, turned 
 the corner, and with a wave of his hand, was gone. 
 
 The two young men re-entered the house, where Reuben, 
 who had his share of curiosity, awaited explanations. Jerry 
 gave them slowly, falteringly; his hearers listened, Toby si- 
 lently, the Jew breaking in with ejaculations. 
 
 "And so he is dead, this young man," he said thoughtfully, 
 when Jerry stopped. "I did not like him, but it is a terrible 
 thing to be hurried out of life in health and strength, and the 
 hey-day of youth. Ach, yes." 
 
 Later a knock came at Jerry's door, and Toby entered. 
 
 "I want to ask you, Jerry," he begun hurriedly, "whether 
 you are sure? I mean did your friend say if Sir Francis 
 is really dead?" 
 
 "Paul said so, yes," replied Jerry, surprised. 
 
 "You're sure, quite sure ?" queried Toby, still in that curious 
 anxious whisper.
 
 284 When Pan Pipes 
 
 "Yes, quite sure, Toby. Why do you ask?" 
 
 "Oh, for no reason ; I only wondered." 
 
 So did Jerry, and more still when supper time came with- 
 out Toby. It was nine o'clock when he returned, making 
 some hurried excuse about an errand. The Jew gave him 
 a sharp glance; his shaking hands and white face, together 
 with a restless absent-mindedness unlike his usual cheery brisk- 
 ness, gave the impression of drink; yet something else contra- 
 dicted it. 
 
 Ill news travels apace, so do good tidings. The story of 
 the duel had hardly reached the ears of an intimate circle, 
 when, hard on its heels, came a tale of the marvellous recov- 
 ery of one of the principles. The tale grew to certainty; 
 in the hall nothing else was talked of. Rumours flitted about, 
 taking fantastic shapes. The cause? A quarrel at cards, a 
 lady what lady ? Names flew openly, others were whispered, 
 but nothing definite was known except that recovery would 
 be long and tedious; that, it was practically certain, was a 
 foregone conclusion; a man is not raised from the dead to be 
 thrust back into, a wit suggested, "hell"; and then, thrashed 
 out, sucked dry, the duel was thrust into the dust bin of for- 
 gotten things. An elopement, a failure, a political crisis, took 
 its place, and only a shadow remained of a once flourishing 
 incident. 
 
 The slender, elegant figure vanished from the idle crowd 
 of loungers in the hall. Was it that which made Toby's face 
 regain its round cheeriness? It seemed to Jerry that never 
 before had such lightheartedness dwelt in the old house. 
 Laughter, mirth, airy talk were there, and Toby's song echoed 
 constantly. 
 
 Begone, Dull Care; I prithee, bego-on from me; 
 
 Begone, Dull Care ; too long hast thou tarried with me. 
 
 Long time it is since thou cam'st here, 
 
 And f a-in would'st thou me ki-ill ; 
 
 But i'faith, Dull Care, thou never shalt ha-ave thy will.
 
 A Bargain with Toby 285 
 
 The work, too, went by magic. A few commissions came 
 along; small in themselves, but heralds of greater things, 
 and Jerry's castle began to grow. Not quickly, it is true; 
 something was lacking, something which made perfection im- 
 possible. No sooner was it complete than he pulled it down. 
 He knew the reason; he knew that, within the rough stone 
 or marble dwelt life, only waiting the master's hand to chisel 
 and cut, till it burst its bonds asunder, and stood free perfect 
 glorious. So the ideal lay buried in the future; destiny's 
 chisel must do its work. Sooner or later it would emerge; 
 some day the castle would rise, tower-capped, rosy-hued, glit- 
 tering in its beauty. So, with that end in view, he worked 
 steadily on. And the ancient house hummed with busy work 
 and song ; yet Jerry, remembering other times, knew that it is 
 wisdom to be happy while you may. Shadow follows sun- 
 shine, comedy is only tragedy in disguise, and mirth turns to 
 tears, by Nature's laws. 
 
 There was no news of the Pan or other pieces of sculpture. 
 Reuben failed to hear of them, in spite of every endeavour, 
 and after many disappointments, Jerry grew to think that they 
 had gone abroad, perhaps to some far-off country, where even 
 the Jew had no influence. He had not given up the hope of 
 finding them no, indeed ; later, when he could rest from work 
 and had won the golden key of liberty, he would search the 
 world for them. Till then, patience. 
 
 A little incident upset the even monotony of his days. In 
 his night walks, either with Reuben or alone, he looked for 
 Hester that he would meet her he felt sure, and by night; 
 for some reason a daylight encounter never entered his mind. 
 
 It came one cold October night, two days after Paul's fly- 
 ing visit. Going along the Strand the dark figure flitted across 
 his path, and down a zigzag flight of steps towards the river. 
 He followed quickly; the woman slackened her pace, finally 
 coming to a standstill by an old boat, moored high on the 
 muddy, dirty beach. 
 
 "Hester."
 
 286 When Pan Pipes 
 
 He spoke gently, not wishing to alarm her, but she was 
 gazing across the flowing water, wholly absorbed in her own 
 thoughts. Strange thoughts, they seemed to be. He watched 
 her face. There was something new in it; something which 
 made its former beauty fade beside a greater. The face was 
 thinner, and the straight, regular features were sharply cut, 
 as by a chisel. The dark, liquid eyes too, were softer than 
 of yore, but it was not that which enhanced the beauty; it 
 was the look which comes from experience of life, and 
 which, though he knew it not, was growing even on Jerry's 
 face. 
 
 "Hester." This time he touched her gently. She started, 
 then turned quietly, her eyes lighting up. 
 
 "Jerry; why, it's little Jerry." He took her hand in his. 
 
 "Hester, why are you here, alone, so late?" She laughed. 
 
 "I'm used to being alone. But don't talk of me. Come, 
 let us walk, and tell me how you came here, and what you 
 are doing." They turned away from the river and, crossing 
 the Strand, sought the more secluded streets which led to- 
 wards the country. She listened silently as he told her the 
 story, from the widow's death to the time of his departure. 
 
 "And so you're living with Reuben Gade," she said; then 
 repeated slowly and meditatively, "Reuben Gade pawnbroker," 
 adding with a mirthless laugh, "Don't be surprised, Jerry, if 
 you see me creep in some night, under the golden balls, through 
 the little door, where poor folk go." 
 
 "But you're not poor, Hester?" He glanced curiously down, 
 and wondered. The wind blew the black cloak away, and the 
 sheen of silken stuff showed beneath. She gathered it close, 
 and the rings on her fingers flashed like the river under the 
 noonday sun. 
 
 "No." Again the hard laugh. "I'm not poor, I'm rich 
 rich in money, in beauty, in health, in all the world calls 
 good. I'm rich too, Jerry," she caught his arm, and laughed 
 low, "in love, in happiness; at least," the laugh died away; 
 she looked up into the clear sky above, "I think so. But it
 
 A Bargain with Toby 287 
 
 will pass. Ah, God " she sighed wearily, "it will pass. Such 
 happiness does not last." 
 
 "Nonsense, Hester, happiness lasts." She shook her head, 
 and he changed the subject. 
 
 "Tell me about yourself. Where do you live ?" 
 
 She turned her face to his, and laughed again wildly. 
 "Where do I live? Anywhere. Here to-day, there to-mor- 
 row." He looked down gravely, not understanding. 
 
 "And where is he?" 
 
 "He?" For a moment she seemed surprised. 
 
 "Yes. He the minister Mr. " 
 
 She stopped him with a touch and a long-drawn breath. 
 There was an expression in her face which recalled the widow. 
 
 "Hester, does he ill-treat you ?" he asked sternly. 
 
 "Ill-treat me?" She lifted her head proudly. "He would 
 not dare. No, Jerry." There was a scorn in her tone, the 
 scarlet lips curled bitterly. "I think my voice would call him 
 from the grave. But," the words came lightly now, "a woman 
 tires of adoration. I left him, long ago." 
 
 "Hester !" There was reproof in Jerry's tone, yet somehow 
 he could not bring himself to blame her. "Where is he now?" 
 he asked presently. She shook her head slowly, then suddenly 
 caught his arm and looked into his face with an expression of 
 fear. 
 
 "I don't know. Oh, Jerry, I wish I did. He was mad, I 
 think ; he used to frighten me. And he was jealous if I spoke 
 or looked at anyone else. At such times, oh, Jerry," a shiver 
 ran through her she clung to him, "he was terrible. Like 
 something horrible let loose. He went away, I think, and for 
 a time I was free. But lately, just lately, I've a feeling that 
 he is back in London ; that," her voice dropped to a whisper, 
 and she glanced fearfully round, "that he is near me watch- 
 ing. Jerry, if he finds me, and knows my happiness " the 
 words died on her lips, but he understood what she did not 
 dare to put into words, and they walked on in silence. Pres- 
 ently she spoke again.
 
 288 When Pan Pipes 
 
 "Jerry, dear, I'm so glad you've seen me and spoken to me, 
 but you must never do it again. If you see me, take no notice ; 
 go on your way." 
 
 "Why do you say such a thing, Hester? You know I 
 couldn't do that." 
 
 "But you must, Jerry," she cried vehemently. "You must. 
 If if what I feel is true; if he sees me with you why, 
 there is danger danger to you and to me." She shivered 
 again. He drew her arm through his protectingly. 
 
 "You are fanciful, Hester. No one would dare to hurt you." 
 She smiled wearily. 
 
 "Ah, Jerry, you don't know the world. It is an easy thing 
 to disappear in London. A woman is not missed ; not one 
 like me," she added under her breath. 
 
 "What do you mean, Hester?" he asked, almost angrily. 
 
 "I mean " she broke off; then, "Jerry, if you should ever 
 think of me, if, in your happy, busy life, you should ever give 
 a thought to one who knew happiness only for such a short 
 time, if you would find my grave, why then, Jerry, come to 
 the river, come to the dark arches, the steps leading to it, the 
 deserted beaches and wharves, where things like me find their 
 last resting-place." He turned angrily upon her. 
 
 "Hester, you're tired ; you don't know what you are saying. 
 We'll turn homewards." They retraced their steps. As they 
 neared the Strand she stopped. 
 
 "Leave me now, Jerry. Only first give me your promise." 
 He shook his head, but she stood her ground, and at last, 
 seeing that she really meant it, he gave a reluctant consent, 
 inwardly determining to find a way to break it. She breathed 
 a sigh of relief. 
 
 "But I shall see you home, Hester, now," he said. Again 
 she refused. 
 
 "I tell you, Jerry, I have no home. Where I go, you can- 
 not come." Then laughing, "Say good-bye, like the good, 
 obedient boy you always were." Again he remonstrated, 
 argued, but she was firm.
 
 A Bargain with Toby 289 
 
 "Good-bye, Jerry," she cried at length, breaking from him. 
 He would have caught her, but she evaded him, and, slipping 
 across the road, was lost in the darkness. 
 
 He went home thoughtfully, pondering over another of Lon- 
 don's mysteries. Hester Dyke was nothing to him; but her 
 strange appearance, the handsome dress and jewels, told their 
 own tale. It troubled him at times, though he knew he could 
 do nothing. 
 
 Paul's letters came thick and fast; there were enclosures 
 for several people, but the ones for Betty far exceeded even 
 those addressed to the count. Bits of news trickled through 
 from Cloudesley, for the most part idle gossip. Sir Francis 
 was better ; he had been moved from the Hall ; he was to 
 be brought to London. The count was ill with trouble and 
 suspense, he had gone to join his son, which last proved to be 
 true. Grey Towers was shut up for an indefinite period, and, 
 after learning Paul's whereabouts, Count de Cosse had taken 
 the first packet across and hastened to him. 
 
 Life was very sweet to several people that winter. To 
 Jerry, working and building; apparently to Toby, working 
 and singing; to Reuben, because others were happy. And 
 down in little Cloudesley it was sweet with a more dangerous 
 sweetness. 
 
 Day by day Francis Crewe added another stone to his 
 fortress, another link in the chain, and Betty, like a little 
 bird lured by the fascination of a brilliant snake, drew nearer 
 the silken web spun to catch beautiful things of this world, 
 and turn them to those evil shapes and forms which lurk by 
 night in the narrow streets and byways of London city. 
 
 Christmas came and went. The old year died and the new 
 was born a lusty crowing child with a silver spoon in its 
 mouth a new year to be remembered till time is no more, 
 for it was to be marked by the accession of a girl queen, a 
 princess, a good fairy. 
 
 It was a month old when Francis made his first move which 
 was to end in checkmate to his enemy. For some time after
 
 290 When Pan Pipes 
 
 Paul's departure, Jerry had pondered vaguely over the little 
 scene which he had witnessed. Other things had pushed it 
 into the background. Now something happened which brought 
 it vividly to his mind. 
 
 The narrow street had grown to have as great a fascina- 
 tion for him by night as the hall had by day, with this differ- 
 ence. Tragedy stalked in the flickering lamplight, while ro- 
 mance followed like a shadow ; in the morning, romance 
 flaunted in brilliant garments, while tragedy lay low, like a 
 shadow at noonday, only waiting for the sun's decline to give 
 it dimensions. 
 
 At his window, reading and thinking, Jerry would often 
 linger till late into the night. Sitting thus one evening, his 
 thoughts intent on nothing more serious than whether he 
 should go downstairs and have a chat with Reuben before 
 retiring to rest, he was suddenly roused by an indefinable 
 feeling that the street was not empty. He rose, put out the 
 lamp, and screening himself behind a curtain, watched. Across 
 the road, swiftly, silently, came the figure of a woman. He 
 knew it again ; stealthily it came, till it stood beneath the golden 
 balls; from under its black draperies a hand was lifted, and 
 a muffled tapping fell on his ears. Quickly, without knowing 
 why, and with no intention of spying, he pushed open a win- 
 dow. Almost as he did so, the door of the boarded wing 
 opened, a short colloquy followed, then a deep groan, which 
 cut him to the heart as he listened. The door closed silently ; 
 the figure flitted back, disappearing into the shadow of a deep 
 porch opposite. Toby's footsteps sounded outside his door, 
 and Toby himself appeared with the old look of ghastly fear. 
 
 He closed the door securely, then caught him with trembling 
 fingers by the lapels of his coat. 
 
 "Jerry," he whispered, "you're my friend, I know^ you're 
 so strong and trustworthy. I must go out, he's sent for me. 
 Will you watch and let me in, so that Reuben doesn't know? 
 I would not have him know, for not for all I could see. I 
 may be all night, but I shall come back. Will you ?"
 
 A Bargain with Toby 291 
 
 From his own great height, Jerry looked down into the 
 pleading blue eyes, the round face, made for cheery good 
 humour, now drawn and blanched with fear. He put his hands 
 on Toby's shoulders. 
 
 "Of course I'll wait and let you in," he answered cheer- 
 fully. "But, Toby," his voice grew grave, "can't you tell me 
 what is troubling you ? I might be able to help." 
 
 "No no I can't I can't." He drew himself away, wiping 
 the perspiration, which broke in great beads, from his face. 
 "Oh, Jerry, I wish I could perhaps some day." 
 
 Jerry watched him with almost tender solicitude. He knew 
 fear, though not fear such as this. Secrets had been his to 
 hold, though not such as this. 
 
 Toby pulled himself together, wrung Jerry's hand, and hur- 
 ried off. A minute later the door beneath the golden balls 
 opened softly; casting a quick glance round he paused, then 
 began to walk slowly down the street, keeping in the shadow 
 of the wall. He had not gone five paces when, from the porch 
 opposite, the woman with .noiseless tread flitted lightly after, 
 overtaking him where the street dissolved into dark spaces. 
 Jerry sighed and dropped the curtain. But outside another 
 shadow moved stealthily from among the shadows, creeping, 
 lurking, appearing and disappearing, till it, too, was lost in the 
 blackness. 
 
 Toby and his companion, leaving the square, passed through 
 the narrow streets, finally emerging into the Strand. The 
 shadow followed now visible in a lamp's pale radiance, now 
 lost in the darkness of blank walls. Out in the busier thor- 
 oughfare it found lurking places in doorways, on steps running 
 to the river, in the entrances to foul courts. In and out it 
 went, yet ever keeping those two in sight, westwards, then 
 with a sharp turn to the south, down Whitehall, then westward 
 again. Snow had fallen earlier in the day; in the traffic of 
 the city it had disappeared. Here it lay, and as the moon 
 rose, the stately towers and ancient pinnacles of St. Stephen's 
 and the abbey gleamed white amongst leafless trees. Black
 
 292 When Pan Pipes 
 
 shadows lay on the ground, those of the two hurrying figures 
 making strange, uncouth movements to climb walls or merge 
 together. But the shadow behind, in the blackness where the 
 moon's rays did not penetrate, was but a shadow. 
 
 On, on through dull streets, till they came to another square, 
 compared with which the one in the city was but a miniature. 
 Its houses told of their owners ; wealth and rank were written 
 on each solid, grave dwelling. Here and there a chariot, with 
 men in livery and powder, awaited its occupants, while behind 
 were glimpses of trim gardens, with great trees, and old walls 
 suggesting sun-kissed peaches and tawny apricots. 
 
 On one side, occupying nearly the whole space, stood a man- 
 sion with an imposing entrance. Flights of marble steps ran 
 up to a terrace, where massive lions couchant reposed in silent 
 majesty. On the great gate-posts more lions, rampant now, 
 held shields, that all might read the story of the house's inmates. 
 
 But not for such visitors was the state entrance. The 
 woman flitted noiselessly down a side alley, and taking a 
 key from the folds of her cloak, unlocked a heavy door, pushed 
 it open, and beckoned to Toby. The shadow behind crept 
 swiftly after, a chink of yellow light fell for one second on a 
 white face, ghastly in its pallor the door closed, darkness 
 fell, and the shadow crouched amidst its fellows in the black- 
 ness of blank walls. 
 
 Through paved passages the woman flitted, coming at last 
 to the main hall, a place of spacious arches and pillars. Toby, 
 as he passed, gave an involuntary shiver ; the floor of coloured 
 marble might have been a field of battle, so suggestive was 
 the splashing of crimson on the pure whiteness. A staircase 
 of the same, with gilded balustrade, ran upwards, while through 
 a stained glass window, the moon's light threw a purple stain 
 on to the breast of a statue of "Mirth," giving a sinister ex- 
 pression to the laughing radiant figure. 
 
 Footmen in gorgeous liveries stood at the entrances, but with 
 a quiet word the woman passed on and pointed to a doorway 
 behind a curtained arch.
 
 A Bargain with Toby 293 
 
 "The same room," she whispered. "You know your way." 
 For a moment she waited till he had lifted the velvet hangings, 
 then glided quickly away. 
 
 Toby knocked at the heavy door, but receiving no answer, 
 opened it gently and went in. A flood of soft light almost 
 blinded him, the heavy scent of lilies mingled with that of rich 
 food and wine. Hundreds of creamy yellow candles, it seemed 
 to him, gleamed, and were reflected in the glistening damask 
 and polished silver on the table. 
 
 A huge log fire leaped and flickered in the fireplace ; before 
 it, half hidden by the deep chair in which he reclined, was a 
 slight figure. His napkin was cast on the floor, the decanter 
 at his elbow glowed ruby red like an enchanted crystal. Toby 
 waited, waited, while the golden-faced clock, standing high in 
 a recess, ticked and ticked, then burst into a wild chime 
 and struck twelve. In the silence which followed, a con- 
 sciousness of another personality must have struck the oc- 
 cupant of the chair; he raised himself slightly, turning his 
 head. 
 
 "Toby Dingle!" he exclaimed, in a tone of well feigned 
 surprise. "Why, to be sure, I sent for you. Come, man, sit 
 down, and forgive this seeming lack of courtesy; my illness 
 has caused memory to play sad tricks lately." Toby advanced 
 and stood silently waiting. 
 
 "Sit down, sit down," cried the other, impatiently waving 
 to a chair. But he stood still. 
 
 "No, thank you, Sir Francis, I prefer to stand." 
 
 "Oh, very well, very well," then, with a laugh, "he that will 
 not when he may, you know. However, that's neither here 
 nor there. You got my message?" Toby inclined his head. 
 "Good, I've a trusty messenger, for the present, at least. 
 Toby trust a woman while she loves afterwards " he 
 snapped his fingers, gazed moodily into the fire, then roused, 
 and pushed the decanter towards his guest. Again the offer 
 was declined. Sir Francis gave him a quick glance. 
 
 "So, you neither accept my hospitality nor drink my wine.
 
 294 When Pan Pipes 
 
 Well, perhaps later on." He poured out a glass for himself, 
 and in the interval Toby found his voice. 
 
 "Sir." The other looked up, put the stopper into the de- 
 canter, and leaning back, sipped the wine leisurely, while he 
 listened. Toby went on, gaining courage as he proceeded. 
 
 "It is five years now, since since " he faltered. Sir Fran- 
 cis smiled grimly. 
 
 "Since shall we speak plainly, Toby? Since you " 
 
 "No, no, sir," he moved forward, as though to check the 
 words, speaking in a hurried undertone. "Don't say it 
 don't breathe the terrible word. Five years, five years of 
 torture and misery, of pinching and scraping. Ah, sir what 
 is a sum like that to you? You do not understand that it 
 means my all. But it is over now over thank God thank 
 God." 
 
 The breath of relief made the other look up and slightly 
 raise his eyebrows. "Over?" he queried softly. 
 
 "Yes, sir by God's help and your mercy. Sir, I'll never 
 forget your goodness. So long as I live, I'll work for you, 
 I'll do anything for you. If needs be, I would die for you. 
 It's been a hard struggle, but it's done. Had you not sent 
 for me, I would have come directly I knew you were back, 
 and brought it to you. For it's ready ready " Ah, the joy 
 in the voice ! "Only waiting your acceptance ; and you'll give 
 me the the " he turned away, hiding his face, "and then 
 freedom; freedom from care, such as, I pray God, sir, may 
 never be yours." 
 
 The gasping breath, the hurried words, the sadness, the 
 joy, the tale of suffering, might have softened the heart of 
 the marble figure in the hall. Sir Francis sat forward and 
 set the glass on the table, twisting it idly by the stem. 
 
 "You have the money, eh?" he said, presently. 
 
 "Yes, Sir Francis," replied Toby, with gleeful eagerness. 
 
 "Ah " a silence then, with a quick smile, "You count 
 much on my generosity?" 
 
 "On your generosity, sir, and your promise."
 
 A Bargain with Toby 295 
 
 "And my promise " repeated the baronet, musingly; "which 
 promise I will redeem, but " 
 
 "Sir, oh, sir " He stepped hastily forward, almost touch- 
 ing the other. Sir Francis waved him back. 
 
 "Gently, gently, Toby, my good fellow." Then, daintily 
 fanning the air with a scented handkerchief, "Pah, you bring 
 with you the scent of the Jew, the scent of trade, and cheese, 
 and unpleasant things. However, as I was saying," he paused 
 a moment, tucking the handkerchief into a small pocket, "I 
 will redeem my promise. The er document shall be yours ; 
 the money, as you say, is a flea bite. You have saved it keep 
 it. It will start you," still with the cynical twist of the thin 
 lips, "in business." 
 
 Hardly able to believe his ears, Toby would have thrown 
 himself on his knees before his benefactor, but Sir Francis 
 motioned him wearily away. 
 
 "My good fellow, spare me heroics. I understand your 
 feelings of gratitude and respect you for them. Neverthe- 
 less," he paused, and passed his hand over his face to conceal 
 the uncontrollable sneer evoked by his own words, "as, but 
 a moment ago, you very kindly said if necessity arose you 
 would die for me, I will take you at your word, although," 
 the sneer changed to a laugh a laugh with a jeering mockery 
 in it, "I do not ask so great a thing; merely a small task, one 
 which will occupy you perhaps a few minutes ; a trifle indeed, 
 after your noble professions of gratitude." 
 
 Something in the simple words, perhaps in the drawling 
 voice, or the handsome, contemptuous curl of the lips, struck 
 icy cold at Toby's heart. He stood holding the mantelshelf. 
 
 "A trifle " he repeated mechanically. 
 
 "I said a trifle." Like a thin trickle of east wind came 
 the words. "I meant a trifle compared with life, either," again 
 the laugh, "mine, or yours." 
 
 Toby shivered. The hall, with its blood-red splashes, came 
 vividly before him. He put the vision aside and stood 
 straight.
 
 296 When Pan Pipes 
 
 "Anything I can, sir, I will be only too glad to do." 
 
 "That's a sensible fellow," cried Sir Francis heartily. "And 
 afterwards, when this little affair I hardly need tell you, Toby, 
 that it's an affaire de cceur, you understand is settled, which 
 I hope will be soon say, in a few months." 
 
 "A few months ?" echoed Toby, questioningly. 
 
 "Hardly less, my good fellow; a lady takes her own time, 
 you see. But, as I was saying, when it is settled, I'll make 
 you a present of the five hundred pounds, and also the er 
 the document you prize so highly." 
 
 Toby stood as though petrified. Sir Francis leaned back in 
 the great chair, crossed his legs, and watched him with an 
 amused expression. 
 
 "Well," he said, after a long pause, "you agree?" 
 
 Toby lifted his eyes, full of a grievous disappointment. 
 
 "Sir, you promised " he stammered f alteringly ; the baronet 
 checked him : 
 
 "Quite so. I promised, and will perform." 
 
 "But but forgive me, sir I understood when I had the 
 money, you would " The light, easy voice interrupted : 
 
 "Then you misunderstood, my man. There was no time 
 limit; I'm not a fool. But now, I give you my word, my 
 written word, if it please you better." Toby shook his head. 
 
 "No, sir ; I could not hold you to any written promise, with- 
 out disclosure." 
 
 "Quite so; but " he drew himself forward; the tone was 
 serious now even the listener felt no mistrust, "I swear, 
 Toby, that on the night she comes here " He broke off 
 suddenly at a slight sound. "What's that?" he whispered, 
 looking into Toby's terrified face. With a stride, he had the 
 door open. "No, there's no one there," he said, as he came 
 back. "Fancy, no doubt; illness has strange effects. As I 
 was saying, you shall bring her, and that night I will give you 
 the paper you want, and the money." 
 
 "I don't want the money, sir only the other." 
 
 "And you shall have it, Toby." He rose and put his hands
 
 A Bargain with Toby 297 
 
 on the broad shoulders, standing above him. "I swear it, on 
 my honour as a gentleman. Do this for me, and in a few 
 months before the year is out, you shall be free." 
 
 "Free!" A deep, shuddering breath told of the agony be- 
 neath. "Well, sir, if it must be, it must. You hold my fate. 
 What is it you would have me do?" 
 
 "A trifle, Toby, a trifle ; a little sleight of hand ; to you " 
 with a look which turned Toby's blood to water, "simplicity 
 itself ; merely to intercept certain letters and bring them to me. 
 Really, too absurdly simple." 
 
 "Take a letter" cried Toby, horrified. "But that would 
 be stealing." The baronet shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "Call it what you please; there are worse names. For in- 
 stance " 
 
 Toby threw up his arms with a muffled cry. "Sir, sir don't 
 say it ; the terrible word. I'll do your bidding." 
 
 "Ah " drawled the baronet, "strange that a word should 
 have so great an effect." He dropped back into his chair and 
 filled his glass again. 
 
 "Where are these letters to be found, sir?" Toby's voice 
 was flat and level, the voice of one who has lost hope. 
 
 "Well, the fact is, they are not yet written. But they will 
 be, many of them ; and they will be addressed to a certain per- 
 son, by name Jerry Dell." 
 
 "Jerry Dell," cried Toby. "Have pity, he is my friend." 
 The baronet's answer was drawling and slow. 
 
 "Yes, that is why I selected you. The less difficulty, the less 
 suspicion. These letters will contain others to various people, 
 mostly of no importance to me. Those addressed to 'Miss 
 Betty Chubbe, Cloudesley,' you will bring to me. You under- 
 stand?" 
 
 Toby hid his face in his hands and groaned. Sir Francis 
 rose, yawning, as though to terminate the interview. 
 
 "All letters," he repeated emphatically, and with an inex- 
 orable decision in his tone. Toby mechanically put on his 
 cloak ; the baronet resumed his pleasant manner.
 
 298 When Pan Pipes 
 
 "A glass of wine before you go into the cold ? No ? Then 
 good-night. Remember the bargain. I shall not forget my 
 part. Good-night." 
 
 "Good-night, sir." 
 
 Toby turned from the room as from some gilded cage, 
 through the red-flecked hall, into the fresh night air, home- 
 wards, where, faithful to his trust, Jerry waited. As he 
 opened the little door, Toby pushed past him quickly. A 
 glance at his face almost caused him to drop the heavy bar. 
 Pinched, haggard, ghastly it was the face of a stranger. 
 
 "Don't touch me, Jerry ; don't come near me. I'm lost lost 
 damned for ever and ever oh, my God ! my God !" 
 
 Jerry caught the half-whispered words as he passed quickly 
 by; he was after him with a bound, catching him before he 
 could go far. In vain Toby struggled, the iron grip held him. 
 
 "I don't want to know your secret, Toby," he said, "but 
 you shan't go like this; you're not fit to be left alone." He 
 stopped struggling. 
 
