Chapter VI: Mrs. Rayburn's Cap

WE must now return to Kelmersdale. Happily for us, we can do so without being sick like poor Janet!

In spite of little Fred's good resolutions, things frequently went wrong between him and Mrs. Rayburn. She was not fond of children. Her one idea about them was that they must be well fed, go to bed early, and never be in the way at any time. Now, Fred was nearly always in the way. The children had no employment and amusement, for they never went out except into the stone court, and though they could play there for a time, when Frank got tired of running (which he did very quickly) Fred positively could not keep out of mischief of a very babyish, innocent kind; but his misdemeanours made Mrs. Rayburn very angry, and once or twice she whipped Frank for being so lazy, sitting half asleep and not seeing after his little brother.

If she had whipped Fred, she would have done no harm, for Fred was a boy to whom a whipping would have been a small affliction. He would no doubt have roared during the infliction, and laughed in her face five minutes afterwards. But Frank was very different—a sensitive, delicate child, to whom such a punishment was a real cruelty. Not that she whipped him severely; that she never did, but the injustice of her proceedings and the disgrace of the punishment was breaking Frank's heart and ruining Fred's temper. The little creature began to hate her with an intensity of which she had no idea; she never even observed the way in which he would sit staring at her with a frown on the smooth little forehead, and a sidelong look occasionally at some of her belongings, against which he was forming plans. As long as Fred lives, he will never forget her face.

Weeks passed, and no letter came from Janet. Mrs. Rayburn grumbled, but she really did not mind, as the children were no expense to her. But, after a time, she received a letter from her sister-in-law at Hemsborough which made her very angry. The letter informed her that her married niece, Mrs. John Martin, had heard from her husband, who had gone to America on business, and he had sent her the newspaper now forwarded to Mrs. Rayburn. Mr. Martin had been at New Durham, had heard people speaking of the trial that was soon to take place, and had, of course, recognized the Hemsborough name. The paper contained an account of Mr. Turner's transactions, his escape, the arrest of his partner, and the trial. The account was very brief. The prisoner had denied being a partner, though he had been assisting in the business. Of the foundry and the actual work he knew nothing. But it came out that he had advanced a sum of money to carry on the works, and the court was not satisfied that he knew nothing of the deceptions practised. The upshot was that Rayburn was sentenced to a term of imprisonment. There was no doubt that the Frederick Rayburn so sentenced was really Hopper and Mason's late manager, for Martin had been present at the trial, and knew him very well.

"Here's a pretty kettle of fish, Maria!" Mrs. Rayburn cried, as the girl entered her sitting-room just as she finished reading all this. "There's my precious stepson been cheating right and left, somewhere in Canada, and sent to jail for it, and no doubt, he and his wife mean to make off as soon as he gets out, and leave the boys to me! And what can I do but send them to the workhouse?"

"The poor little things!" said Maria. "La! Ma'am, they do no harm here."

"But what's to become of them? I can't put them to school; I haven't a penny, thanks to their father. I just ask you what's to become of them?"

"Well, my lord will be here soon, ma'am, and maybe he'll be able to advise you about them."

For Lord Beaucourt's visits were looked upon as the time when knotty questions would be decided for the inmates of the Castle.

Presently it was time to summon the children to dinner, and when they were seated at table, and Mrs. Rayburn was carving, she said to Maria—

"Poor unfortunate little souls, what's to become of them now?"

"What's the matter?" asked Frank. "Have you had a letter from muddie?"

"No, indeed, and I doubt I never shall. I wonder, Maria, did she know of this when she was here?"

"Know of what?" Frank cried. "Do tell me, grandma."

"Indeed, I suppose you must know it sooner or later. Your father's in trouble again. First, he loses his good place, and then he goes to Canada and gets put in jail for cheating."

Fred was frightened, though he did not understand. Frank did, and said boldly—

"It's not true. Father never did that—never!"

"Poor child!" said Maria. "Never mind, it's no fault of yours, if he did."

"But he did not. He couldn't," Frank insisted.

"Don't tell him not to mind, Maria, for he'll have to know it. It is all here in black and white, printed in a newspaper."

"It's a mistake, grandma. Father did not—do that."