 "Jerry, I swear I'll do nothing violent; I promise, I can't 
 afford to die till " his voice dropped still lower, "till I've 
 got it back." With this he let him go, and Toby fled upstairs. 
 Jerry bolted the door and followed; but that night he spent 
 outside Toby's door. Not till the sound of weary, monotonous 
 footsteps had stopped, and the extinguished light told that rest 
 had come, did he leave. 
 
 Another vigil was kept that night. In the dark shadow 
 of buttressed walls another shadow mingled watching wait- 
 ing. Sir Francis turned back to the fire as the door closed, 
 sniffing disdainfully, and fanning the air with the perfumed 
 handkerchief. Taking a handful of something from a vase, 
 he threw it on the fire ; a pale, scented smoke filled the room, 
 and sighing in a relieved way, he sank back into the chair, 
 lifted a bowl of lilies towards him, and buried his face in them. 
 
 Some slight sound caused him to lift his eyes, his face still 
 in the flowers. A woman stepped from behind the massive
 
 A Bargain with Toby 299 
 
 screen shutting off a deep window. She dropped her heavy 
 mantle and hood and stood before him, vivid in flaming drap- 
 eries of scarlet ; scarlet, which matched her lips and the rich 
 colour in her cheeks. He set down the jar and leaned back, 
 smiling as he had smiled at Toby. 
 
 "Ah, so you were there, were you? I thought as much, 
 when I opened the door." 
 
 "And you let me stay?" she cried fiercely. He raised his 
 eyebrows. 
 
 "Certainly. Why not? It was easier than to tell you." 
 
 "You would have told me?" She moved a step nearer, 
 hanging on his answer. 
 
 "Why, of course. It would have been necessary to tell 
 you." 
 
 "Yes," she replied bitterly. "It's well to be off with the old 
 love" 
 
 "Quite so," he answered quietly, "when there's a new love 
 to be on with. Like most women," with a shrug, "you rush 
 at conclusions. My love is the same as it has been for two 
 years." Her eyes flashed angrily. 
 
 "Why lie to me, Francis, when I heard with my own ears? 
 This girl this Betty Chubbe " 
 
 Sir Francis rose, rested his arms on the mantelshelf and 
 gazed with a smile of mocking amusement at the handsome, 
 passionate face. 
 
 "My dear girl, why put yourself into this rage? Why not 
 ask and receive an explanation?" 
 
 "Ask !" She laughed scornfully. "What explanation is pos- 
 sible?" 
 
 "This." He stepped close to her, putting his hands on her 
 shoulders; so close, she could feel his breath as it came and 
 went, the beating of his heart, the thrill of something deeper 
 than love ; no mere love had ever stirred Francis Crewe in this 
 wise. 
 
 "Hester," the hands tightened their hold, "there's a passion
 
 300 When Pan Pipes 
 
 stronger than love it is hate. This girl is but an instrument ; 
 through her my vengeance will fall on him. Do you under- 
 stand?" 
 
 She nodded slowly, looking him through and through with 
 deep eyes. He gave her look for look, then drew her close to 
 him. 
 
 "You do not love me, Francis?" she whispered. For an- 
 swer he bent his head, leaving a long kiss on her neck. With 
 a deep sigh she dropped her head on his shoulder, and lifting 
 her arms, threw them round him with a fierce, passionate em- 
 brace. 
 
 "Francis, I think sometimes you are a devil in man's guise. 
 But, I love you ah, God how I love you." 
 
 "Perhaps for that very reason," he laughed. "But my love 
 is yours, Hester, though I tell you candidly, I hate more than 
 I love." 
 
 "And I will help you, Francis my love my love. Only 
 love me." 
 
 The candles burned low in their sconces; the moon waned, 
 and the keen morning air penetrated even the warm, perfumed 
 room. An hour before the wintry dawn, from the dense black- 
 ness of the wall a shadow rose from its place, flinging its arms 
 wildly and crying as it ran 
 
 " 'Vengeance vengeance is mine, saith the Lord. I will 
 repay.' Nay, Lord, not thine, but mine mine. Vengeance, 
 vengeance, on this great city of Babylon, where the Scarlet 
 Woman sits enthroned. Vengeance, on harlots and adulter- 
 ers, on thy enemies, and mine, O Lord. Vengeance, venge- 
 ance!" 
 
 Windows were opened here and there as he passed, but Lon- 
 don, for the most part, slept the sleep of early morning, and 
 either heard not, or hearing, did not heed.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 HOW THE CASTLE OF THE BLACK KNIGHT GREW, AND HOW 
 JERRY FOUND A FAIRY 
 
 FROM that day lightheartedness fled the old house near the 
 Strand ; the spirit of work, the spirit of mirth followed in 
 her wake. Toby's song was no longer heard. Jerry, stealing 
 from his room night after night, would listen to the restless 
 footsteps; backwards and forwards, to and fro they went, 
 while every now and then a heavy sigh broke the silence. It 
 was echoed by the patient watcher in his troubled sympathy. 
 Beyond that he said nothing, knowing that a forced confidence 
 is worthless. But Toby knew that his burden was shared; 
 there were occasional night excursions when Jerry, waiting 
 up, let him in without questioning, and at those times the an- 
 guish at his heart was well nigh uncontrollable. 
 
 "Traitor, wicked, perjured traitor!" No name was bad 
 enough. 
 
 The letters were not always kept by Sir Francis; indeed, 
 there were many times when, after reading, he would return 
 them to Toby with a command to let them go. He noticed 
 that the occasions grew wider apart ; the baronet had his game 
 to play, too sudden a move might awaken suspicion, and to 
 separate the lovers while making love himself, required all his 
 skill. He found too, that Betty, though a country maiden 
 unversed in worldly ways, was by no means lacking in intelli- 
 gence. The least false move, the smallest slip, and she would 
 scent a lure, and he might whistle for his castle. 
 
 Betty too, had her own little game to play. If Paul could 
 make love to two people, why, then, so could others. She 
 dropped little hints in her letters, "Sir Francis had come to 
 
 301
 
 302 When Pan Pipes 
 
 Cloudesley by the coach last night; he was charming, her 
 aunt could hardly say enough in his praise." Ah, Betty, such 
 artless coquetries fall like small winged darts in a usual way, 
 but in the case of great passions they are as poisoned barbs, 
 spreading their venom and contaminating all. 
 
 It was these letters which Paul received. His own, which 
 might perhaps have had healing powers, were placed care- 
 fully in a locked drawer, alongside of another packet marked 
 "from my Betty," also a document inscribed upon which was 
 Toby's name. There were times when, like some evil thing, 
 Francis Crewe turned to them, gloating and sneering as he 
 read them again and again, making sure that nothing had 
 escaped his notice. There were times, too, when another face 
 bent beside his, a handsome, passionate face, and not to those 
 eyes was revealed a knowledge of the second packet. A new 
 love had come to Francis Crewe, but not for him was the old 
 couplet, "It's well to be off with the old love before you are 
 on with the new." Rather, "It is well to have two strings to 
 your bow." 
 
 Paul, in his exile, heard of his opponent well and strong, 
 and would have hurried home, but for the sudden illness of 
 his father. The shock, the unprepared, comfortless journey, 
 had told on a constitution none too robust, and the warm 
 south being recommended, father and son hastened there as 
 soon as the count was able to bear removal. It was a bitter 
 disappointment to Paul, but no suspicion of duplicity entered 
 his head, and though Betty's letters were few and far between, 
 he thought little of it, knowing her careless nature. His own 
 were full of a passionate love and explanations, which were 
 so much waste paper as far as Betty was concerned. It is true 
 that Sir Francis, knowing that letters were received by my 
 ladies, preferred to tell her himself of the count's illness, with 
 a slight uplifting of his black eyebrows at Paul's neglect. 
 
 "A triffing indisposition, he would be travelling in a day 
 or two, no doubt," and "the count and his son have left the 
 little village; they are en route for the south; from thence
 
 Castle of the Black Knight 303 
 
 they go to Florence and Rome. Ah," with a laugh, "Paul is 
 a clever fellow, manages to turn an unpleasant incident to his 
 advantage." 
 
 And Betty, missing the letters, angry that news should come 
 from any but Paul, listened, turning a deaf ear to the little 
 voice which whispered, "Paul is true have patience wait," 
 and surrendered herself to the pleasant soothing of a heart- 
 ache. Sir Francis' soft words, his subtle flatteries, the pas- 
 sionate look in his eyes as they followed her, were as balm 
 to a wound. The poisoned honey, dropped by a trained hand, 
 aided by a few apparently careless words, did its work. Paul 
 should see she didn't care, others wanted her if he did not. 
 She knew every movement of Louise da Silva, who, as luck 
 would have it, was fulfilling an engagement in Paris; "spend- 
 ing the winter there," Sir Francis told her, with a sneering 
 laugh, the meaning of which Betty understood. 
 
 The baronet held in his hand two trump cards; an oppor- 
 tunity to play them was near at hand. 
 
 The witchery of the springtime is a tonic to love-making, 
 and the spring of 1838 surged and boiled, and almost broke 
 its bonds with wild patriotism, loyalty, and passionate romance. 
 Newspapers and periodicals could talk of nothing but the little 
 princess, preparing for a responsibility such as perhaps never 
 before had rested on so fair and young a pair of shoulders. 
 England itself was one pent up cry of emotions, stifled till, 
 with one great burst, they should rend the air on that great 
 day of June. What wonder that a small paragraph in an 
 obscure paper, whose editor was open to a bribe, should pass 
 unnoticed by the great world. 
 
 To Betty, already knowing the sickness of heartache, it 
 brought a dull numbing of the pain. The final blow which 
 strikes down love for ever, had fallen. Henceforth, she would 
 be gay and merry, she would never again believe in such poor 
 things as truth and love and faithfulness. It was a bitter pill 
 to swallow, but she did it, and Francis Crewe's admiration re- 
 doubled as he watched her play her part.
 
 304 When Pan Pipes 
 
 Not even to him did she reveal the anguish at her heart; 
 not by the flicker of an eyelid, the flutter of a sigh, did she 
 show more than an ordinary interest as she read the words, 
 "We have it on excellent authority that a certain well known 
 
 lady, Mdlle. L d S v , has deserted the French 
 
 capital in order to follow an equally well known gentleman 
 to his retreat in the south, where, owing to the illness of a 
 relative, he will spend the spring. No doubt the tedium of 
 attendance on a sick room will be much alleviated by the pres- 
 ence of one whose name spells beauty, wit, and charm." 
 
 But the other trump card required more delicate handling, 
 and it was with some misgiving that the baronet sent for 
 Toby once more. He received him in a small, oak panelled 
 room at the back of the house, and, even to his callous nature, 
 a change was apparent. The past weeks had done their work, 
 taking the colour from his cheeks, the comfortable roundness 
 from his figure. He brought letters, and as he passed them, 
 Sir Francis noticed that the trembling fingers were thin almost 
 to boniness. The baronet sat in a straight, high-backed chair, 
 and after reading the letters, put them into the steel-bound 
 box, whose lid remained ostentatiously open, showing, besides 
 the letters, another paper. He motioned his visitor to be 
 seated, and Toby obeyed ; he could sit at his ease in this every- 
 day room. 
 
 "I want your aid, Toby," said the baronet, coming to the 
 point. "This little affair of which we spoke does not progress 
 so rapidly as I could wish. It wants a small push, a fillip, and 
 you, my dear fellow, are the one to give it. It is the last serv- 
 ice but one which I shall require from you, that other being 
 to fetch the lady when the time comes." 
 
 "And this ?" asked Toby, with a dull apathy which even the 
 sight of the paper failed to disperse. 
 
 "This? Oh, quite a small matter to you," Toby flinched 
 at the accent; "merely to copy a few words which I shall 
 write, purporting to come from the lady herself. In order 
 that you may accomplish the task entirely to my satisfaction
 
 Castle of the Black Knight 305 
 
 I must ask you to study at your leisure the handwriting of 
 these letters." He selected one or two and handed them 
 over. 
 
 "You mean you wish me to imitate the handwriting?" Sir 
 Francis smiled. 
 
 "You take me exactly, my good Toby. It is pleasant to 
 transact business with one so intelligent." Toby collected the 
 letters and put them carefully away. Sir Francis hummed 
 a light air and carelessly balanced a pen on the tip of his 
 finger, but no movement passed unobserved by his keen, hawk- 
 like eyes. Toby's blind obedience puzzled him slightly. 
 
 "You will oblige me by completing the copy in a day or two," 
 he said pleasantly, as his visitor took his hat. 
 
 "Yes, Sir Francis." The baronet frowned as the door shut. 
 
 "Were it not that the fellow is incapable of it, I might sus- 
 pect a counterplot," he muttered ; then, with a disdainful ges- 
 ture, "ridiculous, pure fancy. The fellow's an oaf, a clown; 
 I hold him in my hand." 
 
 There was very little sleep for Jerry that night, nor for many 
 following. The restless footsteps, the long drawn sighs, wrung 
 his heart. 
 
 "If he would but let me help," he murmured, as he stole 
 away in the early morning to snatch a short rest before the 
 business of the day began. The cloud grew blacker, heavier. 
 Reuben watched his companions with soft, puzzled eyes eyes 
 which saw clearly to the bottom of things. 
 
 "There is trouble in the house," he said to Jerry one eve- 
 ning as they walked together. "You think I do not see ; that 
 I hear not. But I know I know. There are messages which 
 kom at night there are evil things which lurk outside, and 
 there are others which wear the clothes of honest men. And 
 our Toby suffers. Ach," he sighed deeply. "It is a strange, 
 mad world ; I know not what exactly is his care, and we cannot 
 ask. Some day he will tell us. Meantime, we must be patient 
 and help with our hearts." 
 
 During the long dreary weeks which followed, it was a
 
 306 When Pan Pipes 
 
 relief to know that Reuben shared and understood. But ah, 
 the heavy weight which lay on the once gay household. At 
 the end of the second day Toby's task was finished. Reading 
 the copy, he found a certain satisfaction; if what Sir Francis 
 said was true and he had no reason to doubt it the letter 
 was only a confirmation. It was short "J ust a ^ ew words," 
 it ran, "to tell you that I am to marry Sir Francis Crewe within 
 a few weeks. Please do not write, nor attempt to dissuade 
 me ; my mind is firmly made up. Neither do I wish this spoken 
 of at present ; I tell you first, as being perhaps, the most inter- 
 ested." 
 
 Toby read it again and again ; there was something not alto- 
 gether satisfactory. But having put his hand to the plough he 
 turned not back, and the letter was taken to the baronet. 
 
 Whatever cloud hung over the Jew's household, it was not 
 shared from without. Never had London seemed so fair. 
 Lightheartedness sang through the crowded streets, mirth 
 tripped airily along, and jollity, with clumsy footsteps, ambled 
 cheerfully beside her. The scarlet and gold of royal liveries 
 became an everyday sight, dukes and duchesses were as black- 
 berries on a hedge, celebrities might be seen at any time. 
 Court dressmakers and tailors made fortunes. Out came the 
 crimson and ermine robes, out came the fabulous old lace, the 
 state coaches, the liveries and powder, wigs and silk stockings, 
 gold lace and plush. Coronets were taken from their boxes, 
 family jewels re-set, the old abbey cleaned and decorated, and 
 in the midst of it all, a girl queen, young and fair, with thought- 
 ful eyes and grave demeanour, awaited the event which was 
 to put her at the head of a great and glorious nation a nation 
 which, under her wise rule, was to become greater and more 
 glorious still. Little wonder that England stood still with 
 bated breath, till the golden crown should be set on the youth- 
 ful head. 
 
 Far away, in little country villages, loyal love showed itself 
 in preparations for feasting. Old men and women spoke 
 of past coronations; there were those who could remember
 
 Castle of the Black Knight 307 
 
 that other long and peaceful reign under the third George. 
 Young ones looked forward to prosperous trade, to glory at 
 home and abroad. Many a fervent prayer went up for the fair 
 young queen, and English hearts swelled with love and pride, 
 and English men and women would have given their life-blood 
 that sunny June to shield her from even the shadow of harm. 
 From her palace came messages that all was well, and England 
 knew that the maiden's great heart had met and mingled with 
 the heart of her kingdom, that her first and purest love was 
 given to her country and her people. 
 
 At last, after a night of joyful sleeplessness, the great day 
 dawned, a day to be remembered throughout the ages. Lon- 
 don, garbed in its best, went abroad to see all that was to be 
 seen. Flags and banners fluttered gaily in the June sunshine, 
 and for many, many hours, London's streets were filled with 
 that curious phenomenon, grave almost to sadness, yet, there- 
 fore, fuller, perhaps, of deep happiness a London crowd. 
 
 The old house in the square was closed like its fellows. Reu- 
 ben, gay as a boy, and Jerry, in his sober way equally de- 
 lighted, set out in the early dawn. Toby, after much persua- 
 sion, had been induced to accompany them, and the three pairs 
 of broad shoulders cleared a way easily through the fighting, 
 jostling, yet good-humoured throng. 
 
 Down by the abbey the press was thickest, but strength 
 prevailed, and the three, panting, hot, and triumphant, took 
 up their places at a spot where all that was worth seeing was 
 to be seen. There had been detours by the way; rescues of 
 small children and frail women. Reuben had carried a baby 
 for many yards, and even now, Jerry's and Toby's broad shoul- 
 ders bore small boys, eager for a peep over the seething heads 
 into the world beyond. 
 
 "Ach, it is a great day," solemnly asserted the Jew, mop- 
 ping his head, and handing cherries, just bought, to every 
 child within reach. The sun rose higher and higher ; under its 
 blazing, scorching rays, the panting, perspiring crowd grew 
 silent. Each minute brought fresh interests. Scarlet and gold
 
 308 When Pan Pipes 
 
 of mounted troops, the dark, brilliant uniform of a naval offi- 
 cer going to his place, the silver and flaunting colours of pow- 
 dered footmen mingled with the pale young green of trees, the 
 deep blue of summer skies, and the shadowy greys and browns 
 of the old abbey, smiling as it remembered other crowds, other 
 fair young heads bearing crowns, or perhaps sadly, black-robed 
 mourners, softly chanting monks, dim candles, and white flow- 
 ers, and always, through the centuries, pomp and ceremonial, 
 majestic dignity, pride of age and ancestry, with a knowledge 
 that in the ages to come, its old stones, though perhaps scat- 
 tered, would carry always those same proud memories. 
 
 Guests began to arrive, well known faces seen through open 
 carriage windows; glimpses of beautiful women, flashing of 
 precious stones, soft sheen of ermine, gleaming of white arms 
 and shoulders. The crowd, roused to enthusiasm, cheered 
 each carriage. Reuben, with all the ardent excitement of 
 the French character, shouted and cheered till forcibly sup- 
 pressed by Jerry. Even Toby roused to smiling interest. 
 Jerry himself looked and looked, till the scene seemed to min- 
 gle into one dense forest of colour and sound. Suddenly his 
 vision cleared, things stood out plain and distinct. A state 
 carriage, apparently the same as many others, yet carrying a 
 well known crest and liveries, was passing slowly by, and his 
 heart stood still as one of its occupants leaned eagerly for- 
 ward. 
 
 Crimson ermine and flashing stones, paled into nothingness, 
 only a sweet face looked, it seemed to him, straight into his. 
 Eyes blue as the skies above, golden hair beneath a radiance 
 of diamonds; a glimpse, a flash, and it was gone, leaving a 
 sense of joy in his heart, a knowledge that the day's happiness 
 was intensified by her nearness. He watched the receding car- 
 riage, picturing the fair face among other fair faces, against 
 the rich sombre background of the abbey, and he knew with 
 a triumphant knowledge that others would fade before its 
 beauty, as stars fade when the moon appears. 
 
 Higher and higher rose the sun, weary legs shifted and
 
 Castle of tlie Black Knight 309 
 
 moved their owners into other places; the crowd surged and 
 swayed, now and then making a wild, apparently objectless, 
 lurch forward, only to be checked by the mounted troops. 
 Children slept in their mothers' arms, older ones rested their 
 heads against any support forthcoming and dozed fitfully. 
 The great clock struck ten even as it did so, from afar off, 
 came a deep boom-boom, and the crowd roused to eagerness 
 again. 
 
 "She is starting," rang the hushed whisper from a million 
 tongues, and as it died, came the sound of music, the march- 
 ing of feet. 
 
 On it came the great procession, mid din of voices, the 
 hum of greeting; on on to their allotted places went the 
 troops then, distant yet, but clear, the sound of cheering, 
 nearer still, the hush, which precedes some great event stirred 
 into life, as leafy trees stir at the coming of a breeze. 
 
 "She's coming she's coming." 
 
 The pageant moved on mid the gorgeousness of house- 
 hold troops, the brilliant uniforms of the surrounding guard, 
 eight fairy ponies drawing a glittering fairy coach, and inside 
 a young girl, quiet and sedate, yet no doubt with fluttering 
 heart and tearful eyes, and hands that trembled with the weight 
 they would have to hold. 
 
 The hush broke. A million voices raised themselves, a 
 million hearts uttered prayers as she passed, gracious, smil- 
 ing, grave. Under the stately walls, amidst the hushed ex- 
 pectancy of those gathered there, she passed, the heavy doors 
 closed, and a great silence fell on the waiting multitude. Al- 
 most, it seemed, they could follow the scene within the gor- 
 geous assemblage, the unrobing and robing again of the girl 
 queen, the strange quaint ceremonial, the taking of the power 
 into those small hands, the sceptre of ruling, the orb of 
 strength, the cloak of majesty on, through each reverent 
 event, to the last great one, the placing of England's crown 
 on the youthful head. A thrill ran through the assemblage, 
 communicating itself to those outside. And the bells rang
 
 310 When Pan Pipes 
 
 out joyous, happy bells telling a loyal rejoicing people that 
 their queen was queen indeed. Guns boomed, horses pranced 
 and clattered on the stones, all the bells of London joined in ; 
 cheer after cheer rang from throats already hoarse with cheer- 
 ing, and amid the noise and sound, the bustle and crowding, 
 the procession started once more, this time to take its home- 
 ward way by a longer route. 
 
 The crowd, anxious to lose nothing, with one accord broke, 
 making for other points of vantage. Pressing, surging, it 
 swept on; in a moment Jerry was separated from his friends, 
 Reuben and Toby being carried with the throng, the Jew 
 wearing a comical look of dismay. Jerry had no intention 
 of leaving his place until certain that every chance of seeing 
 the beautiful vision again was gone. In the rush he had been 
 carried some distance, now, turning, he elbowed his way back. 
 The crowd, meeting him, was harder to fight; it took all his 
 strength, but he was determined, and, step by step, fought his 
 way. Here and there it thinned, and he took breath, and 
 within a few yards of the first position, found a break in the 
 packed mass. 
 
 Taking the opportunity, he turned in, the crowd drew to- 
 gether again, there was a halt in the onward rush. Two 
 or three rough-looking men caught his attention; a laugh, 
 a woman's scream, a gleam of crimson against their dull 
 clothes, made him catch his breath. Suddenly, remembrance 
 brought back the past, the crimson breast, the cruel hand. 
 He made a rush forward, struck with his doubled fist the 
 mouth which uttered the words, hit wildly at another, and 
 with one great effort caught the crimson gleam as it fell, lift- 
 ing it in his arms as though suddenly endowed with super- 
 human strength. For one wild rapturous moment he clasped 
 the slight form to his heart, wondering if its loud beating 
 would wake the unconscious girl. 
 
 Gathering the rich cloak round her, fighting, pushing, he 
 gained a few yards, then was stopped by a movement. 
 Glancing downwards, he looked straight into the blue eyes,
 
 Castle of the Black Knight 811 
 
 and memory brought visions of cool deep pools in the heart 
 of the woods. 
 
 "Don't move," he whispered. "You're safe quite safe; 
 only keep still." 
 
 She obeyed, but he felt her thrill as the crowd pressed 
 close; he even fancied that she clung nearer to him. He 
 knew he held her close, sheltered from the rude press, close 
 to his heart, and life held no more for him. He cried in- 
 wardly to himself. "This is life. Whatever happens, I have 
 lived, even if only for this short time." Another moment and 
 he stood free the crowd swept on; Mary Cloudesley slipped 
 from his arms, and stooping, gathered the cloak into her hand, 
 apparently searching carefully for torn places. But the trem- 
 bling hands and deeply flushed face told of time needed to 
 gain her composure. In a moment she stood up. 
 
 "Sir, how can I thank you; another minute, and " she 
 shivered and drew her hand across her eyes as though to 
 shut out a possible happening; then, "I cannot think how 
 it came about. My father told me to wait a moment, the 
 carriage was not there, and somehow, I suppose, I moved, 
 and in a moment, before I knew where I was, I was in the 
 crowd. Some man " the sweet voice trembled, a hot blush 
 mantled the lovely face. Jerry drew near. 
 
 "But it's all right now ; you're safe, my lady." She looked 
 up in surprise. 
 
 "Yes, thanks to you, sir. But how did you know?" 
 
 "My lady, I come from Cloudesley." 
 
 "From Cloudesley!" Ah, how the beautiful face lighted 
 up ; she clapped her little gloved hands. "Oh, how charming. 
 Come, we must find my father, and he shall thank you him- 
 self." She gathered her flounced skirts round her, and im- 
 pulsively, as a child might, stretched out her hand and took 
 his. 
 
 The thrill of her touch, the magic of her voice, carried 
 Jerry into fairyland. He was a child again; clearly, amidst 
 the din and clatter of bells and voices, came the one dear
 
 812 When Pan Pipes 
 
 voice: "Some day, Jerry boy, you'll find a fairy, I hope; 
 and she'll take your hand, and all the world will grow golden 
 sorrow and care will melt away, and you'll feel so strong 
 and happy. And the fairy will lead you " The words 
 faded, the little hand slipped from his. The earl stood be- 
 fore them with a troubled, anxious face. In a moment she 
 had put her arm through his, and the look of anxiety changed 
 to one of sternness. 
 
 "How did it happen, Mary? And who is this?" 
 
 "Father, dear father, I'm so sorry. I don't know a bit 
 how it happened, only I found myself in that terrible crowd, 
 and this gentleman saved me as I fell. And, father, he comes 
 from Cloudesley." The earl turned, his face inscrutable un- 
 der its mask. 
 
 "I am greatly in your debt, sir. But for your prompt aid 
 my daughter might have sustained some life-long injury, if 
 not worse. You come from Cloudesley?" 
 
 "Yes, my lord." 
 
 "And your name? Pardon me for inquiring. Believe me, 
 it is not from mere curiosity." 
 
 "My name is Dell, my lord Jerry Dell and I was brought 
 up by Mrs. Hagges." The earl gazed thoughtfully at him, 
 then his brow cleared. 
 
 "I remember. Your father was a sculptor, was he not?" 
 
 "Yes, my lord." 
 
 "And you are following in his footsteps?" Jerry inclined 
 his head. The earl went on : 
 
 "I should like to thank you, Mr. Dell, in a more leisurely 
 way. Would it be troubling you if I asked you to call upon 
 me at your convenience ?" 
 
 Jerry flushed with pleasure. 
 
 "I should be delighted, my lord, at any time which will suit 
 you best" 
 
 "Then, shall we say to-morrow morning?" And with bated 
 breath, Jerry agreed. Two chances that day had fallen on
 
 Castle of the Black Knight 313 
 
 his path ; another was hanging in the veil of to-morrow. Fate 
 was indeed kind. The earl bowed gravely. 
 
 "Then I shall expect you in the morning. Till then, good- 
 day." But Mary Cloudesley put out her little hand. 
 "Good-bye, Mr. Dell, and thank you very much." 
 Hat in hand he stood by, watching her step into the stately 
 carriage, envying the footmen who lifted her train and cloak, 
 who might see and hear her every day, and catching a last 
 glimpse of the bonnie blue eyes, the sweet radiant smile. 
 Then, as the splendid equipage drove away and was lost in 
 the medley of other carriages, he turned homewards, wonder- 
 ing at the beauty of the day, the glory of the skies and sum- 
 mer sunshine, wondering, wondering, till wonderment turned 
 to dreams and a fairy palace began to build itself, airy, ethereal, 
 yet with a solidity lacking hitherto. And he knew a fairy had 
 laid its foundation stone and christened it Love.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 OF THE BUILDING OF A CASTLE J AND HOW THE BROWNIE 
 FAIRY CAME HOME 
 
 CLOTHES! Romance fled, even the radiance of waking 
 to a day of days paled before the vision of himself as he 
 appeared to himself. Lying awake in the early summer morn- 
 ing, everything else was forgotten, only the puzzle remained 
 how could he look his best ? True, a new suit, as yet unworn, 
 lay in a drawer, and he rejoiced in a ruffled shirt and smart 
 Malacca cane ; for, be it whispered, in a small niche of Jerry's 
 heart stood an altar reared to the goddess of fashion; very 
 insignificant, often lost sight of, but nevertheless, a factor in 
 the whole; also, inherited perhaps, was a love of cleanliness, 
 freshness, and pleasant surroundings ; which things, subdued 
 and held in check, soften and keep from coarseness a strong 
 and vigorous character. 
 
 He rose and laid out the various garments ; then proceeded 
 to dress. It was a lengthy business and a distasteful one. 
 The long pier glass reflected his tall figure, broad shoulders 
 and massive chest, and he longed unspeakably for the slender 
 elegance, the graceful carriage of Sir Francis Crewe. He 
 thought of Mary Cloudesley and turned cold at the remem- 
 brance of having held her, that dainty, fairy-like form, in his 
 strong arms, her soft draperies contaminated by contact with 
 his rough clothes, her little hand in his stained, gloveless one. 
 How could he approach her again ? And then came an appall- 
 ing thought perhaps he might not see her to-day. Out went 
 the sun, down dropped darkness and despair. Then hope 
 pushed her head up again, and he finished his dressing. 
 
 He gazed in a dissatisfied way at the dark blue cloth coat, 
 
 314
 
 The Building of a Castle 315 
 
 the gilt buttons, polished till they caught every gleam of light, 
 the close fitting breeches, the broad expanse of white waist- 
 coat. Suddenly struck by an idea, he opened a drawer and 
 drew out the soft gold fob chain and the great topaz seal. 
 As he slipped the catch on to his cheap silver watch, a little 
 pang of compunction seized him. He had been in London 
 nearly three years and was no nearer finding its owner than 
 when he came. At first he had waited for more knowledge 
 of London; then, after making fruitless inquiries, he had told 
 Reuben the story. As usual, the Jew made it his business, 
 but up to now no information had been forthcoming, and for 
 the last few weeks Toby's trouble had put everything else 
 from his mind. In a way he felt that the ornament was not 
 his own, but the temptation was too much. 
 
 "I'll borrow it just for the day," he said to himself, and 
 with a last glance went downstairs, somewhat shamefaced, 
 as he thought of the Jew's kindly quizzical face and Toby's 
 sorrowful one. Toby was already down. On this great day 
 Jerry was forbidden to assist, and his thin face lit up as he 
 met his friend. 
 
 "Jerry, you do look grand; quite the gentleman." Jerry 
 blushed hotly. 
 
 "Do I, Toby? Do I really? Look well, and tell me if I 
 am all right." Toby put down a dish, and turning, looked 
 him up and down approvingly. Then suddenly the thin cheeks 
 flushed and paled; a look of terror, of anguish which was 
 it? came into the tired eyes, and with a stifled cry he stepped 
 forward, grasping the seal with nervous, trembling fingers. 
 
 "Jerry, Jerry, where did you get it? How who gave it 
 to you? Or did you buy it?" 
 
 "No." Jerry's voice was puzzled; was it part of Toby's 
 mystery? "It was given me in trust for one to whom it 
 belongs. His mother " He broke off, for Toby had sunk 
 into a chair, and leaning his arms upon a table, dropped his 
 head upon them, and was moaning bitterly. 
 
 "Toby what is it?" He put his arm round the heaving
 
 316 When Pan Pipes 
 
 shoulders. "Toby, tell me." The moaning stopped; Toby 
 lifted his head. 
 
 "Jerry I must I can't keep it any longer and I can trust 
 you. Don't speak of it, don't tell Reuben. The seal is mine, 
 I'm Toby Plumtre Tobias, after my father. Oh, my dear, 
 dear father. Jerry, I killed him, as surely as though I had 
 used a dagger or poison, with my bad ways." Again the head 
 dropped the moaning changed to great sobs. "My mother, 
 oh, Jerry, my mother." Jerry was silent; such grief as this 
 must have its own way. The heavy sobs ceased at last. Once 
 more Toby lifted his poor white face so pinched and worn. 
 
 "Jerry, you won't say I told you. You'll let everything be 
 the same. Don't speak of it, even to me." 
 
 "N-no," then hastily, "No, no, of course not. But, Toby," 
 his voice grew graver, "why don't you go home ? She's long- 
 ing for you. If you only knew how she wants you." 
 
 "I know, I know," was the quick answer. "But not yet 
 not yet. Jerry " he was standing close ; he spoke in a whis- 
 per, with furtive glances round. "Some day, soon now, oh, 
 I hope soon, I shall go back. Pray God, she may still be there, 
 and then, ah, my God," the whisper, though so low, seemed 
 to ring through the hall, "freedom, happiness, and love and 
 life for her. Will it ever come? Jerry, I count the hours, 
 the minutes almost." He rose quickly with a warning "hush." 
 Reuben's footsteps sounded in the gallery above. "Wear it, 
 Jerry, please, dear old fellow. And don't forget, secrecy!" 
 He seized his hand, wrung it, and vanished into back regions. 
 
 The Jew came down the broad stairs, caught Jerry by the 
 shoulder, and turned him towards the great window, smiling 
 broadly. 
 
 "Ach, mein yongling, goest thou courting?" 
 
 The hot flush rose on Jerry's face. He pulled himself away, 
 almost angrily. Reuben laughed and nodded as he prepared 
 the coffee; smiling again, half sadly, at the untasted break- 
 fast, the constant glance at the clock, but took no further 
 notice. It is at these great moments of youth that every-
 
 The Building of a Castle 317 
 
 day details assume importance. Jerry's mind was running 
 on the question, "Should he take a hackney coach, or should 
 he not?" The Jew, watching quietly, read his thoughts. 
 
 "Why should you ride, mein yongling? With strong young 
 legs, and a fine morning, and time. Nein, nein, it is but pride 
 to take a coach." So, in the glory of sunshine, new clothes, 
 with wildly beating heart, and a sick feeling of despair, a 
 certainty of appearing country bred, and much internal trem- 
 bling, Jerry set off. The two faces watched him cross the 
 square, then turned in, Toby with a deep sigh, the Jew smiling, 
 yet wearing an expression of sadness. 
 
 "So they try their wings, these young ones, and they know 
 their strength, and so they fly away. But for the old comes 
 loneliness. Ach, well, it is life." 
 
 The earl's town house was at Chelsea; a long walk, and 
 Jerry found himself amid fields and country surroundings 
 before he reached his destination. Strangely enough, it never 
 occurred to him that the front entrance might be intended for 
 greater visitors than himself. Although conscious of shabbi- 
 ness, of country breeding, never had the idea of inferiority 
 entered his head. Well attired, and with a full knowledge 
 of social ways, he would have held his own with all the world. 
 The earl received him in a library, dark panelled, book lined, 
 and came to the point at once. 
 
 "For myself, Mr. Dell, and in my daughter's name, I must 
 again thank you for your prompt action yesterday. But I 
 did not ask you to come here to listen to a few empty words. 
 My sister has spoken of you, and although at the time, not 
 having the pleasure of a personal acquaintance," he bowed 
 graciously, "I paid little attention, yet it comes back to me 
 that she has the highest possjble opinion of your abilities." 
 It was Jerry's turn to bow. "Moreover, she believes that you 
 will carve for yourself a name in the annals of fame. Whether 
 that be so or no," he waved his hand smilingly, "I cannot say, 
 but if you will undertake a commission from me, I will take 
 my chance of future fame."
 
 318 When Pan Pipes 
 
 "I shall be pleased to do all I can, my lord," answered 
 Jerry, colouring with pleasure. 
 
 The earl shifted in his seat, paused thoughtfully, as though 
 choosing his words, and went on: 
 
 "You may not be aware, Mr. Dell, although, no doubt, all 
 Cloudesley knows it, that my daughter is destined for the 
 Church." Jerry looked up, hardly grasping the import. 
 
 "For the Church ?" he repeated. The earl's face grew stern. 
 
 "I repeat for the Church. She enters the Convent of 
 St. Monica after Christmas. It is natural that I should wish 
 for some memento, some some " he broke off abruptly, 
 then changed the sentence. "I should be glad, Mr. Dell, if 
 you will undertake the work, a bust, life size, to be executed 
 in marble. I will pay you well, for it is a difficult under- 
 taking for one so young; also it must be put in hand at 
 once. There is not too much time," he added slowly, as though 
 to himself. "What do you say, Mr. Dell?" Jerry's heart 
 seemed to stand still. He stammered out something, but the 
 earl understood, and smiled in a gratified way. 
 
 "I know, I know. It is a great thing. Lady Mary Cloudes- 
 ley if good, enough to make a man's name. But " he rose 
 as though to terminate the interview, "I am deeply in your 
 debt, and it has always been my custom to pay off all my obli- 
 gations. You accept, I think?" 
 
 "Yes, my lord, most gratefully." 
 
 ''Then you must arrange for sittings and so forth with 
 my daughter's governess. I will send her to you at once. 
 Good-day to you, Mr. Dell." 
 
 In a whirl of excitement Jerry received his commands. 
 The next morning, and again in three days, and afterwards 
 as he pleased. The governess, an elderly lady of good birth, 
 departed, singing the praises of the handsome young artist 
 to her charge, little dreaming of the fluttering heart under the 
 demure exterior, the remembrance of the strong arms which 
 had held her, of two anxious brown eyes which had gazed 
 into hers.
 
 The Building of a Castle 319 
 
 The happiness of new born love is not happiness, rather 
 it is torture, agony, with occasional glimpses of a paradise 
 beyond earthly conception. Added to this was the terrible 
 fact that in a few short months the dark gates of the con- 
 vent would swallow her up for ever. And Jerry, tossing, 
 turning on his bed, listening for Toby's restless footsteps, 
 would think and think, plan and plan, till his head whirled, 
 and he came back to first facts. He, a poor man, of no 
 family, with a future to make, was no mate for an earl's 
 daughter, whether in a convent or out of it. Conscience bade 
 him thrust away the beautiful dream, bade him pray for 
 strength to fight the long lonely years, for honour to bury his 
 love deep in his heart, and for work grinding, toilsome work 
 to keep him from thinking, from utter despair, from some- 
 thing worse. 
 
 Ah, those were days of unspeakable misery, and yet he 
 would not have been without them. The hours he spent in 
 her dear presence, listening to the clear young voice, watch- 
 ing the beautiful face ; those unforgettable hours, each minute 
 stamped deep in his memory. Sometimes he fancied the blue 
 eyes lifted themselves to his with a look of more than passing 
 interest. But he told himself that it was indeed fancy. There 
 were times of rest for both sitter and artist. Then the talk 
 would turn on Cloudesley and Betty. 
 
 "I'm afraid she finds her life dull," said Mary, thought- 
 fully puckering her white forehead. "She's so fond of ex- 
 citement and gaiety. And lately her letters have seemed almost 
 sad. Not that I get many," she laughed gaily, "Betty was 
 always a bad correspondent." 
 
 In the hot summer mornings the governess dozed quietly; 
 they were practically alone. Outside, green lawns and gaudy 
 flower beds stretched away under steel blue skies, giving the 
 shady cool room a dreamlike quality. So silent, so still was 
 everything, that in spite of their owners' attempts at repres- 
 sion, their own hearts told each other tales, and though they 
 spoke not, utterance found itself in other ways.
 
 320 When Pan Pipes 
 
 "I love you, I love you," whispered the buzzing bee to the 
 roses in the great bow pots which stood everywhere. 
 
 "Do you love me, do you love me?" sang the vine leaves 
 on the house to the gentle summer breeze. And all the long 
 hot days, all the stilly starlit nights, flowers, birds, insects, uni- 
 versal nature murmured their song "I love you I love you 
 for ever for ever." 
 
 So the days passed. The work grew. Never before had 
 Jerry done so well; and he knew it, as a true artist knows 
 the quality of his own handiwork. The earl, too, realised that 
 he had found, if not a genius, at least an artist. He would 
 come in occasionally, speak a few courteous words of praise, 
 or point out a desired alteration. Sometimes, too, when the 
 room was empty, when night had fallen, he would lock the 
 door, and lifting the damp cloths from the clay model, stand 
 gazing, gazing, as he never gazed at the original. Then care- 
 fully covering it up, he would go to his lonely room, sighing 
 as he paused outside his daughter's chamber, sometimes even 
 gently opening the door to look for one moment on the fair 
 sleeping face on its lace pillow. 
 
 July passed. London emptied itself, and sank into a sullen 
 sleep. My lord took his daughter to a fashionable watering- 
 place. The heat of the last few weeks had told upon her, so 
 the physicians said, and she drooped like a flower, losing in- 
 terest in everything. When they returned in September the 
 sittings would be resumed. 
 
 To say "Good-bye till we meet again" was anguish, to keep 
 from showing it, torture. What the real good-bye good-bye 
 for ever would be, neither dared think. They shook hands 
 calmly the thrill of contact making both hearts beat as one 
 a few conventional words, and it was over. Then, with a 
 murmured word to her governess, Mary fled to her room, 
 locked the door, and flinging herself on her bed, buried her 
 burning face in the soft cool pillows. For knowledge had 
 come to her, knowledge of a world beyond the convent walls ; 
 of bliss beyond the bliss of religion, of love, of longing, and
 
 The Building of a Castle 321 
 
 tender joy. Oh, but the days were long long, and sad and 
 weary. Morning broke after hot restless nights, with the 
 thought of another day to be lived through, and evening fell, 
 bringing the meeting a day nearer. 
 
 And the deep, dark shadow over the old house in the square 
 grew deeper and darker. But in the third week the cloud 
 rolled up a corner for Jerry, showing the golden radiance be- 
 hind, and Pan's melancholy piping changed to a happier key. 
 
 "She is coming back coming back " he said to himself 
 as he woke each morning. "Another night gone another day 
 nearer." Time, that strange variable thing, which mocks at 
 happiness, and lingers long with sorrow, laughed and passed 
 on. The last day of weary waiting came, as all things come. 
 
 Lingering round the house at Chelsea, as long ago he had 
 lurked in fields and meadows for a glimpse of the wonderful 
 being described by Betty, he had caught hints of preparation. 
 It was not the first time by many. Most days or nights 
 had found him somewhere in the neighbourhood of her home. 
 That afternoon he returned unspeakably happy, wondering if 
 the moment would ever come when he would see her again, 
 turning icy cold with the thought of what possible dangers 
 might assail her between this and then. 
 
 Slowly, so slowly, the clock in the hall ticked off its minutes. 
 Slowly the burning sunshine through the great window turned 
 rosy red, fading to twilight. Slowly darkness, the soft vel- 
 vety darkness of an August night, fell. The Jew lit candles, 
 Toby brought supper, cleared it away, and as usual the three 
 men sat round the table smoking. It was many a long day 
 since Toby had helped much in the way of conversation, and 
 Jerry of late was too busy with his own thoughts. Reuben 
 gazed doubtfully from one to the other, sighed a little, and at 
 last relapsed into silence. 
 
 The clouds of smoke curled upwards, floating airily away 
 to the dim dome. Toby reached across and snuffed the can- 
 dles. Far off, over the quiet streets, through open windows, 
 came the hum of London by night, gay, light-hearted. Then,
 
 322 When Pan Pipes 
 
 on the pavement of the square, the sound of a woman's foot- 
 steps fell, timid, hesitating, dragging as though very tired, and 
 so soft that they were only perceptible because of the stillness 
 around. A minute later the great knocker of the door was 
 lifted gently. Toby half started from his chair, then sat back, 
 his face ashen white. The Jew, with a quick glance, rose and 
 stepped quietly across the hall, and round the corner towards 
 the door. Jerry put his hand on the other's shoulder. 
 
 "There's nothing to fear, Toby; it's someone for Reuben, 
 no doubt." The heavy bars fell, the door was opened, and 
 a woman's low voice mingled with Reuben's guttural tones. 
 
 "Kom in, kom in," they heard him say, and Toby's face 
 grew calm. 
 
 "Jerry, mein yongling, here is someone who would see you." 
 
 "See me?" cried Jerry, his face crimson, for every thought 
 was of her, the smallest event connected itself with her. He 
 rose and went towards the end of the hall, passing Reuben 
 returning with a smiling face. In the half darkness he could 
 only distinguish a small form standing close against the door- 
 way, a timid, shrinking figure, which advanced fearfully. So 
 small was it, so bent, and the face it lifted to his under the 
 great bonnet was worn and old, though not with age, only 
 bitter experience. Yet in it was a look which flooded his 
 mind with remembrance. Nearer it came, then lifting two 
 hands from beneath the shawl, laid them upon his arm. 
 
 "Master Jerry, oh, Master Jerry, don't you know me ? Have 
 you forgotten Margery?" 
 
 "Margery," he echoed, gazing earnestly into the dim blue 
 eyes. "Margery " then suddenly, with a catching sob, he 
 drew her to him. "Margery, Margery, dear, dear Margie. 
 You've come at last after all these years." 
 
 He could feel the tiny figure shrink and flutter as he held 
 her, but the voice was quiet and even. 
 
 "Yes, Master Jerry, I've come at last. Oh, sir," with a 
 pitiful note of entreaty, "you'll take care of me, won't you?" 
 
 "Take care of you, Margie," he cried fondly; "why, I'll
 
 The Building of a Castle 323 
 
 never let you go again, not if you want to ever so badly." 
 For answer she slipped quietly from his arms, staggered, and 
 would have fallen but that he caught her. 
 
 "It's nothing, Master Jerry, only I'm very tired, an' if 
 you'd give me a drop of milk." He lifted her in his strong 
 arms, the tired eyes closed, the light weight grew dead. 
 
 Reuben came to meet him, and together they laid her on 
 a couch. With gentle, almost womanly touch, the Jew drew 
 off the big heavy bonnet, loosened the shawl, and adminis- 
 tered a stimulant. Presently she opened her eyes and would 
 have risen. 
 
 "Not yet not yet." He put her gently back, then busied 
 himself with the preparation of hot milk. Jerry and Toby, 
 the work taken for once out of their hands, could only look 
 on. Presently he returned, and waving the two aside, pro- 
 ceeded to feed her slowly. There was a strange moisture in 
 the kind eyes as he watched every spoonful almost greedily 
 swallowed. 
 
 "Poor thing poor thing " he murmured. "But you must 
 go slow slow. We will now wait a time." There was a 
 trace of colour in the grey face. She lifted herself. 
 
 "Master Jerry, I'm better now. I'll sit up." Once more 
 the Jew bustled round; the easy chair, cushioned and low, 
 was brought near, a high hassock placed, and in a few minutes 
 she was gazing at them with a perplexed air, yet too tired 
 to ask questions. 
 
 "You won't mind, Mr. Gade, if she has my room, will 
 you?" whispered Jerry, drawing the Jew on one side. Reu- 
 ben glared ferociously. 
 
 "She will not haf your room, nein it is small and poor, 
 and smells of paint. She will haf the best room in the house, 
 and Toby has prepared it He knows my ways he is a good 
 boy." 
 
 No argument could turn him; the great bedroom looking 
 over the square was made ready and Margery taken to it. 
 Jerry, going in later, found her sleeping quietly, the light,
 
 324 When Pan Pipes 
 
 soft sleep which comes with middle age; yet, even as he 
 watched, she roused and moaned, then broke into a pitiful cry. 
 He soothed her to rest again, but many times that night he 
 crept in, and each time the wailing cry repeated itself. 
 
 It was not until the summer dawn broke that the house set- 
 tled to sleep; even Toby, forgetful of his own troubles, was 
 awake, waiting for Jerry's reports. Down below the Jew 
 smoked and listened, thoughtfully musing and gazing at the 
 shawl and bonnet thrown on a chair. Now and then he would 
 touch them gently, as though to assure himself of their reality. 
 
 "Strange," he murmured, "that so small a thing should mean 
 so much. It is a pleasant thing to know that a woman is in 
 the house. Ach " he sighed deeply, "she has seen trouble, 
 oh, moch trouble poor thing poor thing." 
 
 But the tiny frail form had wonderful recuperative powers. 
 Toby, brush in hand, was startled next morning by a strange 
 light footstep on the stair. She was coming down, slowly, 
 to be sure, but with a firmer tread, and a fixed determination 
 to do something in return for bed and lodging. In vain he 
 entreated, commanded, even threatened; without a word, she 
 took the brush from him and went to work. Jerry, fetched 
 in desperation, could do no more, and at last they realised 
 that it was a new-born happiness, a bringing back of old times. 
 When the Jew began his usual task of coffee making, she 
 quietly took the utensils from him, continuing the job in a 
 business-like way, which caused him to lift his hands in admi- 
 ration. 
 
 But when it was finished, she allowed him to put her into 
 the armchair, to see that she had the daintiest pieces, the best 
 of everything. Never was such coffee. Reuben went into 
 ecstasies and demanded a third cup. 
 
 "I haf not tasted such coffee," he cried, "no not since my 
 French mothair made it twenty thirty years ago when we 
 were yong myself and my brothers and now, they are gone 
 all gone."
 
 The Building of a Castle 325 
 
 "It was a Frenchwoman taught me," said Margery timidly. 
 
 "Ha said I not so," cried Reuben triumphantly. "Well, 
 madame, we cannot let you go while you make such coffee; 
 you will stay, will you not, and be our Hebe ?" 
 
 Toby met Jerry's glance across the table; some of his care 
 had fallen from him, and there was laughter in his eyes. 
 
 For Jerry, that day was but a continuation of nightly 
 dreams ; the shaded, flower-scented room, outside, as it seemed 
 to him it must always be, green lawns, and blazing colour un- 
 der the burning sun of late summer. Mary welcomed him 
 warmly, putting her little hand in his, and lifting sweetest 
 eyes, dropped them with a flush and a momentary trembling, 
 for in that swift glance each knew again the other's secret. 
 He lingered, prolonging his work till the governess grew im- 
 patient, and he must go. 
 
 A new atmosphere greeted him as he entered the hall, a 
 queer indefinable sense of something there which had hitherto 
 been missing; Margery bustling round laying the cloth for 
 dinner, having stolen a march on Toby, accounted for it, and 
 Reuben put it into words, nodding delightedly at her as Jerry 
 entered. 
 
 "Ach, mein yongling, it is good, is it not, to see a woman, 
 to hear her voice, and to listen to the swish-swish as she 
 moves?" 
 
 Without asking, ignoring all three men, she took the reins 
 into her own hands. Yet Jerry seemed to know instinctively 
 that the old Margery was gone. His recollections were of 
 cheerfulness, laughter, endearing words, but this quiet, silent 
 woman was no link with the past. Her face, grave and 
 inscrutable, hardly altered its expression ; no smile flitted across 
 it. Again the Jew supplied the solution. He watched her 
 carry out the dishes with a pitying, troubled look ; then turned 
 to Jerry. 
 
 "There is trouble there. Ach, Gott, she has seen trouble." 
 Then solemnly, "Mein yongling, pray the good Gott that you
 
 826 When Pan Pipes 
 
 may not see such trouble." He paused thoughtfully, then 
 fetching out the usual after-dinner cigar, lighted it, and after 
 a few puffs, went on. 
 
 "She has lived with Indians." 
 
 "Indians!" Jerry started. Reuben nodded vehemently. 
 
 "Yes, with Indians, and she has caught that grave, im- 
 movable expression which is a mask for everything, for all 
 the emotions. She will lose it one day, and then she will be 
 a different woman. But " he laid his hand on Jerry's, "we 
 must not trouble her, nor ask questions. She will tell us all 
 in her own time."
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 JERRY AND THE BEOWNIE FAIRY START ON A QUEST 
 
 MARGERY took time for telling her tale. At the end of 
 two days they knew no more than when she arrived. 
 Jerry asked her how she had found him, and she replied that 
 she had Messrs. Gardiner's address and had gone to them. 
 But she vouchsafed nothing more, and they asked no other 
 questions. 
 
 On the third evening, however, she went to Jerry's room. 
 He was sitting by the window, ostensibly reading, in reality 
 building that wonderful dream castle, which now grew stead- 
 ily. It only wanted a certain thing called life or as some 
 people term it, reality to become the most beautiful thing in 
 Heaven or earth. 
 
 Toby was out on one of his mysterious errands, and Jerry's 
 dreams were tinged with blackness. Although more often 
 than not he went on his own account, yet there were times 
 when the stealthy knock came at the door beneath the golden 
 balls. Jerry was growing used to the veiled woman, the lurk- 
 ing shadow behind her. To-night, however, they were not 
 present. Margery stood by his side, a little frail figure, trem- 
 bling just now with something like excitement. 
 
 "Sit down, Margery," he cried, jumping up and putting her 
 into his chair. She shook her head. 
 
 "Sir, I'll stand ; I can tell it better when I'm standing. Mas- 
 ter Jerry," she put her hand on his arm, speaking almost 
 eagerly, "have you plenty of money?" He smiled fondly down 
 at her. 
 
 "Yes, Margery, plenty. There's all that was left to me, you 
 know, besides my dear father's." 
 
 "Yes." She stood thinking, yet her face betrayed no secret. 
 
 327
 
 328 When Pan Pipes 
 
 Presently she looked up. "Master Jerry, I want you to take 
 me on a journey, a long journey, a journey of several days. 
 It will cost money, but you will be glad you've spent it. Will 
 you?" He wondered what lay behind those dim eyes; clear- 
 headedness, he was sure; there was no sign that trouble had 
 touched her mind. 
 
 "Where is it, Margery?" he asked. She shook her head. 
 
 "I can't tell you, sir ; you must trust me. Oh, Master Jerry, 
 you'll be glad, you'll thank me. I'll not ask you anything more ; 
 just this one thing." At any other time he would have con- 
 sented without hesitation. But now, to leave London, the sit- 
 tings Mary. It was as though Margery was cutting his heart 
 strings. She stood silent; only by the trembling fingers, the 
 fluttering heart-beats, could he know what the answer meant 
 to her. That something of importance hung on it was obvious ; 
 what, he could not guess, unless it was to renew her relations 
 with her family. He. remembered they lived in Scotland, she 
 had told him when he was quite small ; yes, that must be it. 
 
 He weighed matters; another three sittings, four at the 
 outside, and the dream would be over. Suppose he took a 
 fortnight, that would prolong it. Suddenly his mind was made 
 up. 
 
 "Yes, Margery, I'll go." She lifted her hands from his 
 arm with an almost inaudible sigh of relief. "But " he 
 laughed down at her, "who'll do the business if I'm not to 
 know anything? There'll be seats to be taken, rooms at inns, 
 and so on." 
 
 "I know, Master Jerry," she answered evasively; "but I've 
 travelled much lately, and if you'll give me the money, I'll 
 see to it all; and and " there was just a touch of expression 
 in her face, "if I want any help, Reuben'll give it." 
 
 "Very well. But, Margie, I can't start yet, not for a week 
 or so ; will that do ?" 
 
 "The sooner the better, sir; you see, there's my keep. I 
 can't be taking up the best bedroom and having all I have with- 
 out paying, and I've got no money."
 
 Jerry on a Quest 329 
 
 "That's all right, Margie," he put his arm round her as 
 though to shield her, "I'll settle with Reuben." But he reck- 
 oned without his host. Never had he seen the Jew in such a 
 passion as when he suggested payment. 
 
 "Pay pay! You would insult me with your dirty gold. 
 Ach, you can go go to hell with your Margery, but do not 
 offer me money for happiness." He sat down heavily, ex- 
 hausted with the violent outbreak. Jerry would have expostu- 
 lated, but he waved him aside. 
 
 "You can go, yes, you can go, but never kom here again. 
 And for me," the words trembled, he rested his head on a 
 shaking hand, "I shall be once more lonely lonely ; and more 
 I shall be broken-hearted. Ach, mein yongling," he rose 
 and stood by Jerry, "I am old and hot-tempered ; but stay with 
 me, you and she ; for it is no longer a house for shelter it is 
 a home with a good woman in it." 
 
 Nothing more was said; even Toby dared not suggest a 
 bead in the jar of good deeds, and Margery stayed, making 
 secret arrangements. 
 
 The dark hanging cloud over the hall lightened a little; 
 even Toby's song was heard occasionally. Was it passing 
 for good? But the great cloud of trouble is always there; 
 it moves, rolling on to another place, and as it lifted from 
 the old house in the square it gathered black and lowering 
 over little Cloudesley, over the inn, over its inmates, blackest 
 of all, even dropping its dark bitterness into her heart, over 
 Betty the passionate little heart, which loved and hated, and 
 wanted things so badly. 
 
 Night after night she lay awake, sobbing for that which 
 she had lost, had cast away in her childish petulance ; or star- 
 ing, dry-eyed, at the two friendly faces looking in upon her. 
 
 "Oh, Moon, Moon," she cried, "did you ever see sorrow 
 like mine? Was ever such unhappiness ?" Church Clock, 
 listening, smiled into the other smiling face. "It'll pass, it'll 
 pass," he whispered, adding gravely, "if she has strength to 
 resist We cannot help her; life must fight its own battles."
 
 330 When Pan Pipes 
 
 "Ah, Church Clock, she is so young, and knows nothing 
 of real sorrow." And the two faces watched sadly, pityingly. 
 So young, so beautiful, so lonely; none to help her. Jerry 
 gone; Mary so far off; and Paul Betty's tears broke out 
 afresh when she thought of him, only to be dashed aside in 
 angry pride. To turn to Francis Crewe was but natural. 
 His visits were frequent; ostensibly for fishing or sketching, 
 in reality to develop his plans. Soft flattery, tender words, 
 courteous deference did their work ; the honeyed, venomous 
 words dropped in, assisted. "Paul was still with Louise da 
 Silva," so he heard. "People said he would marry her in 
 spite of all." Already the game seemed his ; only the last card 
 to play; would it be trumps? He hesitated, half fearful of 
 the chance, and it was October when he put the final touch 
 to his castle prison. Remained only the last rivet, the locking 
 of the heavy chain weaving itself round little Betty. 
 