"My poor child, there's no use denying it. You remember John Martin—he married my niece, Annie Thompson that was—he was foreman at Timpson and Booth's, in Hemsborough? Do you remember him?"

"Yes, I do," Frank admitted.

"Well, he was at this place—New Durham, or Dorset, I forget which exactly—and he saw your father tried and found guilty. He's in jail for it now, and it would be a good thing, if they'd keep him there."

"Do you mean always? Will they keep him always?"

"It's much the same as far as you're concerned. He's got your mother out now, and got rid of you two—I only hope it wasn't a plan laid between them. Eat your dinner, child. Goodness knows how you're to get a dinner when my lord puts you out of this, and it stands to reason he will not keep you for ever."

"I can't eat. It's not that I believe it; muddie would never leave us here always—she wants us—but—but—" the clear little voice broke down—"muddie will come for us soon," he said, with a sob.

"I wish I could think so," Mrs. Rayburn said dolefully, "for I see nothing before you but the poorhouse. What's that, Maria?"

"A telegram from my lord, ma'am."

The telegram gave notice that Lord Beaucourt was coming that evening to get through some business with the steward and keepers, and to arrange with Mrs. Rayburn about rooms, etc., for the shooting-party which was presently to assemble at Kelmersdale.

All was now bustle and preparation. The notice was short, but still all could easily be got ready in time. The children were sent out into the court, and told that Lord Beaucourt must now be informed that they were left on their grandmother's hands, and that he would probably insist on their being sent away.

"And that means the poorhouse," Mrs. Rayburn said mournfully.

Frank sat on the steps, and for a time Fred was with him. The poor child, being very wretched, did not observe that the young rogue soon left him, and stole into the house.

Jacob was going in the cart to do some errands for Mrs. Rayburn. He drove into the court presently, and the great gates were left open for him to drive out again. Frank was looking wistfully out at the green glades in which he was not allowed to wander, and he felt a wild longing to run out, if only for a minute, when suddenly Fred ran out of the house, looking somewhat scared.

"Fwank, Fwank, turn and put it out—turn quick!"

"Put what out?" said Frank, getting up.

"Gwandma's cap. Oh, I only meant to burn a hole in the wibbon, just to vex her, but when I stwuck the match, it all blazed up—all the cap—all blazes, and the bed! Fwank, make haste."

The little monkey had been watching grandma, and, seeing her leave the bedroom, he had stolen in to see what she had been about. She had been laying out her best attire to wear for the earl's arrival; on the bed lay a silk dress and a large cap, with streamers and flowers enough for three; on the table lay a matchbox. Here was a glorious opportunity! How vexed grandma would be! But lace caps are highly inflammable, and the result of his experiment frightened Fred.

The boys raced through the hall, and just as they reached the bedroom, Mrs. Rayburn opened the door of her sitting-room, which was just opposite. Frank scarcely saw her; he was old enough to know something of the danger. He flung the bedroom door wide, and at the sight that met her eyes, Mrs. Rayburn set up an appalling shout. At the sound, Fred turned and ran off to hide. Jacob and several others came running; the fire was soon put out, but Mrs. Rayburn's silk gown and cap were destroyed.

"It's all out, mum; you don't need to be frightened any more," Jacob said, looking ruefully at his singed and blackened garments. "But how on earth did the things take fire?"

Mrs. Rayburn looked round. There stood Frank—and Frank (against his will, for he tried not to do it) looked at the matchbox that lay open on the floor.

"It was your doing!" she cried excitedly. "Well, that settles the matter! My lord will insist on my sending you away, and I have nowhere to send you but to the poorhouse. The boy who could set fire to things that way certainly will not be kept here. You might have burned down the Castle. It's an offence you might be sent to prison for."

"Indeed, I wish my lord would insist upon his being sent to prison, the wicked little cub," said Jacob; "but I'm sure he'll send him out of the Castle. Lock him up safe, mum, till my lord comes."

"I shall, Jacob; but he really ought to get a good flogging at once. I never thought he'd do such a wicked thing."