 There was a lingering sweetness of summer in the quiet 
 woods and fields of Cloudesley. Silent was the village in the 
 mellow afternoon sunlight, and in the lane dark shadows lay 
 under the trees. He stood by the gate of the deserted cot- 
 tage, waiting; Church Clock struck three, and trampling the 
 shadows under her light feet, the sunshine flickering on her 
 ruddy hair, came Betty, laughing, tripping gaily, sorrow thrust 
 behind till night came. Dimpling, blushing, she put out her 
 little brown hand; he held it in a long close pressure, gazing 
 passionately into the sweet blushing face half turned from 
 him. 
 
 "Betty sweet you got my letter?" She dropped her head 
 slightly. 
 
 "And there were no questions asked no?" He breathed 
 in relief. "I'm glad I would not have my dear one troubled. 
 Betty," he was very near her, a floating ringlet touched his 
 face, "did you wonder what brought me again so soon ?" She 
 gave him a laughing, coquettish look ; he smiled down at her. 
 
 "You guessed, you rogue. Betty," the laughing accents 
 grew soft, tender ; he held her hand still and drew her nearer,
 
 Jerry on a Quest 331 
 
 "Betty, you guessed a little a tiny, tiny bit but you never 
 guessed never even imagined a part of how I wanted you. 
 Oh, Betty, sweetheart, I love you, I want you, I can't live 
 without you. Tell me, dearest," the voice was a whisper, the 
 dark face so close to hers that she could feel its warmth ; she 
 knew the passionate eyes were watching, watching, till their 
 fiery glance almost burnt. "Say you love me, sweetheart." 
 
 Betty hung her head; the great moment had come it was 
 in her power to defy Paul to show the world that there were 
 other fish in the sea ; and yet she hesitated. 
 
 "I I don't know." For answer he gathered her close 
 in his arms, lifting her to his level, devouring the soft peach- 
 like cheeks with his burning kisses. 
 
 "Now do you know, sweetheart?" he whispered, and Betty, 
 her senses melting like snow by the fireside, her powers of re- 
 sistance breaking down, lay still in his arms. But only for a 
 moment. 
 
 "Let me go, Sir Francis," she whispered, and as though 
 content, he put her away, only keeping his arms round her. 
 
 "I'm sorry, Betty very sorry; I couldn't help it. Oh, 
 Betty, you know not the fire of love. It burns devours. 
 Could not you give me a little in return?" 
 
 She stood silent. The pleading voice had rung in other 
 ears, but perhaps never had their owner used them to better 
 purpose. Almost almost they persuaded. A little time, a 
 few more endearments, and a whispered "Yes," brought his 
 heart to his mouth set every pulse fluttering. The game was 
 his. 
 
 "And you'll marry me, Betty " he cried triumphantly, when 
 the first wild burst of passion was over. "When? To-mor- 
 row in a week. I can't wait longer." He stooped over the 
 shining head resting against him. "Will you, sweetheart?" 
 
 And Betty, the die cast, risked her all. Paul should see 
 when she was a grand lady. When all London was at her 
 feet, as Sir Francis promised, she would meet him one day 
 with a sweeping curtsey of proud disdain. And the bliss of
 
 332 When Pan Pipes 
 
 the present was forgotten in the contemplation of the future. 
 
 So, gradually, he insinuated his way. The marriage must 
 be secret; Farmer Chubbe would never consent to his niece 
 marrying but of her position, and Betty knew the argument 
 was good. Therefore it could not be in Cloudesley. Jerry 
 should fetch her, take her to a lady, a friend of his, and they 
 would be married by licence next morning. 
 
 "Then, my Betty, we'll spread our wings, and fly to warm 
 sunny countries. You've never seen blue skies and blue seas, 
 melting together under a southern sun. We'll go where the 
 air is scented with orange blossom; where roses, crimson, 
 pink, and yellow, make a riot of colour on grey rocks and 
 white-roofed houses; where green lizards creep in and out 
 stone walls, and dark-haired, soft-eyed maidens sing songs of 
 love to their guitars, and the hot day melts into the cool dark 
 night in a long lingering dream of love. And we'll come home 
 by Paris Paris the gay capital." 
 
 Betty shrank away with a little shiver. 
 
 "Not Paris," she murmured; "somehow, I don't think I 
 want to see Paris." 
 
 "Then we'll come straight back to London," he answered 
 gaily; "and my Betty will be the toast of the town, the envy 
 of every woman, every man her slave." 
 
 So the wonderful story went on. The day was fixed a 
 fortnight hence; the hour, three in the afternoon. An osten- 
 sible visit to Mrs. Plumtre would allay suspicion till too late. 
 Jerry should meet her on the high road outside Channington, 
 and before she knew where she was, she would be Lady 
 Crewe. 
 
 Dreamlike, the days flew by; Betty sang gaily at her work, 
 thrusting into the background every thought, every forebod- 
 ing whisper. She would be happy she must be she wanted 
 happiness so badly. Thus, in the dull October weather, when 
 the first winds of winter blew round the house and life sank 
 to rest in the woods, the dark cloud dropped lower, wrapping 
 the farm in its chilly mantle, and from leafless woods and rain-
 
 Jerry on a Quest 333 
 
 sodden fields, Pan's music sang a melancholy dirge a dirge 
 for life dying, for dying love, for dead hopes. 
 
 Sir Francis' elation knew no bounds. Revenge, such as 
 only devils dream of, would be his. And Betty's love his 
 his till he tired of it. A few trifles, and the plot was com- 
 plete. Toby's deft fingers would write the letter purporting 
 to come from Jerry, making final arrangements; as luck had 
 it, he heard next day that Jerry himself was leaving London. 
 There would be no chance of any mishap, and Sir Francis 
 waited in silent triumph. 
 
 Margery, too, made her little plans. Jerry, leave of absence 
 being granted by the earl, tore himself from the dear presence, 
 and now declared himself ready to follow the old nurse to 
 the ends of the world. The morning broke cloudy; later on 
 the sun showed his face. They started from the Beehive Inn 
 in La Belle Sauvage Yard, Reuben and Toby seeing them 
 off, and in half an hour's time had left London behind them. 
 
 In spite of love sickness, Jerry's boyish enjoyment of the 
 country broke out. There had been heavy rains, and the 
 high road, free from dust, stretched wet and shining between 
 hedgerows, each black twig hung with sparkling dewdrops. 
 From the stubble fields rose birds with a loud whir-r-r where 
 they passed, and as the day wore on and they drove deeper 
 and deeper into the heart of England, even Margery's face 
 caught something of the sweet peace of the country. 
 
 They stayed one night at Doncaster, going on to Berwick, 
 and from there into the wild, fierce, north country. Green 
 hedgerows changed to those of sturdy beech, crimsoning un- 
 der the autumn sun, brick gave place to stone, and fields 
 were bounded by walls of the same. Still later, they came 
 to mountains, and a strange sense of something long, long 
 since familiar, something far away, perhaps in another age, 
 took possession of Jerry; that last day of travelling was, if 
 possible, more silent than the preceding ones, and old Edin- 
 burgh, with its hills and stately palaces, brought it even nearer, 
 for with it came back the romance of that fair sweet queen,
 
 334 When Pan Pipes 
 
 who loved and struggled, and wanted things so badly nearly 
 three hundred years since. He could hear his father's voice 
 telling the tale, and Holyrood, and something else, took hold 
 of him. 
 
 From Edinburgh they posted. Through wild mountain 
 passes, by lovely lakes and ruined castles, silent amid the si- 
 lence, the curious feeling of kinship growing stronger. They 
 stayed that night at a wayside inn. "And in a few hours 
 we'll be there, sir," said Margery, as they started in the morn- 
 ing. It was two o'clock when she dismissed the postchaise. 
 Jerry watched proceedings in amused bewilderment. 
 
 "Where do we stay the night, Margie? There's no inn in 
 this place." Margery nodded mysteriously. 
 
 "You'll see." They walked through a wood of pines, giv- 
 ing on to a high road. About a mile further on they stopped. 
 Two great gates of wrought iron, with crest and arms twined 
 among other devices, towered like stern warders ; beside them 
 were two smaller entrances, and through one of these Margery 
 turned. 
 
 A carriage road, firm and well kept, under over-arching 
 trees, was cut through a park, where deer and cattle grazed. 
 Far, far away, on a high hill-top, stood a castle, and as they 
 neared it, Jerry felt the little figure on his arm tremble with 
 suppressed emotion. Presently she stopped, then sank against 
 a tree. 
 
 "Oh, Master Jerry." She covered her face; then with a 
 wild sob, and flinging her hands from her, burst into a tor- 
 rent of words. The soft voice, the quiet English accents were 
 gone; instead was a harsh outpouring of Scotch. 
 
 "It's my ain countree, my ain bonnie mountains, my ain 
 hame. And see yonder's the glen with the lone tarn. Ah, 
 wae's me wae's me for the lang, lang years gang by; for 
 the sin, and the suffering, and the sorrow." 
 
 She covered her face again, rocking gently to and fro. 
 Jerry would have said some words of comfort, but she put 
 him quietly away, smoothed a few straggling tresses of hair
 
 Jerry on a Quest 335 
 
 from her forehead and started again. And now the road 
 left the level, cutting round the mountain side, leaving the 
 building at the top for a time unseen. Suddenly, with the 
 last turn, they came upon it. Four-square it stood, battle- 
 mented, turretted; a bridge, taking the place, no doubt, of 
 the ancient drawbridge, wide and gravelled, to match the 
 road, led under a great arched opening, with windows above, 
 to the courtyard. 
 
 In the hush of the afternoon their footsteps fell on the old 
 pavement, stirring the echoes and bringing one or two curious 
 heads to the windows. Margery took no notice but went 
 steadily on. Thinking that perhaps some of her relatives were 
 employed inside, Jerry stopped and suggested waiting while 
 she did her business, but grasping his arm firmly she shook 
 her head and made straight for the main entrance. 
 
 White-faced, half-frightened, she pulled the hanging bell 
 chain. Clang clang. The silence broke up; some startled 
 birds, feeding in the courtyard, rose with a rustle of wings; 
 footsteps came nearer, the heavy door opened wide. An old 
 man stood in the entrance, frowning as he gazed at the little, 
 poorly clothed figure. He stepped forward and pointed a fin- 
 ger across the courtyard 
 
 "Hae ye no sense o' decency, woman?" he began. "Yon 
 door's for the likes o' ye." She lifted her eyes to his and her 
 voice rang clear. 
 
 "Dinna ye ken me, Dougal McTavish? Hae ye forgotten 
 Margery Lisle?" 
 
 "Margery Lisle," he repeated slowly, gazing silently at the 
 upturned face, cautiously scanning every feature ; remembrance 
 slowly returning, "Margery Lisle," he said again; "I never 
 thoucht to set eyes again on ye, Margery. Wha hae ye been 
 these lang years?" 
 
 "A mony miles fra bonnie Scotland," replied Margery. 
 "An' noo, Dougal, I'm for seein' the laird." 
 
 "The laird." He held up his hands in astonished protest. 
 "Was ever the likes? Hoots, woman, I darena disturb him
 
 336 When Pan Pipes 
 
 at this hour. He's sleepin'." Margery moved up a step till 
 she stood on the same level as the old retainer. 
 
 "A've a message for the laird, Dougal," she said solemnly. 
 "A message frae the dead tae the livin', it'll no wait any 
 longer." The old man looked distressed. 
 
 "I darena, woman, 'twould cost me ma place, I'm thinkin'." 
 
 "An* I darena leave it, Dougal," replied Margery sternly. 
 "Will ye be takin' the message ?" He shook his head. 
 
 "I darena." For answer she pushed him aside. 
 
 "Then I'll gae mysel', Dougal McTavish; I ken the way 
 'tis no the first time I've been here. Let me gang." 
 
 "Stay, woman ye canna gang. If needs be," he added 
 slowly, "I'll tak the message mysel'." She stepped back. 
 
 "Then awa wi' ye, Dougal McTavish, an' tell the laird Mar- 
 gery Lisle's for speakin' wi' him. An' tell him she brings 
 a message fra one he loved. An' tell him," her voice rang 
 clear and triumphant, "tell him she's kept her trust, an' that 
 wi' her comes Gervaise Ross, the young Laird o' Ardelimar. 
 Tell him that, Dougal McTavish." 
 
 The old man's face was a sight; amazement, dim remem- 
 brance struggling out of the past, caution and fear, kept him 
 silent. Margery stamped her foot peremptorily. 
 
 "Will ye no gang?" she cried angrily. He nodded. 
 
 "Aye I'm gangin'." She waved her hand onward. 
 
 "Then awa wi' ye." He shuffled slowly off. 
 
 "Waken the laird at this hour! Dougal, Dougal, the wom- 
 an's mad." 
 
 Margery watched him across the dim black and white paved 
 entrance hall, watched, till he passed through the heavy cur- 
 tains screening the inner hall; then turned and sank into a 
 chair, white and shaking. Bewildered, slightly annoyed at 
 the turn things had taken, Jerry whispered a few words 
 
 "Margery, tell me what it means ; let me wait outside." She 
 held his arm. 
 
 "No, sir, no bide quiet ye'll be hearin' gran' news. I'm 
 no mad, sir I ken ma wark." He stepped back with a shrug,
 
 Jerry on a Quest 337 
 
 letting her have her way; at the worst it could only mean a 
 somewhat ignominious exit and a journey back to London. 
 
 There was a long, long silence ; a clock ticked gravely some- 
 where, the hush of thick carpets, of yard-deep walls, of noise- 
 less servants, the hush only known in wealthy dwellings, was 
 over all. Footsteps sounded somewhere far off. Margery 
 rose, adjusted her bonnet with trembling fingers, smoothed 
 her shawl, repinned it with the agate brooch which was a 
 part of herself, and stood in expectant silence. The footsteps 
 came nearer, they were behind the curtain, a voice and some- 
 thing stirred in Jerry sounded querulously. 
 
 "You're mad, Dougal mad waking me at this time, and 
 bringing me here with some cock-and-bull story." 
 
 The curtain was lifted, a glimpse caught of Dougal stand- 
 ing straight and statue-like. Someone passed through, the 
 curtain dropped. Margery curtseyed, curtseyed again and 
 again, as a little old gentleman, thin, alert, with a frown on 
 his face, came forward. 
 
 "What is it? What do you want?" he asked impatiently. 
 "I'm not accustomed to see people at this hour. You are 
 strangers, perhaps, and do not know my ways. Dougal told 
 me someone wanted me on important business." Margery 
 curtseyed again, then stood upright. 
 
 "Aye, laird 'tis urgent business. Sir " she stepped nearer, 
 "hae ye forgotten Margery Lisle?" 
 
 "Margery Lisle!" He turned instinctively for support to 
 a solid oak chair ; Jerry saw his face change. 
 
 "Margery Lisle," he repeated slowly. "You are she?" 
 
 "Aye, laird." 
 
 "Then then " the thin gnarled fingers caught convulsively 
 at the carving. Margery went on calmly : 
 
 "I've a message, laird; a message fra my dear, dead mas- 
 ter." 
 
 "Dead, Margery?" The fingers relaxed, the slight form 
 dropped heavily to the chair; he covered his face. 
 
 "Dead dead; my boy my boy and yet I knew it I've
 
 338 When Pan Pipes 
 
 known it always." Margery waited; presently he took his 
 hands away the face was drawn with pain. 
 
 "I've messages, laird, a mony, but there's one," she half 
 turned to Jerry, standing between them, "one message he 
 left in my charge, a trust. Laird, it's a grandson I'm bringin' 
 ye, it's the young laird, Gervaise Ross o' Ardelimar." 
 
 Jerry started forward. The words heard before had passed 
 unnoticed; now they conveyed their meaning. The laird rose 
 from his seat, his face ashen grey, and seized her wrist. 
 
 "Woman," he cried hoarsely, "have a care ; if you're telling 
 me a lie " 
 
 "It's no lie, sir," she replied earnestly. "Oh, laird, let me 
 tell my tale; it's a lang ane, an' a sorrowful but there's hope 
 an' happiness mingled wi' it." He dropped her hand, for- 
 bearing to glance at Jerry, and turned slowly. 
 
 "I'll hear it," he said. "Come, follow me." 
 
 He led the way, courteously holding the curtain for Margery 
 to pass under, leaving it in Jerry's hand to drop. As he turned 
 to follow, remembrance again struck, turning him giddy, al- 
 most as a bodily blow. The hall, vast and dim, the great fire- 
 places piled with logs, the oaken screens and settles, the high 
 stained windows, were alike familiar. He remembered, and 
 his heart sank. No real place this, only one of books of 
 the book bought long ago. Giving it a long look, recalling 
 his childish love, he hurried after the others. 
 
 Through another door, into a gallery of pictured men and 
 women he went ; a table stood under a great window, and the 
 late afternoon sun shining down on it fell on something gleam- 
 ing white. Margery saw it first. Flinging up her arms with 
 a wild gesture, she sank on her knees, fumbling for the wooden 
 rosary which hung at her waist. 
 
 "Mother of God," she cried, "dear lady, blessed saints in 
 Heaven be praised ; it's the 'Pan.' " 
 
 Her head fell, the shaking fingers moved over the beads, 
 her lips struggled tremulously in prayer. The old man stood
 
 Jerry on a Quest 339 
 
 silently watching, his face working with emotion. Suddenly 
 she sprang to her feet. 
 
 "Master Jerry, sir, the relic! Quick oh, quick!" 
 
 With some dim understanding he felt inside his collar and 
 drew up the ribbon on which hung the packet. Margery 
 caught at it, broke the seal, but her fingers failed ; she looked 
 up at Jerry, the tears streaming down her face. The laird 
 stood by, his shaking hands stroking down his lips as though 
 to keep them from trembling. Jerry undid the knots and re- 
 turned the bag. Margery felt inside and drew out a tiny parcel. 
 
 "Keep it, sir." She handed it to Jerry. "It's Father An- 
 drew's relic, and it has kept the other these years." 
 
 The second try produced a small gilt key, and she rose 
 solemnly, passing to the other side of the table. The laird 
 watched with hungry eyes as she searched among the marble 
 leaves and grasses of the bank, then breathed a little sigh 
 of thankfulness. The two men drew close and closer, till 
 each was conscious of the other's proximity. Cunningly hid- 
 den among the work was a tiny keyhole; Margery inserted 
 the key, turned it, and the god moved slowly round, his laugh- 
 ing face towards them, disclosing a narrow aperture, in which 
 lay an envelope. 
 
 The laird put out a trembling hand and Margery fell back; 
 for the inscription on it was, "To my dear father." 
 
 Oh, the piteousness of the old face, the sudden look of 
 age ; Jerry's heart went out, and, as with a simultaneous 
 thought, the laird came to him, putting the letter inside his 
 breast pocket; the reading of it was for no other eyes. 
 
 "His son? Margery, is it true? Is this my grandson?" 
 
 "It's true, sir, true." 
 
 "Gervaise, my boy's boy. Let me look at you." 
 
 He led him to the window, scrutinising every feature, strok- 
 ing the big brown hands. 
 
 "Yes, yes ; he has his father's look, and yet " he frowned. 
 Margery finished the sentence.
 
 340 When Pan Pipes 
 
 "Yes, laird, he's like his mother, who's safe in heaven with 
 the saints she was one before she died. Oh, sir, she was the 
 sweetest, bonniest wife that ever man had; never a better 
 woman lived than my dear mistress, even if she was but a 
 village lass, and my young master thought the world well lost 
 for her." 
 
 "Yes, Margery. I've known it for many a year; I've re- 
 pented bitterly, and I've paid the price." 
 
 "Ye hare that, laird," replied Margery simply. "And now 
 the past's past ; 'tis the present and future ye'll live for." 
 
 "I will, so help me God," answered the old man solemnly. 
 "Grandson Gervaise give me your arm; and Margery, come 
 with us ; we'll hear the tale of the past." 
 
 The wonder of it all, the story of a love, long since given 
 and returned, still living somewhere; the sorrow the pain 
 of those bygone days. Trouble, repentance, happiness, hope, 
 wound in and out like threads of black, grey, and gold, and 
 Jerry understood his father's work. For in the face of the 
 god was nature itself inscrutable, mocking, cruel, yet full of 
 love and gentleness, joy and gladness. And as the tale was 
 told, he knew that life repeated itself, that love is ever the 
 same. As his father loved, so he too loved so, in the ages 
 past had men loved, and in the generations to come nature's 
 song would still be "I love you I love you for ever for 
 ever." 
 
 They sat till the afternoon sun fell behind the mountains, 
 but Margery's tale was not all told. 
 
 "Yourself, woman " said the laird peremptorily. "Tell 
 us of yourself." She resisted long; at length she dropped 
 her head on her hands, weeping, and with the tears the bitter- 
 ness was swept away. She raised her head and told them in 
 a few words 
 
 "Sir, they took us one moonlight night, on the prairie. 
 They killed the men and children, and took the women pris- 
 oners. The younger ones " She shivered and put her hands 
 before her eyes, as though to shut out the past. "Laird laird
 
 Jerry on a Quest 341 
 
 with my own hands I shot my young sister. It was his last 
 word as he was struck down, and she begged me to let her 
 follow him. We older ones, they kept, as slaves. For 
 years we worked and toiled, travelling with them, seeing fear- 
 ful sights. Laird, they're written in my heart till the last 
 trump shall sound, till I see my dear ones again. A year ago 
 we came to a city; I was old almost useless and perhaps 
 they did not keep so strict a watch. Anyhow, I escaped, and 
 made my way to English people; they helped me, but they 
 were poor, and could only give me sufficient to keep me from 
 starvation till I reached a port. It took me many weeks, and 
 when I got there I found a boat had just left, and there were 
 many days to wait. Earning a little here and there, and work- 
 ing my passage home by attending to two ladies, we reached 
 Liverpool, but I was penniless, and " the tears streamed 
 down; she wiped them away and smiled wanly "laird, Mas- 
 ter Jerry, will you ever forgive me? I begged my way an' 
 an' when I reached London I was starving. Sirs " 
 she spoke quickly, "that's my tale; it's told. The past's past. 
 Never speak of it again." The laird said nothing; only he 
 rose, and stooping, took the little withered hand in his and 
 raised it to his lips. Jerry caught her to him. 
 
 "Margie, Margie, my dear Margie." So the evening came. 
 Dougal brought lamps; the laird rose. 
 
 "Gervaise, there are clothes of your father's old fashioned, 
 perhaps, but we are so ourselves. Come with me." 
 
 They clothed him in those clothes of bygone days, which 
 after all, were not so vastly different ; the black satin breeches, 
 the silk stockings and diamond buckled shoes, the cut-away 
 coat and smart waistcoat, the frilled shirt, the high cravat, 
 and Jerry, looking at himself in the long pier glass, suddenly 
 realised his position. The pride of race was upon him; no 
 more would he envy the slight elegance of Francis Crewe, 
 his own was a sterner breed. Strength, breadth, height, were 
 his heritage, and he gloried in them. Mary again the thrill 
 of realisation he could marry her, he was her equal, to woo
 
 342 When Pan Pipes 
 
 and win, despite the convent. And with a new dignity he 
 went down to dinner, served that night in the great banqueting 
 chamber, with a magnificence unknown for years. 
 
 " Tis a grand day," said Dougal to Andrew, the laird's 
 own man; "for the heir's come hame to his ain, and there'll 
 likely be merrymaking, an' feasting, and wha kens the end? 
 maybe a wedding feast." 
 
 Margery, clad in a black silk gown lent by the housekeeper, 
 sorely against her will, obeyed the peremptory command of 
 the laird that she should dine with them, and though the meal 
 went almost untasted by two of the three Jerry's healthy 
 appetite was proof against even such wonders it was a happy 
 time, though tempered by sad remembrance. 
 
 Sleep was long coming that night, even to Jerry. In the 
 morning the laird took him round the picture gallery, finding 
 likenesses here and there. Of the letter he said nothing 
 not till many years after did Jerry see it but he spoke of an 
 enclosure. 
 
 "Your mother's marriage certificate was there, Gervaise; 
 the only link wanted to establish your identity." 
 
 The days slipped by. Then Jerry, anxious, in spite of all 
 the new found grandeur, to get back, formed a plan. Ro- 
 mance had come, romance should be kept. He laughed gaily 
 as he formed it. The laird listened, frowning, as he begged 
 leave to go. 
 
 "The sittings," he exclaimed haughtily; "what are they to 
 the future Laird of Ardelimar?" Jerry mentioned no names; 
 it was part of the plan, only begged, finally insisting. 
 
 "Grandfather, I must go. I promised." Fate helped him, 
 for that same day came a letter from Toby. It contained very 
 little, but that little was insistent. 
 
 "Jerry," it said, "come back; for the sake of one you love 
 of your friend, to save me, come back. You must be in 
 this house not later than half-past seven on the evening of the 
 thirtieth of October earlier, if you please, but no later, or
 
 Jerry on a Quest 343 
 
 all will be lost. You will find instructions with Reuben, obey 
 them implicitly. I know I can trust you." 
 
 It was a strange letter, but it gave the final touch. Re- 
 luctantly the laird yielded to his entreaties. 
 
 "But you'll come back, grandson," he cried, almost piteously ; 
 "I'm alone, quite alone ; and you're my all, you know." Jerry 
 answered quickly. 
 
 "Of course I'll come back, grandfather, but I want you to 
 keep it secret till then. Don't let it be public till my birth- 
 day. If Margery hadn't been so afraid of something happen- 
 ing, you know we shouldn't have come yet; so please, grand- 
 father, keep it till then." Wondering, but holding it as a 
 bribe to bring him back, the old man promised. 
 
 "We'll have great doings on your birthday, grandson Ger- 
 vaise. And then you shall come home to your rightful place 
 and learn the management of an estate, the ways and man- 
 ners of a great nobleman ; for you'll be the head of one of the 
 oldest families in Scotland, Gervaise ; few can take precedence 
 of Ross of Ardelimar." And then Jerry put a question which 
 had been in his mind for some days. 
 
 "Grandfather, Gervaise is not a Scotch name how came 
 it into our" oh, the delight of the pronoun "family?" 
 
 The laird's face lit up. "Grandson, the question is well 
 put. Long ago, when Mary Stuart left her native land for 
 her husband's, she took with her certain nobles, Ross of 
 Ardelimar being one. When she returned, they came with 
 her, remaining faithful to her through the unhappy years. 
 A child was born, to whom our queen stood sponsor, giving 
 it the name Gervaise ; which name has descended to the eldest 
 child, for, failing a son, Ardelimar descends through daugh- 
 ters, in memory of that most persecuted and sainted lady." 
 
 To stories such as these Jerry could have listened for ever, 
 for the sense of lineage and rank was strong within him. 
 But for that other love which called him, which would have 
 called him from heaven, he would have found it hard to
 
 344 When Pan Pipes 
 
 tear himself away. As it was, he dreamed dreams in which 
 he was the narrator and his listener a maiden, fair as that 
 other maiden of long ago, whose presence would wake the 
 sleeping castle to life. 
 
 The laird's ideas of travelling were confined to a carriage 
 with his own outriders, and relays of horses sent on before- 
 hand. Failing that, to post in the ordinary way. But Jerry 
 would have neither ; they would return as they came. A com- 
 promise was effected, and they drove to Edinburgh in state, 
 accompanied by the laird, stayed the night, and catching the 
 early coach, set out on the homeward way, secrecy being ob- 
 served according to Jerry's wishes.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 OF BLACK CLOUDS AND SHADOWS 
 
 MANY a time in after life did Mrs. Chubbe look back on 
 those October days and chide herself for lack of insight. 
 
 "I must ha' been a fool," she would say, "not to know that 
 o'er much gaiety covers a sore heart. 'Twas the same wi' my 
 Lady Mima; tho' to be sure, her heart was sore only wi' the 
 thoughts o' leavin' her home there was true love there an' 
 that our Betty never had for him," she would add fiercely 
 "not so much as would cover a fourpenny bit." 
 
 But at the time, Betty's gay laughter and sunny smiles 
 roused all the pride and love in Martha Chubbe's heart. The 
 farmer's admiration knew no bounds. Never a market day 
 passed but some fairing returned with him, nothing was too 
 good, and on the day bfefore she was to go to Mrs. Plumtre's 
 her uncle produced from his capacious pocket a small parcel. 
 
 He watched her open it, looking for the sparkling light in 
 her eyes, eager for the quick embrace, the words of thanks, 
 the warm kisses. He waited in vain. Betty slowly untied 
 the string, lifted the lid from the cardboard box, and with a 
 brief glance at the pretty gold locket and chain within, flung 
 it on a table, and flying to the ready arms, laid her head on 
 his shoulder and burst into passionate sobs. 
 
 "Betty, Betty, lass what's amiss wi' it?" asked the aston- 
 ished farmer, a little hurt at the turn things had taken. Betty 
 sobbed out her answer 
 
 "Oh, uncle Matt it's it's not that. It's lovely much 
 too good. Oh, you're so good so kind and I'm a wicked 
 girl." He soothed her gently; Mrs. Chubbe, watching in 
 astonishment, chimed in. 
 
 345
 
 346 When Pan Pipes 
 
 "The child's tired, master; she's had a long day butter 
 wouldn't come this morning, and she's excited at going on a 
 visit. Come, Betty girl, 'tain't like you to cry for nothing." 
 The gentle tone, coming from her aunt, only made matters 
 worse. The farmer let her cry quietly on, gently stroking 
 the bright hair. For once Mrs. Chubbe was perplexed, and 
 left things to her husband. 
 
 "The change'll do her good," she murmured, as she ironed 
 nightcaps and pocket handkerchiefs, to be packed presently 
 "an' when she comes back, I'll gi' her a thorough good dose 
 o' bark; it's the autumn weather." 
 
 The tears exhausted, Betty cried no more, only quietly 
 resting against her uncle's broad shoulder. She packed the 
 little box ready for the morning, undressed, and lay down 
 for the last time in the little white bed, and with sleepless 
 eyes, stared out at the deep, dark sky. "Lady Crewe" the 
 name brought comfort of a kind; were it not for leaving her 
 uncle and aunt, she would be perfectly happy, she told her- 
 self. He loved her, how could she help loving him ; he was 
 so good, so kind. Of course, she loved him. "I do I do " 
 she repeated convincingly "of course I do; why, I'm going 
 to marry him, that means I love him." With which sophistry 
 she turned over and shut her eyes. 
 
 But sleep was not for that night. She rose early dawdled 
 over her dressing ; the minutes seemed hours. Was all ready ? 
 She went over plans, there was no weak place. The letter 
 written to Mrs. Plumtre had appointed the following day; 
 she had persuaded her uncle to let her go with David the car- 
 rier, instead of taking him from his work. Yes, all was in 
 order. Good-byes were said, last injunctions, and the lum- 
 bering waggon jogged away, the first step taken towards the 
 brilliant future. What with delivery of goods and commis- 
 sions taken on the way it was two o'clock before the carrier 
 pulled up before a little wayside inn. Here she determined 
 to alight. In the course of conversation she had managed
 
 Of Black Clouds and Shadows 847 
 
 to convey to David's mind the fact that she was spending 
 the night with a friend in the town, and would go on to Mrs. 
 Plumtre's the next day. The implied falsehood went sorely 
 against Betty's proud nature, but having begun she would 
 not falter. The little bag containing immediate necessities 
 heightened the impression, and without suspicion her box was 
 delivered at the Swan. 
 
 Skirting the town for acquaintances might be encountered 
 and awkward questions asked she crossed fields and lanes, 
 finally coming out on the highway the other side of Channing- 
 ton. Her heart beat wildly; another few minutes and her 
 fate was sealed. There was still time. She hesitated, half 
 turned, then a cloud of dust moved in the far distance. 
 Nearer it came nearer; she shrank into the grassy sideway; 
 the cloud of dust moved onwards, resolving itself into a trav- 
 elling carriage, quiet and neat. Someone was looking out 
 of the window, and her heart bounded with relief. Jerry 
 all her doubts were silenced ; then something unfamiliar struck 
 her; this was a stranger, and her heart sank. The carriage 
 stopped; its occupant got out and came towards her, hat in 
 hand. 
 
 "Miss Betty Chubbe, I believe." She bowed her head to 
 hide the tears of disappointment. 
 
 "My name is Dingle Toby Dingle. Sir Francis Crewe 
 sent me. Our friend, Mr. Jerry Dell, is out of town and was 
 unable to come; he sent this letter." Betty snatched the 
 folded sheets from him; those fateful words of which Jerry, 
 travelling post haste from the north, knew nothing. Toby, 
 his heart bursting with impotent anguish and remorse, watched 
 the changing face. She folded the letter and stood upright. 
 
 "He says I am to trust you implicitly; and that he will 
 meet me at Sir Francis' house, and take me to his friend's 
 for the night. Is that so?" Toby inclined his head he had 
 no words. 
 
 "Then in that case I will come." He held the door while
 
 348 When Pan Pipes 
 
 she stepped in ; the horses' heads were turned, and with swift 
 movement they started on the journey which was to bring for- 
 tune and wealth, and, best of all, revenge, to Betty. 
 
 Along the great north road the mail coach took its accus- 
 tomed way, heedless of the impatience of one of its passengers. 
 They were due in London at seven o'clock; plenty of time if 
 all went well; but to Jerry it seemed that everything com- 
 bined for delay. A few minutes lost in starting was gained ; 
 a slight accident to a wheel detained them, but by six o'clock 
 time was made up, and St. Clement's struck seven as they 
 clattered into the yard of the Bell and Crown in Holborn. 
 
 He called a hackney coach, hustled Margery in, and giving 
 directions to drive like fury, got in himself, and listened to a 
 severe reprimand on the extravagance of spending when un- 
 necessary. Reuben was expecting them ; someone else wait- 
 ing in the hall seized him and drew him in. 
 
 "Paul you " 
 
 "Yes, yes ; don't ask questions, Jerry ; answer them. What 
 does this mean ?" He drew out a letter. "Listen : 'Come at 
 once at once, if you still love her. Come and save her. Go 
 to the house in the square and wait till half -past seven ; then 
 to Sir Francis Crewe's by nine not earlier. Down a side 
 alley is a small door, the key of which you will get from 
 Reuben Gade. Enter, and leave the door unbarred. Up- 
 stairs you may perhaps know it is the great drawing-room. 
 Here you will find Sir Francis ; keep him engaged till I come. 
 All will be explained.' What does it mean, Jerry tell me?" 
 
 But Jerry had no explanation. Silently Reuben handed him 
 a letter. The handwriting was the same, the directions sim- 
 ilar; it seemed that the writer feared that one or other should 
 fail. They looked at each other, and simultaneously came the 
 words : "We'll go together." 
 
 "The key, Reuben." Paul held out his hand and glanced 
 at the clock. 
 
 "Plenty of time," answered Jerry.
 
 Of Black Clouds and Shadows 349 
 
 "Plenty of time!" echoed Paul savagely. "Time! you can 
 talk of time when each minute may mean a minute nearer to 
 death or worse. Time!" He paced up and down fiercely. 
 "Ah, Jerry, it's plain you don't know what love is. Oh, my 
 love, my love my Betty; what devil's work has been played 
 on us?" 
 
 "Betty!" Jerry echoed in astonishment, "Betty!" Paul 
 turned furiously. 
 
 "Betty, of course; who else should it be?" A vague ex- 
 planation of many things trembled at the back of Jerry's 
 mind. Little incidents came back, trifles which had puzzled 
 him slightly, and with them mistrust of Toby. Paul, fuming 
 helplessly, watched the clock, finally snatching his hat and 
 cloak. 
 
 "Come, Jerry, we'll walk walk till it's time to go in. I 
 can't wait longer. We can talk as we go." 
 
 Even if Jerry had wanted to tell his news it would have 
 been impossible. He had to listen to the tale of misery, hope- 
 less love, duplicity and his heart sank fathoms deep as re- 
 luctantly, yet instinctively, he knew that Toby had been 
 false. In vain he tried to explain away things. Knowing 
 Betty, he thought she might have been tempted by wealth, 
 position. 
 
 "I've written to her, Jerry written, written till only a 
 heart of stone could have resisted. Only last week I sent 
 to her, begging her to think twice before she married him; 
 for he's bad, Jerry, bad as hell holds them." 
 
 "We'll save her yet, Paul never fear," cried Jerry hope- 
 fully. "Cheer up, man, things will come right." Paul groaned 
 in reply. They were turning west; the river, under a dark 
 sky, gleamed dimly. 
 
 "Jerry, if she's false," he whispered, waving a hand to- 
 wards it, "that remains for me. If we're too late, then, death 
 for him." 
 
 Past the quiet, stately abbey, past bright houses, gay with 
 voices and laughter, they went. Paul looked at his watch,
 
 350 When Pan Pipes 
 
 it wanted half an hour, and he groaned impatiently. Jerry 
 took his arm and drew him sharply onwards. 
 
 "A quarter of an hour out," he said, "and a quarter back, 
 or nearly and keep up your courage, Paul, dear old fellow." 
 So those last minutes, each an eternity, were lived through. 
 
 Leo House was bright with light ; the long line of windows 
 on the upper floor glared like yellow eyes into the peaceful 
 darkness and waving trees in the gardens. Outside all was 
 quiet, inside, the stillness was more apparent. Not a foot- 
 step fell, not a whisper echoed. The great hall, garish with 
 its gold and red and white, was silent as the grave. The 
 statue of Mirth laughed dumbly as it caught reflections of 
 ruddy things; no footmen dawdled at the doors, no flutter 
 of a woman servant's skirts stirred the echoes. The house 
 was empty, save for its master. 
 
 In the long drawing-room, Francis Crewe waited impa- 
 tiently. The cards were played, another half hour and the 
 game was his. He glanced at his watch, muttered an impre- 
 cation on the slow moving hands, and throwing open a window, 
 gazed up and down the dark pavement. 
 
 "Damn the fellow!" he cried savagely, "will he never come?" 
 then fell to pacing the room from end to end, and back again. 
 The long gilt mirrors reflected the slender, agile figure clad in 
 evening attire; the polished floor, inlaid with pale coloured 
 woods, echoed to the light footsteps. Backwards and forwards, 
 backwards and forwards, now stopping to look at his watch, or 
 the gilt and ormolu clock on a marble and gilt side table now, 
 with shaking hands, to pour out and drink a glass of wine. 
 
 The pointers of the timepiece moved slowly on. Suddenly 
 a sound roused him ; a sound so slight that, but for the ghostly 
 stillness, it would have passed unnoticed. He stopped and 
 turned quickly to the door, a smile on his face. She had 
 come Toby had not failed him. But the smile died, giving 
 place to a fierce expression of anger as it opened, and the 
 woman, veiled in her outdoor draperies, stood before him. 
 He strode towards her.
 
 351 
 
 "Hester what brings you here?" 
 
 "What should bring me here?" she returned evasively, dis- 4 
 engaging herself from the black cloak and veil. "I come, as 
 usual, Francis for love of you." 
 
 "Pshaw !" he retorted angrily. "I told you not to come to- 
 night; I am expecting company." 
 
 "Yes." She looked him full in the face. With a stride 
 he was upon her, seizing her by her wrists. 
 
 "Then how dare you disobey my orders how dare you?" 
 She stood calm, and her voice was steady. 
 
 "I wished to see for myself what sort of company it is 
 which is too good for my presence, yet which comes at night 
 without stir of carriages or servants, stealthily even as I 
 myself come." He gripped her till the marks of his fingers 
 were left. 
 
 "And by what right do you pry into my affairs against 
 my express commands? What right, I ask, what right?" 
 Again she answered full and strong. 
 
 "By the right of love, Francis. By the love you swore 
 to me I swore to you. Francis, Francis " She lifted her 
 face to him, its passionate darkness turning to soft tenderness. 
 "Tell me you love me still tell me there is no other woman 
 tell me that, Francis swear it to me." He saw his chance, 
 and loosening his hold, smiled down at her. 
 
 "I swear it, Hester, by our love. There is no other woman." 
 
 "It is not enough." She stood straight before him. "Swear 
 again by God in Heaven if there is one?" Far, far away, 
 his keen ear caught the sound of wheels. To get her away 
 out of the house. He smiled again, humouring her. 
 
 "By God in Heaven, Hester, I swear." 
 
 "May I die if it is false." 
 
 "Oh," impatiently, "may I die if it is false.'' She flung him 
 from her with a cry. 
 
 "False, false I know all. She is coming to-night even 
 now. And I may go where I came from." The far away 
 sound grew nearer ; in desperation he turned fiercely.
 
 352 When Pan Pipes 
 
 "Yes it is true. I love her as I never loved you as I 
 never loved before." She flung up her arms with a wild sor- 
 rowful cry. 
 
 "False false. False to your love to me to her. But 
 she shall never be yours, Francis. Never never never. 
 Take back your oath." 
 
 She flung herself upon him. There was a glint of steely 
 blue a thick choking sound. She stood upright; a smile of 
 fierce triumph on her face as she watched him reel and twist, 
 then fall heavily to the ground. The distant sound came 
 nearer; nearer still, the echo of hurrying footsteps. 
 
 The clocks of Westminster were striking nine as the two 
 men turned in at the little door in the alley. Silent, un- 
 seen, a shadow raised itself from its lurking place beneath 
 the wall. Behind them, through the unlocked door it passed, 
 slipping through dark passages into the brilliant hall, where 
 it slunk into a corner. 
 
 Up the gilded staircase, along the crimson corridor they 
 hurried, some subtle instinct telling of evil things doing. 
 Paul threw open the door and burst in, then fell back in utter 
 dismay. Francis Crewe lay on the ground; beside him knelt 
 a woman, weeping bitterly. 
 
 "My love my love " they heard her say. "Francis, wake 
 I did not mean it." She lifted herself from him at the 
 sound of the door opening, gazing passionately at the still 
 features, handsome, even in death; then sprang to her feet 
 with a piercing cry. 
 
 "He's dead dead. He'll never speak to me again." She 
 turned like a fury to the two men. "And it's you " she cried 
 to Paul, "you his enemy who has caused this. He would 
 have killed you had he lived. He is dead. His work is left 
 to me." 
 
 It was so quick, so sudden, that before they realised it 
 she was upon him; the little dagger gleamed in her lifted 
 hand and fell but Jerry was there first. Glancing from
 
 Of Black Clouds and Shadows 353 
 
 Paul's heart it entered at the shoulder, and with a groan 
 he sank backwards. Jerry caught him, undecided whether 
 to arrest her progress or attend to him. But while he hesi- 
 tated there came a sound of wheels in the street below, a quick 
 rush of footsteps, Toby's voice, another the door flew open 
 and Betty sprang in. 
 
 "Jerry ! oh, Jerry !" then with a look of unutterable dismay, 
 "Oh, what is it?" Her eye caught the prostrate form of 
 Francis Crewe; she moved quickly forward, then saw the 
 other, and with a cry of anguish, threw herself upon him. 
 
 "Paul, Paul oh, my dearest. Paul wake up. He's not 
 dead," she turned wildly, "Oh, say he's not dead." Jerry 
 lifted her from him. 
 
 "Betty, dear, he's not dead but you mustn't excite him. 
 Toby," he turned to the figure in the doorway, "run quickly 
 for a doctor." 
 
 Toby turned, but a voice cold and clear came: 
 
 "Before you go you had better take what belongs to you." 
 
 For the moment she had been forgotten; now all eyes 
 were turned to her. Betty lifted her frightened face; Jerry 
 for the fraction of a second ceased to stanch the wound in 
 Paul's side; and Toby, his features tense with emotion, faced 
 her as she stood, half-veiled and with a mocking smile, hold- 
 ing out a paper she had taken from a small steel box. Trem- 
 bling, falteringly, he drew near, forgetful of all save that small 
 thing which meant life. Seizing it, for one short moment he 
 swayed, then caught at a piece of furniture, nerving himself 
 to tear open the fatal sheet. 
 
 "At last at last," they heard him murmur, "thank God 
 for freedom." Quickly he stepped to the fireplace, threw the 
 paper in, and for a moment watched it char, blaze up, and die 
 into ashes. Then he turned with a great sigh. 
 
 "Jerry, I'm free now to go; I'll fetch a doctor. But she 
 must go unharmed; she's saved me, I cannot hurt her. Her 
 crime is nothing to mine. Let her go, Jerry." Before Jerry
 
 354 When Pan Pipes 
 
 could answer he was gone. They heard his hurrying foot- 
 steps pass down the stairs out into the square. Hester turned 
 to Betty, still with that mocking, cynical smile. 
 
 "There are letters in the box which may concern Miss 
 Betty Chubbe ; or perhaps " the smile was worthy of Fran- 
 cis Crewe, "the count may find them interesting reading when 
 he recovers." 
 
 Betty started forward to where the little box stood on a 
 table. Absorbed in her task of collecting those fatal letters 
 how poor and despicable they seemed now she took no 
 notice of the other woman. Jerry, watching his friend, doing 
 what he could till Toby returned, roused only at the sound 
 of a door closing softly. He looked up, then sprang to his 
 feet. 
 
 "Betty, take my place quick ! I don't understand I don't 
 know how she came here, but she mustn't go like that." 
 
 He was out of the room just in time to see her glide swiftly 
 down the great staircase, a black spot in the glaring bright- 
 ness. 
 
 Swift, like a ghost she passed silent, down the red-flecked 
 marble steps. At the bottom, for one brief second, she paused, 
 and lifting the veil, turned her scornful face with its mock- 
 ing smile upward to where he, too, paused. For one instant 
 tragedy and sorrow peeped from behind the mask, then the 
 veil dropped, and she crossed the hall. But, intercepting her, 
 with a swifter movement than her own, from the shadow 
 which lay behind the laughing figure of Mirth, another shadow 
 sprang into life. She threw up her arms, her wild scream 
 rang out, but before Jerry could gain the hall, it was upon 
 her black shadows mingling. The report of a pistol woke 
 the stillness, echoes rushed from their lurking places, shad- 
 ows stirred fantastically on the walls. But that other shadow, 
 flinging its arms with a familiar gesture which made the 
 watcher cry out at the sudden explanation, fled noiselessly 
 through dim, narrow passages to the alley door, Jerry after 
 him. Out into the square it passed, crying as it ran :
 
 Of Black Clouds and Shadows 355 
 
 "Vengeance vengeance is mine mine. Vengeance on 
 murderers and evil-doers on harlots and adulterers. Venge- 
 ance on this great city of Babylon this wicked city, where the 
 Scarlet Woman sits enthroned. Destroy it, Lord Lord, de- 
 stroy it. Send down thy vengeance. Mine is accomplished." 
 
 On they flew, pursuer and pursued. Toby and the doctor, 
 entering the square, stood aghast at the flying figures ; panting, 
 Jerry could only utter the word "Hurry." 
 
 Through the dark streets, mingling with their occupants, 
 the ranting voice upraised, its owner only by some miracle 
 escaping capture. On on Jerry hardly gaining, so swift 
 was the flying form. Its cry came back to him, borne on the 
 night air "Vengeance vengeance, Lord mine is accom- 
 plished." 
 
 Past the abbey with a sudden turn southward to where 
 the river ran slow, sluggishly gleaming under leaden skies. 
 With a perception of what was coming, Jerry put out almost 
 superhuman strength, but to no purpose. The black form was 
 on the bridge; for a moment it paused and turned its face; 
 a gleam of light from the sullen sky shone full upon it, show- 
 ing it ghastly white save where the purple mark glowed dully. 
 With a quick leap to the parapet it flung its arms upwards in 
 wild gesture, crying loudly, "Vengeance vengeance, Lord 
 mine and thine." 
 
 A leap a splash in the dark waters, and Simeon Padden 
 sank, never to rise again. 
 
 Three days later, the river, refusing to bear the burden, 
 washed him ashore on the low lying marshy land at its mouth. 
 
 Pushing his way through the crowd, which gathers to an 
 event as flies to a honey pot, Jerry hurried back. The action 
 had been so quick that it wanted only a quarter to ten when 
 he once more passed through the door in the alley. 
 
 The house was no longer hushed. On the red-flecked mar- 
 ble floor were redder stains still, but the huddled mass of black 
 had vanished. She lay in an upper room, the stormy passions 
 at rest, the scornful face composed and rigid in its last sleep.
 
 356 When Pan Pipes 
 
 Downstairs officials talked in whispers; a constable, taking 
 notes, strode from one to the other, and an excited group 
 of servants, recalled by that strange scent of something un- 
 usual, crowded together in the background. As Jerry entered 
 there was a sudden rush towards him, but, exerting his 
 strength, he threw them off and fled upwards to the drawing- 
 room, followed by the constable. 
 
 Here, too, were changes. Someone had thrown a sheet 
 over the dead body, which lay where it had fallen, and the 
 doctors stood by, gravely conferring. Paul had been lifted 
 to a couch, and the first doctor was stooping over him ad- 
 ministering something in a spoon. Betty, at the foot of the 
 couch, watched with drawn face and frightened eyes, but she 
 made no sound. The big bonnet had fallen behind her neck, 
 and the ruddy hair, escaping from its pins, curled and twined 
 about her shoulders. Toby, near her, was silent too. But as 
 Jerry entered, things stirred; Betty's face changed, she flew 
 to him. He was assailed by a storm of questions, only Toby 
 was silent. 
 
 With the mystery of Betty's presence unexplained he stood 
 bewildered, answering mechanically, vainly endeavouring to 
 see light. Gradually the excitement subsided; the sergeant, 
 peeping through the window, shut his note-book with a snap ; 
 there was the sound of carriage wheels in the square; they 
 stopped, Paul was carried down, and placed carefully on a 
 mattress; Jerry, drawing Betty with him, got in, while Toby 
 and the sergeant followed in a hackney coach. 
 
 Without questioning, Jerry directed the men to Reuben's, 
 and the little cavalcade, surrounded by a curious crowd, took 
 its slow way homewards. He would have gone forward to 
 break the news, but the Jew was standing at the door, watch- 
 ing anxiously the entrance to the square. He hurried out with 
 uplifted hands. 
 
 "Gott in Himmell what haf we here?" 
 
 They lifted the wounded man out and carried him into
 
 Of Black Clouds and Shadows 357 
 
 Margery's room, Reuben assisting and waiting patiently for 
 explanations. There were others who also waited, but it was 
 not until long past midnight that the doctor left, assuring them 
 of recovery, and the house regained some of its usual restful- 
 ness. Margery, a self-constituted nurse, was left, and the 
 others returned to the hall, where the Jew brewed coffee, and 
 Toby put together a hasty meal. 
 
 "And now we will hear all," cried Reuben, with whom 
 childlike curiosity was a characteristic. At the words, Betty 
 flung herself against Jerry and burst, into tears. 
 
 "Oh, Jerry Jerry it's all my fault. Oh I'm a bad- 
 wicked girl I shall never be happy again. Never never." 
 
 He soothed her gently, and gradually the story, her part 
 of it, came out. The three men listened, Jerry frowning 
 angrily, Reuben with troubled face, and Toby still silent, his 
 head bent, his features in shadow. 
 
 "Jerry, I can never go back. I could never be seen in 
 Cloudesley again." For a minute all were quiet. Reuben 
 spoke : 
 
 "Jerry, mein yongling, you must start early and post to 
 Cloudesley; it will be some hours before they are anxious, 
 and you will perhaps be first, and, so there need be no trou- 
 ble no shame. This yong maiden will go with you." But 
 Betty started up and flew to him: 
 
 "No, no, oh, please, Mr. Gade, keep me here a little while ; 
 I couldn't go yet." He smiled kindly at her. 
 
 "Well, well, we will see ; you shall not go if you want not. 
 Jerry shall make everything right." In her quick impulsive 
 way Betty threw her arms round him and kissed him, win- 
 ning the Jew's heart again, as she had won it many times 
 before in his pedlar days. "But there are still many things 
 to explain," said Reuben, with a glance towards the huddled 
 figure. 
 
 "Yes, many," said Jerry, sternly. "Toby, we want an ex- 
 planation." He raised his head. In spite of the haggard,
 
 358 When Pan Pipes 
 
 worn look, the thin face, there was a look of rest, of fear 
 removed. He leaned his elbow on the table, supporting his 
 cheek on his hand. 
 
 "I will tell you; I have always wanted to, but the risk 
 was too great. You would never have betrayed me, but you 
 might have scorned me; and now now " the voice broke 
 slightly, "it is harder than I thought for." He paused. "You 
 know the beginning, Jerry, you know who I am. So does 
 Reuben now, but you don't know all. Long after I left home 
 I got into trouble, in London. I was in service with Sir 
 Francis Crewe, the late baronet. I owed five hundred pounds 
 to a money-lender." 
 
 "Five hundred pounds!" repeated Jerry; the sum seemed 
 incredible a fortune; Toby moved impatiently. 
 
 "I know, I know; it seems a fortune. But in those days 
 I didn't think so, I was young and reckless and " he paused 
 again, "it meant losing my situation losing all the ground I 
 had regained, for I meant to do better to make up for the 
 past. Sir Francis trusted me, and I," the voice dropped, 
 "abused it, in an evil moment, a moment of temptation." 
 Again a long silence. "You know now my gift of imitating 
 handwriting well " The words came slowly, cautiously. 
 "Some devil tempted me, and I yielded I " the air was tense 
 with expectation the listeners bent closer; the words were 
 whispered, yet clearly they came on the stillness, "I forged 
 his name." They drew back with an instinctive glance round. 
 Toby lifted his head and looked at them. 
 
 "Yes, scorn me if you like. Looking back, I scorn myself, 
 my weakness. Directly it was done I realised the danger, but 
 it was too late. I believe, had I gone straight to Sir Francis, 
 he would have forgiven me, for he was a kind, good master, 
 very different from " he broke off. "While I hesitated, the 
 opportunity passed. He died, as you know, suddenly, and his 
 son succeeded. To my relief, the forged cheque was hon- 
 oured, and the new baronet told me I could work it off, though
 
 Of Black Clouds and Shadows 359 
 
 he said, 'Not in my service, Toby.' Well, he sent me away, 
 and Reuben " without thinking, he put out a hand, then 
 drew it hastily away, but not before the Jew had caught it in 
 a warm clasp "Reuben took me, treated me as you know, 
 and for some years I was happy. The cloud hung over my 
 head, it is true. Every knock, every strange footstep made 
 me tremble, but I trusted Sir Francis, I was full of gratitude 
 for his goodness as I thought. Then, this spring, I knew his 
 duplicity, I knew he only wanted me for his own purposes, 
 that I might be his tool ; never, never, would he set me free ; 
 the rope was round my neck never would he lift it from 
 me. He used me ; I stole the letters. Jerry Miss Chubbe 
 forgive me. I would have killed myself rather than do it, 
 but, had I done so, he would have exposed my shame to the 
 world, and my mother " he broke down at last, holding his 
 face in his hands. Betty stole softly round. 
 
 "Don't, don't," she whispered, drawing them away, "it's 
 all over now, and because of you; for if you hadn't done 
 it, someone else would, and then oh, then " It was her 
 turn to cover her face; Jerry put out his hand and took 
 Toby's. 
 
 "Toby, we can never thank you enough. As Betty says, 
 suppose it had been someone else, we should never have 
 known, and that villain yes " he rose hastily, overturning 
 the chair in his anger, "yes I will say it, though he's dead 
 he was a villain a bad man and he's dead, thank God 
 and can work no more evil. Toby, what you must have 
 suffered. But it's over now, done with, and we shall be 
 happy again doubly happy," he added, thinking of the joy- 
 ous secret he carried in his own breast. 
 
 "Yes," repeated Reuben solemnly, rising and standing be- 
 hind the bowed figure, "yes, it's over now. We will start 
 fresh." He stood silent, brooding with far-off gaze. Betty, 
 beside him, slipped an arm through his; he patted the little 
 hand in a fatherly way, then turned and looked down at the
 
 360 When Pan Pipes 
 
 beautiful face, gentle now, with lines which were not there 
 before. He shook his head and sighed; then, as though 
 throwing his thoughts into the past, drew himself up. 
 
 "Yes, we will be happy again; but we cannot be happy 
 without health, and we cannot have health if we do not sleep. 
 So away with you, Toby, good lad, away, mein yongling, and 
 you, mein pretty one, go to your bed, and get the beauty 
 sleep." 
 
 They left him smoking and drinking coffee by the fire- 
 side. Toby crept in to share Margery's watch, after send- 
 ing Jerry to snatch an hour's rest before starting, and Betty, 
 though begging hard to be allowed to take her share, was 
 ordered to bed by the household generally. 
 
 In the quiet of her room, looking out to the narrow street, 
 she knelt down and thought of the events of the day. It 
 seemed months since she left Cloudesley. Was she the same 
 Betty Chubbe who had waited in the high road? She rose 
 and peeped in the glass, and though the features were the 
 same, she knew that she herself had changed from a thought- 
 less child to a woman, knowing good and evil, conscious of 
 a love in her heart which would last for ever; and she threw 
 herself across the bed, sobbing. For although Paul's letters 
 might have been intercepted, though the whole story might 
 be false, there was still the fact that he had fought for Louise 
 da Silva, and the paper the gossip of the town; ah sup- 
 pose it was true suppose.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 IN WHICH SHADOWS ARE SCATTERED AND DREAMS BECOME 
 REALITIES 
 
 JERRY rose betimes ; indeed, sleep had been but a name to 
 everyone in the house. In spite of the events of the pre- 
 vious night, in spite of Paul lying half unconscious, in spite 
 of all, the spirit of happiness was abroad that morning. Toby, 
 coming from his room, wore an expression of care removed, 
 and some of his old cheerfulness would out, for all his en- 
 deavours to look grave. 
 
 "Jerry, will you take me with you?" he said, then, with 
 a different expression, "as far, that is, as Channington. I 
 can't wait another day, I must see her. Miss Chubbe says 
 she is just the same. I told her, you know," he added shame- 
 facedly, then courageously, "as I shall tell everyone; not the 
 whole" the shadow of fear came back "no, not even her, 
 not yet at least. Ah, Jerry, there's a good time coming at 
 last. So, if you'll have me, I'll go and get breakfast ready." 
 
 And Jerry heard his song, silent so long, break out 
 
 Too much care, will make a young ma-an turn grey, 
 And too much care, will turn an old ma-an to clay. 
 So begone, Dull Care; I prithee, bego-one from me, 
 Begone, Dull Care; too long hast thou tarried with me. 
 
 He went in to Paul before starting. The wound, Margery 
 told him, was slight, but the loss of blood had been great, 
 owing, no doubt, to delay in fetching a doctor, and he was 
 very weak indeed, hardly conscious. 
 
 "But there's no need to worrit, sir. Doctor says he's to 
 be kept quiet; you go and comfort them poor things at 
 Qoudesley; you can come back soon." 
 
 361
 
 362 When Pan Pipes 
 
 No fear about that. The sittings had been too long de- 
 ferred as it was, and with the new hope in his heart and all 
 obstacles removed, he determined to waste no time at Cloudes- 
 ley, or anywhere, till he had seen her. Betty was left in 
 charge of Reuben, and though she clung to Jerry with tear- 
 ful messages, and injunctions not to shield her in any way, 
 she would hear nothing of returning yet. 
 
 "And if you're tired of me, Mr. Gade, I'll get a situation 
 in London." At which the Jew smiled down at her and patted 
 the heaving shoulders. 
 
 "That will never be then; we shall not tire of you, pretty 
 maiden." The old house was very quiet those two days. 
 Betty flew round and work fell beneath her deft fingers; 
 Reuben shared Margery's watch, but many times he would 
 sigh and look round, as though expecting Toby's song or 
 Jerry's serious face. He came back late next evening, Toby 
 staying on a few days longer, when he, too, was to return and 
 talk over the future with Reuben. 
 
 Betty, shy when it came to the hearing of home news, kept 
 in the background for a time, till curiosity prevailed and she 
 slipped into the chair by Jerry's side. Things had gone well ; 
 the news had not reached Cloudesley, and the farmer and 
 his wife received it with equanimity, Jerry beginning at the 
 wrong end and coming to Betty's escapade last. It is diffi- 
 cult to believe danger when it is over. Betty breathed a sigh 
 of relief and danced off to prepare a meal. 
 
 "And Paul?" asked Jerry anxiously. "How is he?" Reu- 
 ben knitted his brows thoughtfully. 
 
 "He is going well yes quite well; but he is not himself, 
 he talks wildly, and " he glanced round the room to assure 
 himself that they were alone, "he will talk always of Miss 
 Betty and not kindly. He seems to know she is here. Sick 
 folk have strange intuition, and he says always, 'Send her 
 away send her away she does not love me,' and then with 
 moch sorrow, 'Ah, Betty, Betty, you've killed me.' Ach, it 
 is sad, but we will hope it will kom right. Yet," he frowned
 
 Dreams Become Realities 363 
 
 thoughtfully, "if she would go for a while, if there was some- 
 one to go to " 
 
 Betty solved the difficulty herself. The last sitting but 
 one was on the following morning, and Jerry dressed as he 
 had dressed that first morning, with trembling fingers and 
 sick feeling at his heart not this time with fear of failure, 
 rather with the weight of overmuch happiness. For he knew 
 she loved him even as he loved her, and neither convent 
 walls nor her father's wrath, nor anything in Heaven or 
 earth, could alter that. He could have sung with Toby that 
 morning, for dull care was gone, the black cloud had lifted, 
 the shadows had fled. Betty knocked at his door as he was 
 coming out ; her face was tear-stained, and she pushed him in, 
 following after. 
 
 "Jerry," she whispered with a sob, "Paul doesn't want me ; 
 he doesn't know me, and and I want to go away to-day 
 now." He stared at her, whistling softly in perplexity. 
 
 "There's Cloudesley, Betty." She stamped her foot angrily. 
 
 "I won't go to Cloudesley; I won't I won't." 
 
 "Well, then," continued Jerry, still more puzzled, "where 
 can you go?" She wiped her eyes, then, twisting her hand- 
 kerchief nervously, looked up into his face: 
 
 "Jerry, you'll see Lady Mary to-day, won't you?" He 
 nodded. 
 
 "Couldn't you you know her so well don't you?" 
 
 "Y-yes, pretty well." Her voice grew eager. 
 
 "Jerry, ask her, will you, to let me come to her, to be her 
 maid for a time ? She will, I'm sure." He was silent ; Betty 
 watched his face with pleading eyes. "Do, Jerry, do ask 
 her." He had not hesitated from disinclination; Betty had 
 always been a bond between them, the favour asked would 
 draw it closer. He smiled down into the lovely expressive 
 face. Betty gave him a hug and sighed a sigh of relief. 
 
 "And directly Paul is well enough, you'll let me come 
 back, Jerry. Margery says 'perhaps' but you'll make her, 
 won't you?"
 
 364 When Pan Pipes 
 
 A thousand new feelings possessed him as he neared the 
 house at Chelsea. The events of the past weeks were upper- 
 most, and he could have laughed aloud from sheer light- 
 heartedness. Only a short time more and he would throw 
 away the swineherd's disguise and stand revealed, a prince 
 offering homage to a princess. But patience patience. As 
 a swineherd he had loved her as a swineherd she must 
 love him; not for rank nor money, but for himself, and his 
 heart sank, for he knew that in her eyes he was but a swine- 
 herd. 
 
 The work was nearly accomplished; one more day of hap- 
 piness, and then darkness perhaps, or he hardly dared 
 glance at the other side; such glorious joy, it seemed, could 
 not be for mortals. 
 
 She greeted him as usual ; but during the morning he caught 
 her watching him with a wondering look, and knew that 
 already his secret must have given him a different air. A 
 curious coincidence occurred, paving the way for Betty's re- 
 quest. Towards the close of the sitting the governess rose 
 and left the room. Mary explained. 
 
 "She is so good; my maid was taken ill suddenly yester- 
 day, and until we get another, Miss Gilbert insists on doing 
 everything for me she is kindness itself." 
 
 Here was Jerry's chance. He poured out the tale, toning 
 down Betty's flight to a sudden impulse to see London and 
 himself. To one more experienced the tale might have seemed 
 lame. Mary saw no flaw and clapped her hands with delight. 
 
 "How charming!" she cried. "Oh, Mr. Dell, tell her to 
 come to me at once this afternoon. I will send a carriage 
 for her." And the governess's acquiescence being obtained, 
 Betty became an inmate of the earl's house. 
 
 Count de Cosse had been sent for by Jerry, but several 
 days would elapse before he could arrive. Paul, in the mean- 
 while, went on to recovery. It was the day after Betty's 
 departure that consciousness returned; with it came memory 
 and questions. In spite of Margery's admonitions Jerry an-
 
 Dreams Become Realities 365 
 
 swered them, knowing that until he did so Paul would have 
 no rest. 
 
 "I had such a strange fancy, Jerry," he said dreamily, 
 "just before I lost my senses; it seemed that Betty came to 
 me and kissed me. I suppose it's because, in spite of all, 
 I think of her always. I cannot put her from me." He 
 turned his head quickly. "Did I dream that he was dead, 
 Jerry?" The listener shook his head. 
 
 "No. He was wounded by the same woman." 
 
 "Not dead, then. Ah," he sighed deeply, "I thought, per- 
 haps not that it could make any difference she gave her 
 love to him ; it could never be mine. Well, I have my father 
 still, and you, dear old fellow." 
 
 He held out his hand, smiling, and Jerry took it in his 
 with a gentle grasp, while he turned things over in his mind. 
 Betty must stay away a few days longer, then he laughed 
 to himself as he thought of the joy of reconciliation, the 
 future which was opening like a brilliant rose for Paul and 
 himself. 
 
 But when the end came when for the last time he entered 
 Mary's room, which now looked out on dreary, rainsodden 
 lawns, leafless trees and flowerless beds, his heart sank. 
 There was no dream-like atmosphere now; the governess 
 crocheted an antimacassar of a wonderful fine pattern, the fire 
 burned cheerfully and life was full of practical everyday mat- 
 ters. Only their hearts dreamed still. The earl came in dur- 
 ing the sitting. 
 
 "It is creditable work, Mr. Dell, for one so young; you 
 have a future, no doubt, and will go far. I shall hope to 
 see more of you; my sisters, too, will be pleased if, when 
 you are at Cloudesley, you will call and see them." He shook 
 hands with stately cordiality and departed. 
 
 The last moments were flying by, the tale was still untold. 
 Jerry sent up a prayer from his heart, and something told him 
 that she too was doing the same. A few minutes' silence, 
 and it was answered. A servant at the door summoned the
 
 366 When Pan Pipes 
 
 governess. No sooner had the door closed than he flung down 
 his tools and was by her. 
 
 "My lady, my lady is it good-bye?" She looked up be- 
 seechingly, the blue eyes beneath their tears, like violets in 
 a deep pool. "You can but kill me " he whispered, and he 
 caught her hands. "You can but call and have me put out, 
 but I must tell you, and you must listen. I love you, Mary, 
 I love you I've loved you always I shall love you for 
 eternity; you are rich and a lady and I " he stopped 
 remembering, and she, thinking he spoke of poverty, crept 
 closer. It was enough. With a muffled shout of ecstasy he 
 caught her to him. She gave a low, sweet laugh of utter 
 content and nestled near his heart. Lifting her to him he 
 bent and kissed the lovely face, dawn-like in its rosy purity. 
 
 "Not good-bye," he whispered joyfully, "only 'God be with 
 you, my darling, till we meet again.' Mary will you meet 
 me ? Will you wait in the garden to-night ? Would you dare, 
 beloved?" There was perfect trust in the sweet face as she 
 raised it from his embrace. 
 
 "I would dare anything for you, Jerry," adding softly, 
 "even my father's anger." 
 
 "Then to-night, at midnight, in the oak glade," he whis- 
 pered hurriedly, for a footstep sounded outside. 
 
 "Go go " she pushed him from her. "Betty will help." 
 Betty, of course. Why, the fates were working for him, and 
 when the governess returned she heard the end of a conversa- 
 tion of which Mary's new maid was the subject. He left 
 the house with wing-shod feet. Oh, but the dull November 
 skies were blue and laughing, the red sun shone through white 
 mists, a fire matching the fire in his heart, the leafless trees, 
 the flowerless beds, were only waiting the call of love to leap 
 to life and beauty. 
 
 She watched him go, then stood for a moment as one 
 would stand if suddenly transported to a new world; won- 
 dering almost afraid to explore. The governess put things 
 tidy, then went, telling her pupil to follow. Mary crossed the
 
 Dreams Become Realities 367 
 
 room as in a dream ; things about her took on a fresh aspect 
 the aspect of things in new surroundings ; it seemed they were 
 watching sympathising silently as friends. She passed into 
 the great hall, mechanically making her way to the staircase. 
 The light from a window fell on her upturned face ; the chap- 
 lain, advancing towards her, stopped abruptly, and laid his 
 hand on her shoulder. He gazed into her eyes with that 
 piercing look which seemed to read her inmost thoughts, and 
 consciousness returned. She blushed crimson and dropped 
 her eyelids. 
 
 "My daughter, you are happy?" She lifted her face shyly. 
 
 "Yes, Father." Under the keen glance she grew timid. 
 
 "Such is the happiness which Mother Church gives to her 
 children." He raised his hands and placed them on her head. 
 "Bless you, my daughter." She bent in obeisance, then hur- 
 riedly sought her room, and sinking into a chair, let her gaze 
 wander over the fair landscape of dreams, where already a 
 castle was building, whose foundations had been laid one 
 sunny morning in June. Father Francis' gaze followed the 
 girlish figure; there was a little frown, a slightly puzzled ex- 
 pression on his face. As she vanished through an arched 
 doorway he turned towards the back of the house where, 
 among servants' quarters, looking out to stables and outhouses, 
 my lord had his private room. 
 
 He was sitting idle, his head resting on his hand. A mass 
 of papers and account books strewed the table, the great 
 bureau was rolled open, and everywhere was evidence of 
 business matters, save only in my lord's listless attitude. He 
 raised his head as the door opened, and with a weary gesture 
 swept some of the litter away. 
 
 "Come in, Father sit down." He rose and drew a chair 
 forward. The priest waved it aside, waiting silently. 
 
 "I sent for you, Father, there are matters concerning my 
 daughter," he paused, "I should say concerning her entry 
 into the Church matters " again he paused. Father Fran- 
 cis waited a moment, then threw in a word.
 
 368 When Pan Pipes 
 
 "The time is growing short, my son." 
 
 "Yes." He was silent again, looking through the window 
 with a far-away expression, idly twisting a paper weight. 
 The priest watched keenly. 
 
 "As you say, the time is growing short too short," he mur- 
 mured under his breath. The listener's quick ear caught the 
 words, an expression of alertness passed across his face. 
 
 "Too short," repeated the earl dreamily; then suddenly 
 rousing, he turned and pushed the toy away. "Father, does 
 our Church realise the strength of natural affections? How 
 close the ties, which, once made, can never be broken?" 
 
 "Our Church recognises in the resignation of natural affec- 
 tions the purest offering of her children; self-renunciation, the 
 brightest jewel in her crown. As you say, the natural affec- 
 tions are as steel links in the chain of life, only by constant 
 self-denial, by prayer, by fasting, can they be dissolved." 
 
 The earl sat silent again; the priest's keen glance seemed 
 to read every passing thought. Presently he spoke hesi- 
 tatingly and only one versed in the lore of humanity could 
 have recognised the stern, cold personality of Edward, Earl 
 of Cloudesley. 
 
 "Father, I have known Mary for nineteen years as the 
 daughter of the woman who wrecked my life's hopes; since 
 she came here I have known her as my daughter and 
 as such she has crept into my heart day by day forging 
 fresh fetters of yes of love." 
 
 "You should have destroyed them at once " interrupted 
 the priest sternly, "plucked them from your heart, at whatever 
 cost." 
 
 "The flesh is weak, Father," was the humble reply. "And 
 so subtle is temptation that the seed has grown to a tree be- 
 fore one realises that it was sown." 
 
 "True, my son ; yet even a tree can be uprooted." 
 
 "Nay, Father, not uprooted, only cut down; the roots have 
 pushed their way so deeply into life that they are there as 
 long as life endures." The priest rose his tall, forbidding
 
 Dreams Become Realities 369 
 
 figure hovering like an ominous shadow; he lifted his hands 
 as though to thrust something away; the earl shrank as from 
 a blow. 
 
 "If the seed has become a tree, my son, then cut it down 
 tear it from your heart uproot every shoot; think of her as 
 saved from earthly temptation from the world the flesh. 
 Think of her in that garden of happiness, as an angel, happy 
 in her innocence, in the charge of our dear lady and the 
 blessed saints. And " he came a step nearer, the clear, 
 resonant voice grew soft and dreamily tender, "in such 
 thoughts, those roots of natural affection will grow and blos- 
 som into sweet remembrance and a love above the love of the 
 world." There was a long, long silence. At last my lord 
 lifted his face; the features, noble, honourable, stern, bore 
 marks of an inward struggle. 
 
 "You are right," he said, then bowed his head again. "For- 
 give me, Father." The priest stretched out his hands in si- 
 lent blessing. And when the earl raised himself, he was, as 
 usual, cold, courteous, every emotion masked. He moved to 
 his chair again, and the priest spoke. 
 
 "I will make arrangements for the ceremony; Mary can go 
 back to the convent at once." 
 
 "No," interrupted the earl, "I have promised the Reverend 
 Mother that she should have a year in the world; I cannot 
 go back from my word." The priest waved his hand airily. 
 
 "That, my son, can be easily remedied. Mother Monica 
 will understand, and be the first to acquiesce." My lord 
 shook his head. 
 
 "No my word is given nothing shall alter my decision. 
 But Mary shall go to Cloudesley, to her aunts. I will not 
 see her till I say good-bye on Christmas Day; she goes the 
 following morning." Father Francis inclined his head; there 
 were limits even to his authority. "I will write to my sisters 
 at once; she shall go within the week." The priest rose. 
 
 "My son, you have done well. Meanwhile, see the child as 
 little as possible, keep to your own apartments."
 
 370 When Pan Pipes 
 
 He left the room, and the earl drew paper and ink towards 
 him, rang for his steward, and entered on a day of business 
 matters, burying that other beneath everyday affairs. Yet, in 
 the quiet night watches a vision thrust itself before him, 
 banishing sleep ; a lovely vision, of home and love, and earthly 
 ties; of fair daughters and noble sons, of loved sisters and 
 trusted friends, and ever through the silence came the patter 
 of tiny feet, the merry sounds of childish voices. 
 
 It was the governess who told her, and even in the anguish 
 of listening to the sentence, Mary was grateful that it was 
 not Father Francis. Well she knew that in her face he would 
 read her secret the secret which she hardly dared breathe 
 to her own soul not even to Betty could she speak of it, 
 and yet Betty must be told. 
 
 Pleading a headache, a real one, she went to her room and 
 waited till the house was sunk in silence. Then, calling Betty, 
 she wrapped herself in a dark cloak ; while doing so, she man- 
 aged to tell something of the story, and the listener, with wide 
 open eyes, filled in gaps, finally asking for names. Mary 
 turned her blushing face away. 
 
 "You shall go first, Betty," she whispered, "and then you'll 
 see." 
 
 The adventure was mightily to Miss Betty's taste; she 
 donned another black cloak, and the two girls slipped noise- 
 lessly from the room, locking the door behind them. Breath- 
 lessly they crept down a back staircase into the work-room, 
 where the marble bust seemed to follow with its eyes, won- 
 dering what its sister was doing so late. Opening the long 
 window they stepped into the damp, dark night. Mary 
 stopped and drew her hand from the other's warm clasp. 
 
 "Go, Betty," she whispered, "down the oak glade; tell him 
 I'm coming." 
 
 Betty's light feet made no sound as she tripped away and 
 was lost in the blackness. The charm of adventure was upon 
 her, and she laughed gaily as she bumped against a low gate, 
 and knew it for the entrance to the grove.
 
 Dreams Become Realities 371 
 
 A rustle in the trees and a form came towards her; in the 
 darkness she could distinguish nothing till he was upon her. 
 His arms were round her, yet as she lifted her face, came 
 mutual recognition, and she fell back. 
 
 "Jerry, you you! I thought " and then suddenly the 
 whole truth burst upon her, and she-stepped near again. "Oh, 
 Jerry, how could you, how could you?" she cried under her 
 breath in indignant surprise. "How dare you? You a poor 
 boy and my lady " 
 
 "I know, Betty, I know; but where is she? Couldn't she 
 come? Oh, tell me tell me." 
 
 "She's coming. But Jerry how's it going to end? You 
 can't marry a lady.'* 
 
 "Can't I, Betty? But I can, and I will. And I'll work 
 for her work till she has everything she has given up for 
 me. For Betty listen she loves me me loves me just 
 as I am for myself. Betty, Betty it's Heaven on earth 
 it's it's " his voice trailed away in rapture, and Betty stood 
 transfixed. A little hand touched hers softly; she started, 
 and Jerry turned. With a muffled cry he caught the black 
 figure in his arms, and Betty moved away, half frightened, 
 half elated at the new state of things. 
 
 And there, in the misty autumn wood, with spectral trees 
 around, and the dead leaves of summer beneath their feet, 
 safe in the shelter of his arms, she listened to his tale of love, 
 then sobbed out her news. He heard it to the end, but 
 long before had made up his mind ; Betty had supplied the cue. 
 
 "I can't go, Jerry oh, I can't leave you." The soft cheek, 
 tear wet, against his own, gave him courage. 
 
 "When, beloved?" he whispered. 
 
 "This week perhaps in three days. Directly my aunts 
 write. Ah, Jerry, save me. I am wicked but I can't oh, 
 I can't go back to the convent." 
 
 He held her close silently; then lifted her till her head 
 rested on his shoulder, and her ear was so near that she 
 could catch the lowest whisper.
 
 372 When Pan Pipes 
 
 "Mary, are you brave? What will you dare to escape?" 
 
 "All." The answer was clear. 
 
 "Dearest there is a way one way it leads to happiness. 
 Will you brave it?" 
 
 "With you, Jerry yes." He was silent again; her sobs 
 ceased, and she lay quiet, waiting for his next words. 
 
 "Mary " the words were breathed, not spoken, "will you 
 oh, my darling, it's asking so much " he faltered the lit- 
 tle head crept, if possible, closer. 
 
 "Jerry I I love you I can't go." 
 
 "Then will you marry me?" She turned her white face 
 towards him; even in the darkness he could see her eyes 
 shining like amethysts in a setting of pearl. Her heart beat 
 so close to his that they seemed one, and the low murmured 
 answer rang in his ears like a silver trumpet: 
 
 "Yes, Jerry." Their lips met in silent rapture; all around 
 the dead trees whispered their song of hope, of love awaking, 
 of life. But a rustle in the dead undergrowth told of Betty, 
 and Jerry roused to practical things. 
 
 "The time is short, beloved. I will get all ready to-morrow. 
 Will you dare to meet me the following morning? Betty will 
 help you." She shook her head. 
 
 "Not Betty, Jerry. I couldn't live with her and know she 
 held my secret. I love her too well to let her share my fa- 
 ther's anger. I will come alone." 
 
 His heart was too full for words; her courage, her simple 
 faith, stirred his very soul. But he had enough worldly ex- 
 perience to know that others might not have equal belief in 
 him. Suddenly he thought. 
 
 "Mary, would you mind my old nurse Margery she'll 
 keep our secret, and she loves me." 
 
 "Yes, yes " came the happy whisper; "tell her, Jerry, and 
 bring her with you." A few more practical details, a last 
 long embrace, a promise to meet again on the following night, 
 and Betty was summoned from her lurking place. The two 
 girls made their way homewards, silent, one from happiness,
 
 Dreams Become Realities 373 
 
 the other sobered by remembrance of her own escapade, and 
 filled with doubts. 
 
 Jerry went home on wings, snatched a few hours' rest 
 joy had banished sleep and rose with the consciousness of 
 much to do. There was Margery to tell, a licence to procure 
 to find a priest, a church, and above all, a golden ring with 
 which to bind her to him for ever and ever. 
 
 Margery listened with smiling face, into which had returned 
 all the sunny cheerfulness of old, and nodding approval, put 
 on her bonnet to accompany him, also to purchase new finery 
 for such a day. Reuben was left with Paul. That same 
 evening came a letter from the north; a letter which, in its 
 lonely yearning, sent a pang through Jerry's heart. In his 
 great happiness, the old man who loved him so well had been 
 for the time almost forgotten. 
 
 "In ten days, grandson, is your birthday," it ran. "I am 
 counting the hours to seeing you, and all things are in readi- 
 ness for your reception. I pray God my heart may not break 
 with joy; but they say happiness never kills, only sorrow, 
 and I have lived through many years of bitterness. So, grand- 
 son, start at once and come to your loving grandfather." 
 
 Jerry sat thoughtful. Till Mary was out of London he 
 could not go; the birthday must wait, if needs be. He put 
 it away for the present there were other matters more urgent 
 one especially which was troubling him. Paul was slowly 
 recovering; the count, hurrying home, would arrive in Lon- 
 don that night or the following morning, and Jerry wondered 
 how much happiness was allowable under the circumstances. 
 His grandfather's words seemed to come as an answer 
 "They say happiness never kills only sorrow." He folded 
 the letter and went upstairs. Paul was lying quiet, and the 
 intense sadness of his expression struck his friend anew. He 
 turned, his face lit with a wan smile. Jerry sat down beside 
 him. 
 
 "You're better, Paul, aren't you?" 
 
 "Yes." There was no hopefulness in the tone.
 
 374* When Pan Pipes 
 
 "That's good. We'll have you downstairs in no time now. 
 Did you know that your father may be here soon, to-night, 
 perhaps?" He nodded. 
 
 "My dear father, I'm afraid he'll feel it badly ; he's no one 
 but me. And now " he added softly, "I've no one but him. 
 But for that and one other hope I could wish for death." 
 Jerry laughed lightly. 
 
 "Death! Nonsense, Paul. You're weak and ill; why 
 should you wish for death? You're young you've money, 
 position, everything that makes happiness. Cheer up, old fel- 
 low, you'll be well soon, and laugh at these gloomy fancies." 
 
 He shook his head sadly. "No, Jerry, happiness is not for 
 me; you know now I thought you knew before while he 
 lives there is only sorrow for me. I thought I hoped she 
 loved me. That's over a dream but with it goes my life." 
 Jerry sat silent, wondering how to tell him. 
 
 "Paul," he said at length, "what if you were mistaken? 
 What if she loved you still?" 
 
 He laughed bitterly. "Loved me, Jerry? No she never 
 gave me any encouragement not from the first; and her let- 
 ters what few there were were cold distant. And that 
 last one! Jerry, may you never know the anguish of losing 
 all you love. No she loved him has married him, no doubt. 
 My mission is to watch, some day she'll find the need of me, 
 and come. But love no." 
 
 "But what if he were dead? What if those letters were 
 not from her if she knew nothing of them? Suppose her 
 own were stolen on the way." 
 
 He was frightened at the effect of his words. Every 
 vestige of colour left Paul's face, leaving it drawn and white. 
 He raised himself and spoke, and his words came thick and 
 slow. 
 
 "Jerry take care. Don't give me hope only to take it 
 away." He put him back on the pillows with hands that trem- 
 bled.
 
 Dreams Become Realities 375 
 
 "Paul, it is true ; I told you a lie ; believe me, it was only 
 for your good. She is free she loves you has always loved 
 you. Can you bear it?" 
 
 "Bear it! Oh, my God my God!" The words burst out 
 like life blood from a wounded heart. For a moment there 
 was silence, then the colour came back into his face, and with 
 it, a smile. "Where is she, Jerry? Let me see her, let me 
 hear it from her own lips." 
 
 "I'll fetch her, Paul; lie down and wait patiently. She 
 is with Lady Mary." 
 
 He lay back obediently, wondering weakly. Jerry hurried 
 away, and calling a coach, despatched it with a messenger and 
 a letter to Betty, then back again to wait for his friend. 
 
 Never had the hours seemed so long. Many a time did he 
 repent of having told too soon. Paul's restlessness grew every 
 minute; his eyes were brilliant as though with fever, a crim- 
 son spot burned on each cheek. He insisted upon sitting up, 
 called for a mirror and groaned at his uncouth appearance, 
 finally sending for a barber to shave him. In desperation 
 Jerry gave way; it helped to pass the time. But when at 
 length came the rattle of wheels on the cobbles outside, Paul 
 turned deadly white and leaned back, though waving him 
 away. 
 
 "I'm all right go send her." 
 
 "You'll be careful, Paul, won't you?" he said anxiously, 
 intending to warn Betty. But there was no time the quick 
 footsteps were on the stair, along the passage. For a mo- 
 ment they paused, then the door opened softly. Paul sat for- 
 ward, his lips trembling. It opened further, and she stood 
 hesitating on the threshold, rosy red, with an expression of 
 tender love new to Jerry. 
 
 "Betty!" 
 
 At the sound of his voice, weak and gentle, she started, 
 took a step forward, glanced at Jerry, who slipped behind 
 her, then, with a low sobbing cry, ran across the room and
 
 376 When Pan Pipes 
 
 fell on her knees by the chair, hiding her face in her hands. 
 He saw him raise her with the sound arm, he heard her 
 murmured words "Forgive me oh, Paul forgive me," a 
 quick glimpse of ruddy gold hair against a dark cheek, and he 
 closed the door softly. 
 
 Downstairs he told his tale, warning off all intruders, and 
 when Margery, some two hours later, went in, she returned, 
 nodding cheerily, "He'll do now," she said. 
 
 Jerry took her back that evening a laughing brilliant 
 Betty; provoking, teasing, yet with a new something which 
 made her infinitely more lovable, more winsome even Jerry, 
 absorbed in his own affairs, felt the attraction. 
 
 "He's coming back to Cloudesley, Jerry," she said, dimpling 
 and flushing. "Perhaps with us, if he's well enough. You 
 know we're going to the Dower House soon and I don't 
 mind one bit now." Things seemed indeed to be taking on a 
 new lease of happiness. That evening saw every detail set- 
 tled for the morrow. 
 
 He woke early, dressed himself, wearing the fob chain 
 which Toby, with tears in his eyes, had besought him to 
 accept for luck, and went to the meeting place, where he 
 waited rather than at home. In the porch of the little chapel, 
 new, crudely coloured, devoid of all romance, she met him; 
 but she brought romance with her, and the figures in their 
 shrines, even the dear Mother herself, smiled down, as he 
 led her to the altar, and with only the old nurse and a sleepy 
 pew opener for witnesses they plighted their troth before God 
 and the holy angels for ever and ever. 
 
 He took her away, Margery returning discreetly alone ; and 
 London, dirty, foggy, sulky London, gleamed rosy through a 
 mist of love and happiness. She told him that, on the morrow, 
 they would go to Cloudesley, and he broke the news of his 
 journey to the north ; but of the reason, he said nothing. One 
 day he would fetch her, with pomp and ceremony, with prancing 
 horses and a fairy carriage.
 
 Dreams Become Realities 377 
 
 "You'll trust me, Mary?" She clung closely. 
 
 "Yes, Jerry, for ever; but you'll be in time, won't you?" 
 she added anxiously. "They want to send me to the convent 
 after Christmas." 
 
 He promised to be back before that oh, long before that. 
 And so they parted saying farewell in a quiet street lin- 
 geringly again and again till she tore herself away. 
 
 "I must go, Jerry; Miss Gilbert thinks I am taking a 
 morning walk with Betty, who is waiting for me not far 
 off." 
 
 He watched her go, returning with a light heart and visions 
 of a day when he should claim her openly as her equal. And 
 she, going quietly to her room, fell on her knees and prayed 
 for forgiveness for her love. Then, with a few tears, took the 
 golden circlet from her finger, and passing a white ribbon 
 through it, hung it round her neck that it might rest upon her 
 heart till he should replace it. 
 
 Toby returned that afternoon, a changed Toby happy, 
 cheerful, busy and the old house seemed bathed in a haze 
 of gentle happiness. Paul came down that evening and 
 tongues flew fast. Dinner was a feast indeed, Toby bring- 
 ing all his inventive powers to bear upon it. Margery tripped 
 backwards and forwards, from kitchen to hall "like a young 
 maiden," Reuben told her calling up a flush to the withered 
 cheek, a deeper smile to the smiling lips, and Toby's song 
 echoed from back regions. 
 
 Begone, Dull Care; I prithee, bego-one from me, 
 Begone, Dull Care; too long hast thou tarried with me. 
 My wife shall dance, and I will sing, and merrily go the da-ay, 
 For I hold it one of the wisest things to dri-ive Dull Ca-are away. 
 
 Paul, from his couch, laughed. "You've got to find her yet, 
 Toby." Toby looked sheepish. 
 
 "Perhaps. Yet there's little Matty Golden, the black- 
 smith's daughter, at Channington. She lives with my mother
 
 378 When Pan Pipes 
 
 since since they thought me dead. She " He shook his 
 head merrily and continued his song. 
 
 And when dinner was over, the candles snuffed, the fire 
 made up, Reuben slipped away, returning with a bottle of 
 choicest wine. Toasts were drunk, laughter and gay mirth 
 joined hands and sang together only the Jew's face wore 
 an occasional look of thoughtfulness. It was Margery who 
 asked the reason ; he smiled at her as she sat beside him. 
 
 "My friend, it hurts me that one man should cause so moch 
 misery that his death should bring so moch happiness." 
 Toby answered him. 
 
 "No, sir, it is we who do wrong who bring unhappiness; 
 if only we are strong and true to ourselves, nothing evil can 
 hurt us." 
 
 And Reuben beamed like a great sun at mid-day.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 IN WHICH THE GOOSE-GIRL BORBOWS A SILVER GOWN 
 
 THE count, arriving next morning, pronounced his son able 
 to travel. Calling at Cloudesley House later, he re- 
 turned with the news that Lady Mary was leaving on the 
 morrow, and arrangements had been made for all to go to- 
 gether. 
 
 Reuben shook his head mournfully at the thought of the 
 general exodus. Whether the idea came from Margery, or 
 Toby, or from his own kind heart, or whether it was a simul- 
 taneous one arising from all three, was hard to say, but Toby 
 was despatched that day to fetch his mother as company for 
 Margery. Jerry and Paul laughed delightedly at the Jew's 
 duplicity. 
 
 "Two's company, Jer three's none," whispered Paul. 
 
 He might easily have seen her under pretext of saying 
 good-bye to Betty, but he was afraid of showing his feelings, 
 and Mary, he knew, could hardly fail to do the same. So 
 as long ago he watched the great travelling carriage pass 
 from behind the shelter of a tree. She leaned from a window 
 and smiled at him ; her eyes met his, holding them till a turn 
 in the road separated them. But on the ground lay a knot 
 of ribbon plucked from her gown, and with it a pencilled line, 
 "Come soon, dearest ; I shall count the hours." 
 
 He pressed it to his lips, then placed it carefully away, 
 hurrying back to make his own preparations for departure 
 on the morrow. Taking the journey by easy stages, it was 
 late evening ere Cloudesley was reached. They were silent, 
 each thinking their own thoughts Mary, of the future wait- 
 ing her, and the long hours before happiness would be hers 
 
 379
 
 380 When Pan Pipes 
 
 again; Betty, shame-faced, as she met her lover's eyes in the 
 darkness, remembering the events of the past fortnight; and 
 Paul himself, as they passed the end of the lane, calling back 
 that wild hurried ride in the October dawn only a year or so 
 ago, and the anguish, the pain, lived through since then. The 
 count returned with the pleasant feelings of an older man 
 who has been separated from loved surroundings, from his 
 home and all the daily habits, for a long period. 
 
 The Dower House was lighted cheerfully; its doors stood 
 wide to receive the tired travellers. In her quiet, but au- 
 thoritative way my Lady Karen had ordained that Paul and 
 his father should stay on till she had hesitated a little, then 
 added, "Till after Christmas." And the count, contrasting 
 his lonely home with the other, and its society of women and 
 young people, accepted gladly. Betty, having passed the ordeal 
 of her aunt's scolding, her uncle's loving welcome, returned 
 to the Dower House. "Till after Christmas," she also said, 
 sighing a sigh which was echoed by the farmer, not by his 
 wife words or actions were more in her way: 
 
 "My lord should be ashamed o' hisself," she cried angrily. 
 "Shutting up his only daughter, an' the bonniest daughter 
 ever man had almost," she added, glancing at Betty, "in a 
 convent wi' black nuns an' priests, when she should be thinkin' 
 only o' pleasurin' and lovemakin', an' gettin' settled for life. 
 If my ladies had their way they'd never let her go leastways, 
 not my Lady Kezzy. In spite o' my Lady Mima, they know 
 that men an' women was meant for marryin' and children, 
 same's the birds an' the flowers, an' everything else the good 
 God made." 
 
 Ah, yes my ladies knew it. They had wondered greatly 
 at Mary's visit to themselves, Lady Kezzy with gratitude, 
 Lady Karen, penetrating deeper, reading to the depths of her 
 brother's heart, guessed the reason, and hope, never extin- 
 guished, burned brightly again. Yet she also knew that vows 
 once taken by my lord would never be cancelled. For her 
 remained to take the initiative. But to scheme was false to
 
 A Silver Gown 381 
 
 my lady's nature; for the first time perhaps in her life she 
 stooped to consult her sister, and my Lady Kezzy, with a 
 pink flush in her cheek for it was a delicate subject and a 
 strange hesitation in her gentle voice, gave counsel. 
 
 "If if Mary could love Paul, sister; if if they could 
 be married before Christmas why then " 
 
 Lady Karen rose, and stooping, kissed her sister. 
 
 "Kezzy, I believe you're right; but suppose they do not 
 care for each other." Lady Kezzy grasped her hands eagerly. 
 
 "Oh, but they must, they must. Who could help loving 
 Mary, sister so winsome, so lovely; and Paul " the flush 
 deepened, "is he not handsome and young; her equal in birth 
 in position; and thrown together. Oh, sister, it must be, 
 perhaps," her eyes were shining, "even now we shall save 
 her." My Lady Karen sighed. More experienced, of a 
 sterner mould than her sister, she saw the difficulties. Time 
 was short her brother's anger; but Mary must be saved at 
 any cost. She thought sometimes of consulting Mother 
 Monica, then put the idea away, as a resource only to be used 
 when all else failed. 
 
 So each inmate of the Dower House donned his mask, 
 even the count. In quiet corners, by the language of glances 
 and smiles, Paul and Betty did their love-making, not yet was 
 the time for disclosure. The farmer, whose pride was every 
 whit as great as my lord's, would never allow his niece to wed 
 above her station, and Paul dreaded his father's disappoint- 
 ment, even though it might be accompanied by a reluctant 
 consent. Betty, too, had her share of pride ; not even to Mary 
 did she speak of her secret; secure in Paul's love, she was 
 content to see him in her lady's company from morning to 
 night. 
 
 Both girls carried their secrets lightly, as happy secrets 
 should be carried. Against Mary's was weighed her father's 
 anger. With perfect trust in her lover she had common- 
 sense to know that difficulties lay thick in their path that 
 even those overcome, the future meant poverty, obscurity,
 
 382 When Pan Pipes 
 
 and though they were as naught the thought of estrange- 
 ment from her friends and banishment from her loved home 
 made her grave and quiet. 
 
 If she had been dear as a child, now in the pride and beauty 
 of maidenhood she was doubly so. My Lady Karen, ever 
 stern and undemonstrative, showed her love but rarely, but 
 my Lady Kezzy gave herself heart and soul to her niece, and 
 Mary, responding warmly, the two, in spite of the disparity 
 in age, became inseparable. When two are linked together 
 by love and circumstances and constant companionship, se- 
 crets are apt to leak out. Many a time it was on Mary's 
 tongue to speak of her new found happiness, but discretion 
 prevailed. Not so my lady. Within a week, by sundry words, 
 dark hints and mysterious nods, she had let out their dearest 
 wish. Mary in childhood had heard it mentioned, and now, 
 knowing its utter futility, showed no surprise; her aunt, in- 
 terpreting the reception favourably, glowed with satisfaction. 
 
 As she lay awake that night thinking of Jerry, his last let- 
 ter, enclosed in one to Betty, clasped in her hand, Mary 
 resolved to take a step on her own responsibility. She would 
 tell Paul. He was Jerry's friend and hers, and the secret 
 was safe with him. Not even to him, however, did she tell 
 of that last step taken. She waited her opportunity, but 
 my Lady Kezzy was first. Triumphant with her venture, 
 she plunged wildly into its sequel, and having, by a strata- 
 gem, disposed of Mary on an errand with Betty to Mrs. 
 Chubbe, she artfully introduced the subject to Paul. Like 
 Mary, secure in his own love, he too betrayed no surprise; 
 looking further ahead he saw that the plan might prove use- 
 ful both to ward off suspicion and also to gain time. Lady 
 Kezzy received his non-committal answers with delight. 
 
 "They had not thought of such a thing before, sister," she 
 said, when retailing the conversation ; "now they will see each 
 other with different eyes, and surely surely love will come." 
 
 Lady Karen listened gravely and shook her head with a 
 grim smile.
 
 A Silver Gown 383 
 
 "Always looking on the bright side, Kezzy. Let us hope 
 that this time you may be right." It gave zest to the dull 
 December days, passing so quickly. Even Mary smiled at 
 her aunt's little manoeuvres to throw them together, and on 
 the first occasion, shyly blushing, with downcast eyes, she told 
 Paul, bidding him keep her secret, for her own sake, for his 
 friend's. He listened with thoughtful eyes and slightly puz- 
 zled brows. 
 
 "Have you realised what it means, Mary," he said, "the 
 earl's anger poverty?" She interrupted him. 
 
 "I know, Paul, I have reckoned everything. It means love 
 and happiness and joy, or a living death between convent 
 walls, and I have chosen." 
 
 "Then be it so," he answered; "and you have chosen well, 
 no matter what his birth, for Jerry can afford to let that go; 
 he is honourable, truthful, and will make a position some day. 
 Yes, Mary, it will come all right, you'll see. And now, in 
 return, hear my secret." Her face grew grave as she listened. 
 
 "Paul, have you thought?" she cried in dismay. "Betty, 
 a farmer's niece, my maid; oh, Paul, I'm disappointed." He 
 laughed at her expression. 
 
 "Mary, we've fallen from our high estate, you and I, but 
 into a better one the kingdom of love. Betty will be my 
 wife, and with you and Jerry for friends, what matters the 
 world?" She was won. 
 
 "And oh, Paul, Betty is so sweet so loving. I'm really 
 glad, only " she sighed, "I wish it was over the anger and 
 trouble." He smiled cheerfully at her. 
 
 "It'll all come right, Mary, with Jerry and me to pull 
 it through. You'll see. And now I've got a tale to tell you." 
 Laughingly he told her of the conspiracy, laughing again when 
 he heard that she, too, had been sounded. 
 
 "Suppose," he whispered teasingly, yet three parts in earnest, 
 "suppose we let them think we are going their way. We'll 
 tell Betty she'll help when she knows it is for your sake 
 chiefly." And Betty, called in consultation, agreed, promising
 
 384 When Pan Pipes 
 
 to aid and abet my lady's scheme to the best of her ability. 
 And another week passed. Every post brought a letter from 
 Jerry, each one bidding her trust. 
 
 "A few more days," he wrote, "and I start homewards; 
 then, dearest, you shall know why I left you. Never again 
 shall a secret come between us." A few more days. Why, 
 when she got the letter he would be on his way; a few more 
 days and she would see him again. It wanted but a fort- 
 night to Christmas, which was to be spent at the Dower House ; 
 just themselves and the earl, who was expected the evening 
 before. 
 
 "A quiet Christmas," said my Lady Kezzy, and Mary 
 thought to herself that it might prove more exciting than her 
 aunt expected. A trifling incident turned her sick with ap- 
 prehension. It was as though the bands were tightening 
 round her, and for a time, sudden terror seized her, a sense 
 of loneliness, of helpless impotency to stand before the strength 
 and will of her father, and that other power, personated by 
 Father Francis. 
 
 Mother Monica, in love and gratitude to the earl, had begged 
 permission to work the robe which was to be worn by his 
 daughter on the great day when she became the bride of the 
 Church. No pains had been spared, and, each sister taking 
 part in the labour of love, the beautiful robe became a work 
 of art. Anxious that the ladies should see it, it was sent to 
 the Dower House, to return with its wearer. 
 
 With much ceremony it was displayed by a black-robed 
 nun, and in spite of the repugnance with which they viewed 
 it, the mocking symbol of marriage, my ladies could but ad- 
 mire the patient workmanship, the delicate tracery of the pat- 
 tern, and the wonderful beauty of the garment. It was of 
 white satin, stiff, yet softly supple; the flounces, running 
 round and round in a never ending spiral, were worked with 
 silver fleur-de-lis, and the nun pointed out that so many were 
 the work of Sister Catherine, Sister Agnes, Sister Ursula, and 
 so on, giving the whole thing a personal touch. Priceless lace
 
 A Silver Gown 385 
 
 draped the low cut bodice, the slender waist, while here and 
 there a silver rose caught and held it together. In the morn- 
 ing light it shimmered and gleamed a fairy dress. 
 
 The nun was authorised to ask if my ladies would prefer 
 the veil worked or plain. There was plenty of time if they 
 chose the former. Lady Karen gave a decisive negative. 
 
 "Tell the Reverend Mother, sister, that I wish to provide 
 the veil. The daughters of our house have always worn the 
 same, and though this is no worldly bridal," she sighed, "yet, 
 as the dress is such as would have been worn, Mary must use 
 the veil." The sister bowed her head. 
 
 "I will tell the Rev. Mother, my lady," she answered meekly. 
 
 The little event, trifling as it seemed, cast a gloom over the 
 Dower House. It was reality throwing its shadow, and my 
 ladies consulted together till late in the night, Lady Karen, 
 in a common trouble, stooping to her sister's level, even con- 
 descending to ask counsel of one, who, in wisdom of the heart, 
 was wider versed than she. 
 
 Far away, the swineherd, already a prince, had taken his 
 rightful place; the birthday had become a thing of the past. 
 Each day saw a change in him, as the sense of his dignity 
 and position grew. The laird's love and pride knew no 
 bounds, a wish was hardly conceived when it was granted, 
 and the days flew by in delightful succession. But Mary, 
 through all, shone like a radiant star, always present, always 
 longed for. Jerry, still somewhat shy of his grandfather, let 
 the time pass, meaning each day to tell his secret, yet each 
 night finding it untold. 
 
 But at the end of a fortnight he made up his mind, and 
 that same evening, as they sat over their wine, he spoke of. 
 his love. The laird listened gravely, his face hidden by his 
 hands, but said nothing till the tale was ended. For some 
 minutes he sat wrapped in thought at last he roused. 
 
 "I was back in the past, grandson the past," he sighed, 
 then, lifting his head, sat back in the tall oak chair. "Ger-
 
 386 When Pan Pipes 
 
 vaise, the hand of fate plays with events as men play with 
 the figures of a game moving them to a certain end an 
 end of sorrow or happiness. In yours, a marvellous game 
 a marvellous end. Listen, grandson. Edward Cloudesley's 
 father and mine were brothers mine being the younger. My 
 cousin has no son, and Cloudesley, should I outlive him, comes 
 to me. After my death," he gave a quick glance at the younger 
 man's face, but it betrayed only vivid interest, "until lately, 
 it passes to to " again he looked, then altered his expres- 
 sion. "You've heard, no doubt, that my cousin's wife left 
 him?" Jerry nodded. "Of the right or wrong, I can say 
 nothing; Edward is stern and cold, yet " again he changed 
 his form of words. "She was accompanied by a distant rela- 
 tive the man who, failing a son of Cloudesley or Ardelimar, 
 succeeds." 
 
 Dimly conscious of something underlying his grandfather's 
 words, Jerry listened with eager interest. The old man went 
 on. 
 
 "Long, long ago I loved my cousin Keziah ; she was younger 
 than I by many years, and a sweeter, bonnier maiden never 
 lived: ah, well " the long drawn sigh told a tale of past 
 sadness. "She did not love me, her love was given elsewhere 
 at least I thought so at the time to a younger man; but 
 I may have been mistaken, for she has never married. Ed- 
 ward urged it, did all he could to prevail upon her to marry 
 me, but Kezzy stood firm. He married himself, with what 
 result you know. I too, married, a good woman but not my 
 first love and your father, Gervaise, became heir to both 
 properties, for Ardelimar came through my wife and de- 
 scends to her son. At your father's death " he pushed back 
 his chair, and Jerry, slowly realising, rose quickly, his face 
 white, his breath coming and going quickly. "At his death," 
 continued the thin old voice then stopped. The laird rose 
 and leaned forward, one hand resting on the table, "Grandson, 
 do you understand ?"
 
 A Silver Gown 387 
 
 "I I don't quite know." His voice was shrill and high 
 unfamiliar. 
 
 "My boy my boy " he stepped to him, laid his hands on 
 his arm and looked up into the youthful face above him with 
 a little laugh, half tearful, half joyous. "Gervaise, there is 
 but one wife for you in the wide world, one only, who shall 
 unite the lands and wealth of Cloudesley and Ardelimar; one 
 only and that is " Jerry started to his feet with sudden 
 understanding. 
 
 "That is Mary Cloudesley!" he almost shouted. "Grand- 
 father, grandfather." He had fallen forward on the table, his 
 head on his arms, a storm of emotion fighting for outlet. The 
 laird put his hand on the heaving shoulders waiting for the 
 flood to pass. 
 
 "Yes, Gervaise, it's true; only grandson, lift your head 
 for you've made one mistake." Jerry obeyed in wonderment ; 
 the laird was smiling. "Not Mary Cloudesley, if what you tell 
 me is right, but Mary Ross." 
 
 "Yes " he sprang to his feet "yes, it's true. Oh, grand- 
 father, grandfather, the fates have indeed brought us to a 
 happy ending." Instinctively, as men do in times of tension, 
 they grasped hands, letting the tide of emotion surge and 
 flow and ebb before they spoke. 
 
 "Grandfather," youth recovers itself before age, "I suppose 
 now there will be no difficulty with " he broke off, flush- 
 ing at the familiarity of the new title, then compromising "the 
 earl, I mean about the convent." The laird was grave. 
 
 "I think I hope not. Edward is stern relentless; yet, 
 surely, in this case " he stopped, then continued more cheer- 
 fully, "but we'll go together, grandson; he will perhaps listen 
 to me for I too have known trouble," he added softly, "from 
 my own pride, and have repented, as perhaps he may." 
 
 "Then we'll go at once to-morrow," cried Jerry joyfully. 
 The laird shook his head and smiled. 
 
 "There must be some preparations, Gervaise; when Ross
 
 388 When Pan Pipes 
 
 of Ardelimar brings home his bride, it must be in state. We 
 will start in two days, arriving at Cloudesley by the twentieth, 
 which will give us time for explanations and a joyous Christ- 
 mas." 
 
 Jerry saw no objection ; the delight of fetching his princess 
 with the pomp and grandeur of a prince, almost compensated 
 for the delay. And then fate, hitherto so kind, in its usual 
 tricksy freakish fashion, ordained differently. He woke next 
 morning to a white land. The snow, falling noiselessly, lay 
 deep on mountain sides, deeper still in the valleys. The laird 
 looked anxiously out and gave orders to hasten the prepara- 
 tions. But state liveries, laid by for many long" years, are 
 not quickly restored, and the repairing of a travelling car- 
 riage takes time. 
 
 The laird fretted and fumed, gave orders, cancelled them, 
 issued new ones, in short, would have retarded instead of 
 hastening matters, but for the sublime indifference of the 
 servants who, knowing their master, worked stolidly on. And 
 the snow fell fell softly softly. At last all was finished, 
 and on the morning of the sixteenth of December they started, 
 the laird in a state of ferment almost surpassing his grand- 
 son's. The white flakes, like a fine veil, seemed to mock 
 them as they drove through the archway. 
 
 They had been two days on their journey when Mary re- 
 ceived the letter telling her the date of arrival. She shed 
 a few tears as she read it, for the past weeks had been stren- 
 uous. With perfect trust in him she could hardly help won- 
 dering what business had kept him so long away, nor imag- 
 ining how, in the case of delay, she should bear her father's 
 wrath unaided. Now, the weight was lifted another three 
 days and he would come ; she would not be alone. 
 
 The gentle voice had a new note of happiness; the lovely 
 face was lit with something more than mere surface beauty, 
 and my ladies rejoiced; things were going well. In a day or 
 two they would take the final step, and, if possible Lady 
 Kezzy shrank from the thought, yet bravely determined to
 
 A Silver Gown 389 
 
 face her brother's anger if possible, the wedding should be 
 on the twenty-third. 
 
 To Paul came the first intimation of the plot deepening. 
 Summoned by my ladies one morning he found them in a 
 state of fluttered agitation. The conversation, hovering round 
 trivial subjects, gradually worked towards the desired end. 
 Lady Karen helped her sister's faltering words with a few 
 blunt sentences. 
 
 "The fact is this, Paul," she said, "Mary must be saved 
 at any cost; I repeat, at any cost. You are equals in birth, 
 in position you love each other. Ah, Paul " she rose, and 
 standing behind him as he sat at the table, laid her hand 
 softly on his shoulder, "my dear boy, will you help us and 
 her?" He looked up into the stern, dark face, soft now 
 
 "Of course I will, Lady Karen. I love Mary, and if it is 
 in my power to save her, God knows I will do it, cost what 
 it may." Lady Kezzy jumped up, and running round the 
 table caught his hand. 
 
 "I knew you would; oh, Paul you've saved her. If only 
 you'll " she broke off, glancing at her sister, "tell him, Karen." 
 My lady obeyed, her stern voice faltering a little. 
 
 "We thought, Paul if you love each other that, once 
 married Mary could refuse to obey her father, and " He 
 stopped her. 
 
 "Do you mean that that we should " 
 
 "Yes," she finished the sentence in her usual way, "I do. 
 I mean that, before Christmas, you should marry Mary here 
 secretly." He shook his head. 
 
 "It could not be, Lady Karen ; Mary would never consent." 
 
 "Will you ask her?" she replied eagerly. He was silent; 
 time was everything, and there was the keeping of their se^- 
 crets. 
 
 "I will ask her, certainly, as you wish it, but " again he 
 shook his head ; Lady Kezzy broke in : 
 
 "But you'll urge it, dear boy; oh, Paul save her. Go 
 now at once and let us have her answer." He thought
 
 390 When Pan Pipes 
 
 things over as he left them. It was the eighteenth, any mo- 
 ment Jerry might come only let matters lie quiet till then. 
 He found Betty and told her. She, too, shook her head, but 
 advised tactful delay. 
 
 "Suppose he doesn't come, Paul, till till " 
 
 "Ah, then then we must find some other plan; but he'll 
 come, Betty, trust Jerry." 
 
 And still the snow fell day after day. Far away in the 
 north a great travelling carriage struggled on through the 
 soft white carpet, growing deeper every hour. Darkness fell, 
 and the tired horses, plunging wildly, sank to their knees ; the 
 carriage gave a lunge forward, then to the side, finally settling 
 down and down till it came to a standstill. The laird pushed 
 open a window and looked out. The flare of lanterns fell on 
 the white expanse, on the faces of men loosening the fright- 
 ened horses with shouts and encouraging words. For a mo- 
 ment he watched, then called "Andrew!" 
 
 "Aye, laird." The old servant came to the carriage door. 
 
 "You must take lanterns and two of the boys, and go seek 
 help; shovels and ropes, and men, if possible. We must get 
 out at any cost. Go at once." 
 
 "Ay, laird." 
 
 In five minutes the men had dispersed, Andrew and two of 
 the postillions going east, the coachman and the others turn- 
 ing to the west, leaving the remainder of the party to wait 
 with what patience they could. In an hour it seemed like 
 months they returned, bringing two shepherds with the neces- 
 sary tools, and the news that they were a mile off the main 
 road and ten from a village. The laird groaned again. 
 
 "Get us out, lads," he cried, "to the high road; we can- 
 not wait." But it was not till midnight that the main thor- 
 oughfare was regained; step by step, a man at each leader's 
 head, the tired horses accomplished the ten miles, and morn- 
 ing light saw outlines of cottages, marking a halt. Here a 
 short rest was imperative and farm horses found to take them 
 to the next posting town.
 
 A Silver Gown 391 
 
 So, almost inch by inch, they fought their way, meeting 
 no vehicle, except once the mail coach, like their own delayed 
 by a detour and a drift, like them already a day late and 
 likely to be more. It was the night of the twentieth when 
 they arrived in Edinburgh, only to hear fearful tales of moun- 
 tain passes lost in the snow, of highwaymen, of coaches held 
 up, even of the rifling of her Majesty's mail bags. In no 
 wise daunted they pressed on, taking little rest, and found that 
 money can do most things. York was reached and from there 
 the roads were comparatively clear. The laird breathed. 
 
 "We shall do it, grandson if all goes well." 
 
 Jerry had few words ; he thought of his love waiting, count- 
 ing the hours; of her anguish as the days passed. Did she 
 still trust him? And his heart said "Yes yes." Time time 
 was all he wanted, and he urged the laird to still greater 
 efforts. 
 
 But of the real anguish he could hardly guess. As the 
 long expected day passed, her heart sank low and lower. 
 She strove to maintain her usual demeanour, but when the 
 following morning broke, and the hours went by, bringing 
 no sign, no message, she fled to Paul, sobbing out her grief, 
 while he listened with troubled face. 
 
 "Paul, Paul, save me oh, save me! What if he does not 
 come in time? Once back in the convent I am lost. Oh, 
 help me help me ! If you only knew all." He turned from 
 his musing. 
 
 "What more is there, Mary? Tell me, dear everything." 
 And in her despair, with frightened glances round, she clung 
 to him, whispering her secret in his ear in tones so low he had 
 to bend to hear. 
 
 "Mary " he caught her hand, "brave girl a marriage with 
 me would be a mock one; and time time yes." 
 
 He talked, persuaded, finally leaving her comforted, and 
 with a promise that if to-morrow passed without Jerry, she 
 would go through the form of marriage, and taking Betty, 
 they three would journey to London, seek out Reuben, and lie
 
 392 When Pan Pipes 
 
 hid there till Jerry should return. A wild scheme, worthy 
 of youth and romance. 
 
 Paul went to my ladies' sitting-room to give his final an- 
 swer. He found Mrs. Chubbe with them, and the beautiful 
 dress with its attendant fineries spread on a couch, having 
 been displayed to the old servant. She took her leave as 
 he entered, curtseying deeply as she went. Lady Karen looked 
 up expectantly. "Is it 'y es / Paul?" she asked, and with a 
 little laugh he inclined his head. Lady Kezzy sprang towards 
 him, half sobbing. 
 
 "Paul, Paul, she's saved our dear one." For a moment my 
 Lady Karen turned not even at that moment would she be- 
 tray emotion then swept towards them, stately, majestic, and 
 holding him, looked straight into his eyes. 
 
 "Dear boy, you'll make her happy, won't you? Remember, 
 she has been gently brought up." He took her hand. 
 
 "She shall be happy, Lady Karen. She shall have love, 
 devotion, such as few women have." She was silent, then 
 lightly turned the subject. 
 
 "Come and see the sisters' beautiful work, Paul," and the 
 next half hour was spent in displaying the dainty fineries and 
 making arrangements for the ceremony. Paul admired, even 
 handled the glittering dress, the priceless lace of the veil. As 
 he did so, a sudden thought leaped to his brain a wonderful, 
 daring thought no an inspiration. He heard their voices 
 as from a distance; his brain was awhirl. He could think of 
 nothing but the wild suggestion, which grew clearer every 
 moment. At the first opportunity he took his departure, and 
 going straight to Betty, told of the glorious new born thought. 
 
 So again the long day passed ; night came, and the morning 
 of the twenty-third dawned. Mary's white face was accounted 
 for by the coming excitement, but Betty's usually pale cheeks 
 were flushed, her sparkling eyes gentle and sweet, and the 
 saucy head drooped shyly as she met his longing gaze. 
 
 That day came a gleam of hope; tales reached them of 
 the heavy snowstorms in the north, of coaches delayed, and
 
 A Silver Gown 393 
 
 Mary's heart leaped for joy. Time time was all that was 
 needed, and she breathed relief as she thought of Paul's won- 
 derful plan. 
 
 And all that day the carriage, with its fast horses urged 
 on by excited post boys, fled over the now cleared roads, 
 passing every vehicle, even the mail coach, and, only pausing 
 to change horses, arrived in London at ten o'clock. Cramped 
 and stiff with long sitting, the laird went to his room for a 
 short rest and to prepare for the last part of the journey. 
 A messenger was despatched to Highgate, where Mr. Gardiner 
 had his private house, to drag him, if necessary, from his bed, 
 and then Jerry broached his request, knowing it to be already 
 granted. 
 
 "Grandfather, I want Margery with us, and Reuben and 
 Toby; do you mind?" The laird turned, half smiling, half 
 sadly. 
 
 "Gervaise, understand your will is law; there is no need 
 to ask. Command. Give your orders as my grandson." So 
 away to the house in the square ; with galloping horses and a 
 coach only inferior to the one which was to take them to 
 Cloudesley. 
 
 He found them seated round the fire, a cheerful, happy 
 party, and as they greeted each other with handshakes and 
 loving words, he told his tale, only to find it already known. 
 A glance at Margery's face betrayed the culprit, but she braved 
 it out. 
 
 "It had to be known, Master Jerry sir, I mean and I 
 knew there'd be little or no time, and " she excused herself, 
 " 'twas but to-day I told them." 
 
 "And now," cried Jerry, "put on your bonnet, Margery, 
 the best one, and hurry, for I'm going to fetch her; and you, 
 my dear, dear friends, must come too all, Toby, Mrs. Plum- 
 tre." Laughing, hurrying, Mrs. Plumtre in everyone's way, 
 they departed; but Toby lingered to whisper in Jerry's ear 
 with a chuckle : 
 
 "They've done it, Jerry while you were away." And then,
 
 394 When Pan Pipes 
 
 in answer to the surprised look, "they Reuben Margery." 
 And Jerry, understanding, joined in the chuckle. There was 
 time to spare when they returned, warmly clad for the long 
 journey; and sitting over the fire Reuben told his news. Mar- 
 gery would fain have slipped away, but he held her close. 
 
 "And so, mein yongling, I am no more lonely. When I 
 thought of the house without you and Toby without her 
 I thought I would go mad ; for how should she so good so 
 sweet how should she want an old fellow a Jew not even 
 an Englishman ; and yet so strange is woman she said yes 
 and so " this very shamefacedly, "and so, since you, mein 
 yongling, haf shown the way we went, one morning and 
 and " he shook his head and gazed fondly at the little bent 
 form by his side, the little worn, hard-working hand held in 
 his great one. There was a few minutes' silence, then he 
 spoke again. 
 
 "Mein yongling, you are now a great gentleman; yet still 
 so dear to me you are, I must call you by that name. We 
 my wife," this very proudly, "and I haf a favour to ask. 
 Will you let us haf the cottage? I will give good price; we 
 cannot always live here, and I want no more to play the 
 pedlar." 
 
 And then Jerry got some of his own back. 
 
 "Do you want to insult me, Reuben? The cottage is Mar- 
 gery's when it is mine to give. At present, you or I must 
 ask my lord." The Jew nodded. 
 
 "I will pay him well; for, listen, mein yongling my wife 
 and all, I am a rich man; I can do what I please, and 
 now " his voice rose with vehement emphasis; jumping up 
 he stepped on the stool, and from the high shelf fetched 
 down the "jar of good deeds." "Now, with her, my madchen," 
 he lifted her hand and kissed the fingers lightly, while Jerry 
 could scarcely refrain from a laugh at the appellation, "I 
 want no more such things. I will put them away; the bottles 
 will do for lotions and pheeziques; the beads we will keep 
 for seven years and then turn them over for luck; they will
 
 A Silver Gown 395 
 
 kom handy some time." Then, suddenly catching an amused 
 glance on Jerry's face, and a certain comical look on Toby's, 
 he started forward, bottle in hand. 
 
 "Nein, nein," he shouted, "I will not I will no longer be 
 mizaire. They shall go this minute to the fire." 
 
 Suiting the action to the words he would have thrown 
 them in but for Jerry and Toby, who, bubbling over with 
 laughter, held his arms. 
 
 "No, no," they cried, "keep them give them to Margery 
 anything but not that." With a sudden inspiration Reuben 
 turned gleefully. 
 
 "I haf it I haf it. We will give them to Margery for 
 'keeps/ as the children say ; and one day " here came a won- 
 derful winking, "one day, they shall make a necklace for some 
 child I will not say whose but " the winking was so pro- 
 fuse that Jerry and Toby held each other, swaying weakly 
 with laughter: Even Margery, though not completely under- 
 standing, smiled and nodded admiringly at the stout, big- 
 featured man, seeing beauties wholly imperceptible to the ordi- 
 nary eye. 
 
 But time was up. Outside the fresh horses pawed impa- 
 tiently; Mrs. Plumtre and Margery, after agitated curtseyings 
 and polite, "After you, m'am's," took their seats; Jerry and 
 Toby followed; Reuben, locking up, and taking a final glance 
 at the dark, three-sided old house, joined them, and the cobble 
 stones of the square echoed with the sound of wheels and 
 fast trotting horses. 
 
 They picked up the laird's carriage at the Bull and Crown, 
 also Mr. Gardiner, long whiskered, apathetic as usual, and 
 feebly murmuring, "Romance romance this great city of 
 London is full of it." 
 
 And then away away from dingy streets, into the snow- 
 clad country.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 AND THE SWINEHERD COMES TO HIS OWN 
 
 CHRISTMAS EVE broke on a glittering world; sunshine 
 gleamed on never ending whiteness. My ladies smiled 
 and nodded, encouraging each other, putting aside the future 
 in the joy of the present. Secrecy must be observed, and 
 Betty was given a long day's holiday to spend with her aunt. 
 Dressed in her best she departed openly, but within ten min- 
 utes was back in Mary's room, laughing gleefully. Opening 
 a cupboard, she stepped in, Mary locking the door upon her, 
 and sat demurely down till further notice. 
 
 My ladies dusted the chapel themselves. Father Andrew 
 was admitted by the garden door, and the chapel was closed 
 and barred while my ladies made themselves ready for the 
 ceremony. Lady Kezzy would fain have helped her niece, 
 but Mary threw her arms round her and begged to be alone 
 till everything was ready; reluctantly her aunt gave way. 
 
 Church Clock struck ten. Mary, having seen the last prep- 
 arations completed, went to her room, carefully barred the 
 door, and stepped lightly to the cupboard. 
 
 "It's I, Betty Mary." The door opened cautiously, and 
 from the folds of a lavender silk gown, peeped Betty's laugh- 
 ing face. She drew her out, smiling gravely. 
 
 "It's time, Betty. We must dress." But Betty, wrapped 
 in blissful contemplation of the glories spread out on couches 
 and chairs, heard nothing. The silver gown, worked by the 
 nuns' patient fingers, lay on a table, the glittering fabric 
 catching on one side every gleam of the wintry sunshine, on 
 the other, deepening to flaring rose-colour in the glow of a 
 great wood fire. Even Betty sobered as she thought of its 
 
 396
 
 The Swineherd Comes to His Own 397 
 
 original purpose ; her Catholic upbringing gave her conscience 
 a sudden qualm. Crossing herself, she turned and slowly 
 began to take off the homely garments, Mary helping with 
 trembling hands. But it was not until she lifted the shining 
 silver robe that the full enormity of the deed burst upon her. 
 Throwing it aside she flung her arms round the other with a 
 stifled sob. 
 
 "Oh, my lady my lady. I'm frightened the future. 
 Will Paul love me always? Will he be ashamed of me? 
 Will he be cold and look down on me? Oh, help me help 
 me I'm afraid." The warm embrace tightened; Mary's 
 voice was tender and low. 
 
 "Hush, hush, Betty," she whispered. "Paul loves you too 
 dearly; hasn't he shown it all these years? And other peo- 
 ple, with me for your friend," there was just a touch of 
 worldly pride, strange in one, who, within a week, would 
 renounce such things for ever, "would not dare to slight you." 
 Betty lifted her head, and looked with surprise into the sweet, 
 fair face. 
 
 "But but you won't be here you'll " Something in the 
 blue eyes arrested her "What what ?" 
 
 Lady Mary drew her near their heads lay close together 
 gold of the cornfield, gold of the copper beech, met and 
 mingled beneath the pale sun's beams, and in the silence her 
 whisper fell on Betty's ears like the triumphant voice of an 
 angel. She fell back, threw up her arms with a cry, stifled 
 in time, then with a rapturous embrace, caught the other to 
 her. 
 
 "Oh, my brave darling my beautiful lady my my " 
 They clung to each other, crying, laughing under their breath. 
 
 At last Mary roused herself to a sense of time; Church 
 Clock in the distance struck the half hour. 
 
 "Betty, we must be quick." Betty disengaged herself, 
 pirouetted round the room, then once more lifted the beautiful 
 dress. 
 
 "I'll be brave, too," she said, "and Paul will help me. We
 
 398 When Pan Pipes 
 
 together will face my lord and my ladies. For I love him 
 oh, so dearly ; but you " she caught the hands busily arrang- 
 ing the glittering folds. "Oh, poor Mary poor, poor girl." 
 Mary raised her sweet face, and it glowed with a love equal 
 to the sparkling light on Betty's. 
 
 "No, not poor; happy, so happy for he will come I 
 know." 
 
 "I was thinking of my lord," said Betty simply, and a shade 
 passed over the beautiful face. 
 
 A soft knock on the door, and Lady Kezzy's voice startled 
 them into action. Mary lifted her finger in a warning ges- 
 ture as she answered ; the light footsteps passed on, and there 
 was silence as Betty fastened the dress and clasped a neck- 
 lace of pearls round her white neck. Mary lifted the thick 
 veil, having previously thrown a light net over Betty's head, 
 making recognition still more difficult. 
 
 "If only your hair and eyes were lighter," she murmured. 
 "You must keep in the shadow and not lift them; but, on 
 the whole," she stepped back, looking her up and down crit- 
 ically, "I think you'll pass; the chapel is very dim, and the 
 candles throw uncertain lights. Now kiss me, dear, and lock 
 me up." 
 
 They embraced tenderly, and on each flushed cheek was 
 something warm and wet. Then Mary stepped into the cup- 
 board, and Betty, turning the lock upon her, prepared to face 
 the ordeal. 
 
 Servants had been kept at a distance by my ladies, but for 
 further precaution she wore a hooded mantle, gathering the 
 dress under it. With a stealthy glance round the great land- 
 ing she stole out, her heart beating wildly, and in a curious 
 tumult of laughter and tears; fear to Betty was unknown 
 when accompanied by excitement. 
 
 She made her way through the arched stone passage, but 
 at the door of the chapel paused to recover breath and to sum- 
 mon her courage. After all, what was there to fear? Two 
 elderly ladies, whose sight was not what it had been, and a
 
 The Swineherd Comes to His Own 399 
 
 priest, none too brave when it came to encountering my lord's 
 anger, and doubtless only anxious to get it over and go. She 
 drew up her head, turned the heavy handle, and dropping her 
 eyes demurely, entered, throwing off her cloak as she went. 
 
 The radiant vision seemed to light the dark place like the 
 gleam of fairies' wings. My Lady Karen came forward, and 
 taking her hand, led her to the altar. Someone moved to- 
 wards her; with a shy upward glance she saw it was Paul, 
 and any trace of fear there might have been, passed utterly. 
 Father Andrew, gorgeous in robes stiff with embroidery and 
 gold, advanced, and at a sign from my lady, the service began. 
 She lifted her eyes fearlessly to her lover, and even giddy 
 Betty realised the solemnity of what was happening. 
 
 "Who giveth this woman to this man?" asked the priest, 
 and my Lady Karen stepped forward, placing her hand in 
 his. A few minutes more and it was over. 
 
 "Mine, dearest, mine " he whispered, as he bent over her, 
 "never to part again." 
 
 They turned to go; my ladies rose from their place, but 
 a sudden sound arrested them; a sound of voices outside 
 the door which led to the Hall. It was flung open, and my 
 lord, with Father Francis behind, strode into the chapel. 
 
 For a moment he stood haughtily regarding the group. 
 Betty shrank nearer Paul, and my Lady Kezzy, gasping, 
 clutched the oaken post of the pew entrance; only my Lady 
 Karen, stepping into the aisle, and Paul at the top of the 
 altar steps, gazed unflinchingly at the tall figure, the proud 
 disdainful face. He strode nearer. 
 
 "So, sister, it was war declared, and you have " 
 
 "Won, Edward," was the calm reply. 
 
 "Not so," my lord's lips curled ; ."Mary is under age, the 
 marriage without my consent is not binding. Father An- 
 drew," he turned to the priest, who, shivering with fright, 
 cowered behind Paul, "you can go. This direct opposition 
 to my wishes will not pass unnoticed." 
 
 "There is no blame attached to him, Edward," said Lady
 
 400 When Pan Pipes 
 
 Karen. "Whatever happens I take upon myself." Again 
 the earl smiled cynically. 
 
 "Nothing will happen, my sister; Mary will return to the 
 Convent of St. Monica at once, and things will be as before." 
 
 "Oh, brother!" Lady Kezzy woke from her reverie, and 
 pushing past her sister, caught his hand. "Edward brother 
 oh, take back your word let " He put her calmly aside 
 and stepped past; then stopped, as a sudden sound caught his 
 ear. He turned towards the great entrance. 
 
 "What is this?" he cried angrily. "Could you not even 
 do it without publicity? Carriages friends." He strode to 
 the door; my ladies gazed fearfully at each other, and Betty 
 gave a low, low laugh of purest ecstasy. 
 
 "Paul," she whispered, clutching his arm, "he's come 
 Jerry's come oh " The earl, fumbling at the door, pulled 
 it open angrily then fell back, a blank expression on his 
 face. 
 
 Outside stood two carriages; from the first, a great state 
 carriage drawn by four white horses, whose postillions wore 
 wedding favours of the Ardelimar colours, with footmen in 
 the same liveries, with shield and crest of Ardelimar em- 
 blazoned on its panels, stepped a little old gentleman, clad 
 in festive garb of black satin, with diamond shoe-buckles 
 and diamond studs. Behind him a younger man, dressed 
 in finest blue cloth, with white waistcoat and gilt buttons, and 
 wearing a fob chain of softest worked gold. They advanced 
 to the chapel door. The earl stepped forward to greet them, 
 still with astonishment written upon his face. 
 
 "Cousin, you are welcome," he said; "but " he hesitated 
 courteously. 
 
 "What brings us here, you would ask, Edward." The little 
 old gentleman smiled and turned. "I come, my cousin, to 
 introduce my grandson my dear son's son to his relations, 
 his home his bride." 
 
 The earl fell back. "Your grandson, Ross ? Why why 
 
 "It's a long tale, cousin. Let it pass for the present."
 
 The Swineherd Comes to His Own 401 
 
 They had entered the chapel. My ladies, with surprise equal 
 to my lord's written upon their faces, advanced to meet them. 
 The laird greeted them, but my Lady Kezzy, forgetting rev- 
 erence, her brother, everything, flew. 
 
 "It's Jerry Jerry Dell. Cousin what madness. What " 
 
 "No, Keziah," he laughed at her face of dismay, "not Jerry 
 Dell but Gervaise Ross of Ardelimar my grandson my 
 heir. The heir of Cloudesley. But," he suddenly caught 
 sight of the gleaming figure at the dim altar, "what have you 
 here? A wedding. Who Gervaise " he caught the other's 
 arm, "this " He had no time to finish, for Jerry was across 
 the chapel and on the altar steps. 
 
 "Who is it?" he cried hoarsely. "Not not " 
 
 "No, no, Jerry," Paul answered quickly. "Do not mistrust 
 her." 
 
 He lifted the veil slowly from the gleaming figure by his 
 side slowly and a beam of sunlight fell straight on the 
 sparkling flushed face, lifted proudly to the dark one above 
 her. 
 
 "Betty!" cried Jerry, falling back. 
 
 "Betty!" echoed my Lady Karen, and "Oh, Betty how 
 could you how could you !" from my Lady Kezzy. 
 
 The earl strode forward. "Chubbe's niece " he laughed. 
 "So, sister in spite of all your little plot " but again an in- 
 terruption stopped him. Hot, breathless, hustling each other 
 in their haste, pushing aside footmen at the door, panting, 
 almost exhausted, came Mrs. Chubbe, her husband behind 
 her. 
 
 "Oh, my ladies my ladies am I in time? They're not 
 gone oh, say they're not gone." 
 
 "Martha " Lady Karen's tone was stern and angry, "did 
 you know of this this base wicked deceit?" 
 
 "Yes, my lady that is no, I mean no, and yes. Oh, my 
 ladies," she stopped to get breath, "give me time I can ex- 
 plain all everything." Lady Karen turned from her con- 
 temptuously. The farmer stood sheepishly by, saying noth-
 
 402 When Pan Pipes 
 
 ing, while his wife fanned herself with a small parcel she 
 carried and collected her wits. 
 
 "My ladies," she burst out at length, "my lord there's 
 a-something I must tell; it's been waitin' to be told for nigh 
 upon twenty years, an' now the time's come. Our Betty 
 She paused, half triumphant at the effect of a certain tone 
 in the words. Lady Karen had half turned again; her sister 
 crept nearer. Paul and Betty, clasping each other's hands, 
 listened eagerly; even my lord and the black figure behind 
 him were seemingly interested. 
 
 "My ladies, long ago, one snowy night, just such a one as 
 this might be, a little child was left upon our doorstep, a little, 
 crying thing, wantin' sadly a mother's love an* care. We took 
 it, me an' Matthew, an' Matthew, he said, keep it, Martha 
 leastways, if he didn't exactly say it, he meant it an' we've 
 kept her, my ladies an' brought her up not as our own 
 but as a lady 's far's we could, in our humble way." 
 Lady Karen spoke scornfully. 
 
 "It is no matter, Martha, how you brought her up. She 
 may be the daughter of low parents, or more likely withr 
 out parents at all." 
 
 "Or maybe, my lady, her mother may have been a lady 
 maybe, a lady who left her home an' an' her family an' 
 all her riches and grandeur for " her voice dropped low 
 there was a silence "for love." My lady stepped for- 
 ward, laying her hand on the other's arm. 
 
 "What do you mean, Martha? Speak out. Oh my God." 
 Mrs. Chubbe wrung her hands. 
 
 "Oh, my lady," she cried, with a half sob, "don't you un- 
 derstand? See " She slipped the paper from the parcel, 
 and a long soft sash fell in rich folds. Lady Karen gasped; 
 her sister sprang forward and clutched at the silken fringe. 
 
 "Sister sister it's hers Mima's don't you remember? 
 We both had them; though I was older than she, and won- 
 dered if I ought to wear it. Oh, Karen Martha " She
 
 The Swineherd Comes to His Own 403 
 
 was sobbing quietly, hugging the ribbon, kissing it, and her 
 tears falling stained the fresh colours. 
 
 "Martha, is this true? Where did you get it?" asked Lady 
 Karen. 
 
 "My lady, it was with her, an' a letter," the words were 
 mingled with sobs. "When my dear lady married I helped 
 her. I oh, my ladies, forgive me for sayin' it but when 
 she was in poverty an' too proud to ask for help from 
 her own she came to me; an' when her husband poor 
 gentleman died I helped her again; an' when she " The 
 sobs came thick and fast there was not a dry eye in the 
 little chapel; even the earl had turned away. "When she 
 knew she was dyin', she sent to me. 'Martha,' she says, 
 'if it's a girl oh, take her don't let her be spared the joy 
 an' sorrow o' life let her taste it as I have done ; it is right.' 
 An' my ladies, when I heard that little whinin' cry at my 
 door I knew she had left her child an' gone her way 
 to die alone." 
 
 There was a silence, only broken by low sobbing. The 
 farmer's wife was the first to recover. 
 
 "When she got bigger, I was minded to tell you, my lady, 
 an' then we heard " she paused, glancing at the earl, "that 
 that my Lady Mary was to go to a convent " the voice 
 grew stronger, "that she was to take all her youth, an' her 
 pretty ways, an' her bonnie face, to where they would fade, 
 unloved. An' an' so my lord," she curtseyed, "an' my 
 ladies I took it upon myself to keep her ; an' when I saw the 
 young count so fond o' her, I knew 'twould all come right an' 
 so I waited. This mornin' Betty sent me a letter to say she 
 was marry in' him at half -past eleven, but 'twas earlier, my 
 ladies an' so I'm late." 
 
 She stopped and wiped her hot, tearful face; Lady Karen 
 stepped to her. 
 
 "Martha you've done right; you were always wise, my 
 dear, trusty friend how can we thank you for doing our
 
 404 When Pan Pipes 
 
 duty? Ah, me, our little Mima." But Lady Kezzy, smiling 
 through her tears, stepped to the altar, and drawing Betty 
 down, kissed her fondly, then led her to her sister. 
 
 "You know, sister, I always said Betty and Jerry were the 
 nicest children I knew." And in spite of all, a little laugh 
 ran round, clearing the atmosphere. 
 
 Lady Karen gathered the dazed girl to her; even Mary, 
 dear as she was, was not quite the same as the child of the 
 loved young sister driven from home so long ago. And my 
 lord, too, condescended to step forward; his face was softer, 
 the grim lines relaxed as he took Betty from his sister, and 
 stooping, kissed her gently, while he extended his hand to 
 the innkeeper's wife. 
 
 "And you too, Chubbe, have known nothing all these years ; 
 your wife has kept the secret well." The farmer scratched 
 his head. 
 
 "Well, my lord, to tell the truth I've so to speak known 
 it that is, I" 
 
 "You've known it, master," interrupted his wife; "why, I 
 never told." 
 
 "Nay, missus but there's more ways of knowing a thing 
 than words." And Mrs. Chubbe gazed admiringly at her 
 husband, ejaculating her favourite, "Dck dck to think on 
 it." But now, as the tension slackened, Jerry found words. 
 
 "Grandfather where is she Mary ?" The earl moved for- 
 ward, frowning. 
 
 "You are bold, young man even if this tale is true." His 
 cousin answered. 
 
 "It is true, Edward. Not only this but we have come 
 to fetch your daughter. The fact is, she is my grandson's 
 wife." 
 
 "His wife !" the words burst from him, falling like a thun- 
 derbolt on the rest of the party. 
 
 "His wife !" repeated my lord in a dazed voice. But Betty 
 sprang forward. 
 
 "Oh, let me fetch her. I know where she is."
 
 The Swineherd Comes to His Own 405 
 
 The silence was a tacit consent. Up the stairs she sped, 
 nearly knocking over the count, who, hearing that great things 
 were afoot, was on his way to the chapel, over the great square 
 landings, into the room, and opening the cupboard door, 
 dragged Mary out. 
 
 "Oh, come come quickly," she cried, laughing hysterically ; 
 "such wonderful things have happened ; Jerry's downstairs 
 and a gentleman, who says he's his grandson and it's all right 
 and take off your horrid dress." Her quick fingers were 
 already at work on her own. "Off with it, Mary. Yes, I can 
 call you Mary now, for you're my own own cousin, and " 
 She slipped out of the glittering robe, and picking it up threw 
 it over Mary's head. "I'll be your maid, darling, for the last 
 time." 
 
 She pushed her into a chair, and hurriedly began to brush 
 and do up the golden hair, Mary putting dazed questions, 
 listening to the chattering voice, pouring out the tale as only 
 Betty's voice could do. 
 
 "There now you're finished oh, the lovely, lovely dress; 
 it's like a fairy tale the goose-girl borrows the princess' sil- 
 ver robe. And now, lend me one of yours the best." 
 
 Hastily ransacking the big oak wardrobe, she drew out a 
 gleaming satin robe, decked herself in it, then, throwing the 
 veil over Mary's head, she opened the door, and the two 
 girls sped along, hand in hand. Servants, mysteriously ac- 
 quainted with the news, had gathered to see them pass, curt- 
 seying low; footmen flung open doors as, with a sudden 
 thought, Betty turned into the garden, and taking the path 
 to the chapel, drew up at the main entrance. 
 
 The state carriages stood there the second one by this 
 time had discharged its occupants and as the two girls ap- 
 peared at the entrance, by some strange instinct, the earl de- 
 tached himself from a little crowd, and taking his daughter 
 from Betty, drew her into his arms, kissing her fondly. 
 
 "Never to part again, Mary, my dear daughter, till I give 
 you to another." Then, drawing her arm through his, he led
 
 406 When Pan Pipes 
 
 her up the aisle, dazed and bewildered, to the altar steps. 
 
 With a choking cry she ran forward, slipped, and was caught 
 up in a pair of strong arms. 
 
 "Beloved beloved I've come to you-*- you are mine mine 
 for ever and ever." 
 
 And then, by some common impulse, the little crowd gath- 
 ered round them. Father Andrew, captured and brought 
 back, stood before them, and for the second time that morn- 
 ing said the beautiful words of the wedding service. 
 
 Again it was over. As they turned to leave the altar a sea 
 of faces greeted them. How the news had spread only those 
 who spread it could tell, but all Cloudesley had somehow got 
 there, and not only got there, but had donned its best bib and 
 tucker; and when they left the church and stepped into the 
 gorgeous carriage which was to take them to the Hall, they 
 were met with a roar of cheering, such handgrips that shamed 
 even Jerry's, and the crowd which escorted them was Cloudes- 
 ley itself. 
 
 And so, with pomp and ceremony, with pride and rejoicing, 
 he brought his princess home home to his heritage, his arms 
 and his heart. 
 
 That afternoon another state procession wended its way 
 from the Hall, and perhaps the crowd which followed it was 
 even greater than the first, for the innkeeper was known for 
 miles around, and his niece, for her own sake as well as his, 
 was loved by all. But the real feast was on Christmas Day, 
 when every villager would dine at the Hall. 
 
 Love making is contagious. That evening, my Lady Kezzy, 
 sitting alone, was joined by the count. He came towards her 
 as though for a purpose. 
 
 "Kezzy," he whispered, "long ago, I thought you loved 
 your cousin Edward told me. You gave me no encourage- 
 ment and I, thinking it hopeless, turned from my home 
 and married another. Afterwards I wondered; to-day, I 
 asked your cousin and he told me to come to you. For
 
 The Swineherd Comes to His Own 407 
 
 Kezzy, we are no longer young ; my son is gone from me, and 
 I am lonely. Is it too late for forgiveness? Will you come 
 to me even now?" 
 
 And my Lady Kezzy, for one brief second lifted her eyes, 
 then, casting them modestly down, whispered her answer. 
 
 The Yule log burned low; the guests, hastily summoned, 
 had dispersed. My Lady Karen and her brother sat together 
 in the small oak chamber, leaving the great wide drawing-room 
 to the lovers. Lady Kezzy and the count, together at last, 
 were silent in their happiness. No brilliant future lay before 
 them; only the gentle merging of two lives into one, only 
 peaceful happiness in the years still left. 
 
 But for those young lives, emerging from clouds and dark- 
 ness, the broad highway, sunflecked, flower-strewn, unrolled 
 itself before them, stretching on and on to the eternal blue. 
 
 Jerry rose, and opening the wide door, stepped on to the 
 terrace, and wrapping Mary in a shawl, drew her with him. 
 Down the wide marble steps, across the glittering, frost- 
 speared lawns, past the chapel, and out through the massive 
 gates to the little sleeping village. Fair shone the Christ- 
 mas moon, glimmered the snow on low thatches ; frost sparkled 
 merrily on hedges, on darkly gleaming windows, and even 
 under Mary's light footsteps the ground crackled and laughed. 
 
 They turned through a little gate into a deeper silence, by 
 by-paths, till they reached the corner beneath Church Clock, 
 and drawing her close, he gazed down at the widow's grave. 
 
 "Ah, Jerry," she whispered, "if we had but known all 
 those years, so near and yet so far apart." He looked into 
 her deep eyes, his square brown face filled with the light of 
 a great love. 
 
 "It was better, dear love; else how should I have found 
 strength and patience to win love?" 
 
 "And without your strength," she whispered, her face against 
 his, "how should I have found courage to win through 
 hatred?"
 
 408 When Pan Pipes 
 
 They moved on to another mound. For a moment it 
 seemed that a corner of the curtain was lifted, so near was 
 the gentle voice, so clear the words. 
 
 "Well done, Jerry boy -work love and some day you too 
 will pass behind the curtain and find that love lives for ever." 
 
 On through the haunted lane, past the witch's cottage, 
 where a light burned behind the crimson blinds, and Mar- 
 gery's shadow moved across them. On to the solemn snow- 
 clad woods. Loneliness, peeping through the branches, fled 
 with a lilting laugh her place was gone. 
 
 Church Clock struck twelve. The two friendly faces 
 watched them go. On the Moon's brilliant visage a little 
 cloud rested. 
 
 "Church Clock, Church Clock," he cried, "will this, too, 
 pass?" And Church Clock answered loud and clear 
 
 "Nay, friend true love never passes only it grows deeper, 
 stronger till it joins the eternal blue." And the little cloud 
 drifted from the shining face. 
 
 "Listen, dearest," said Jerry. "It seems as though the earth 
 were rejoicing with us. There's music in the air in the trees 
 everywhere." 
 
 And from deep glens, from moonlit glades, from sky and 
 sea and woodland, came Pan's piping, and the song he sang 
 that night was the song of life of love of work and happi- 
 ness. Grave, solemn, yet with a tripping May-day measure, 
 a lightsome airy dance for fairy feet. Listening, they knew 
 it came from their own hearts Nature but echoed it. He 
 lifted her to him, clasping her close and long, and Church 
 Clock struck the first hour of a new day. 
 
 THE END
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL UBRA 
 
 A 000129123 6