"I'll give him a flogging that he won't forget in a hurry," said Jacob, who, having been much frightened, was now very angry. He laid hands on the supposed culprit, and led him out into the hall. There he took a whip from its place on the wall, and desired Frank to take off his jacket, which Frank, trembling and tearful but silent, was doing, when, from some hiding-place, Fred rushed out, crying—

"'Twas me did it; you s'ant beat Fwank."

"You! I don't believe it," said Mrs. Rayburn; "why, you're only a baby."

"I'm not!" cried Fred. "I stwuck a match and set your cap in a blaze, and then I wan for Fwank to put it out."

"Hold your tongue, Fred," said the elder boy; "he'd kill you; you're too little to bear it."

Jacob, uttering some queer, inarticulate sound, hung up the whip and walked oft. As long as he lived, he never forgot the look of the slender little lad standing there ready to bear anything to shield his little brother.

Mrs. Rayburn, thus left to her own devices, took the two children to her sitting-room, and opened a queer little hiding-hole in the thickness of the wall, into which she pushed Frank, saying—

"There you both stay, till my lord says what is to be done with you;" and she was in the act of pushing Fred in too, when he dived suddenly under her ample skirts and fled, nor could she find him, though she followed as soon as she had shut Frank in.

Frank sat down on the floor of his prison, and tried to collect his thoughts. He had not quite succeeded when the door of the closet was softly opened, and little Fred crept in.

"Oh, Fwank, she'll send me away and keep you!"

"How do you know?"

"I was hid away in the big room, and she and Mawia came in to dust it and make weady; and she was telling Mawia."

"Yes; tell me what they said."

"Said I was a awful bad child, and that there was no managing the two of us. Gwandma said she'd keep you and send me away; my lord would manage it for her."

Frank scrambled to his feet.

"She'd send you to the poorhouse! Fred, it was very bad of you to set the cap on fire, and you must never do such a thing again. But she shan't part us. Who would take care of you? And I promised muddie I would. I will, too. We'll slip out—the great gate is open still, or I'd have heard the clang—and we'll run away."

"Oh, jolly, jolly!" cried Fred, performing as lively a dance as the space would permit. "We'll wun away and be beggars! Won't it be fun?"

"It can't be wrong," Frank said thoughtfully. "She'd part us, and—no, it must be right for me to save you. We'll go to Liverpool, and find our school. Mrs. Crane was very kind to us, and she'll find out where muddie is for us. That's what we'll do. Fred, stay here till I come back. I must go to our room to get my money."

He was the proud possessor of a few shillings, which his mother had given him, and a sixpence with a hole in it, given him "by father years ago," he said himself.

He shut Fred into the closet, and stole like a little mouse out of the room and along the passage. He took a brush and comb bag, and stuffed some of Fred's clothes into it, with its usual contents. Another bag—a work-bag when it was new—held some of his own clothes. The big red comforter might be useful, for if they could not reach Liverpool before night, they must sleep in the fields. Then the money. Father's picture was safe in his pocket.

Then he stole back and released Fred. They crept across the hall and into the porch. The cart was still there, for Jacob had gone to make himself presentable after his adventures as a fireman, and the great gate was still open. In a few moments Janet's two darlings were out of the court, and had darted into a side path, where some shrubs concealed them from view.

"But we must get back to the big road when we are far enough from the Castle," said Frank, "and get to the gate. I remember the gate. Jacob called 'gate,' and an old woman came and opened it."

"I can call 'gate' just like Jacob," said Fred. "Listen—gate!"

"Hush, hush! We'll be caught, if you shout. Come, let us get back into the road."

The poor little souls were as merry as grigs, running and jumping, then walking hand-in-hand, talking and laughing in the delights of their newfound freedom. They never heard the sound of wheels, till Jacob called "Hullo, boys!" When they stood gazing, and gave themselves up for lost.

"Hullo, boys! What brings you here?"

"We—came out—the gate was open," Frank answered.

"And you wanted a breath of fresh air? And, indeed, 'tis a shame to keep you mewed up in the court. But you'll be lost, and that won't do. Come now, jump in here, and I'll take you as far as the north gate, and then you can run back to the Castle. I'm doing this for you, Frank—you're a right brave little chap; not for you, Fred, that wanted to burn the old place down."

"No, not the place at all, Jacob; only grandma's cap. The west happened of itself," Fred explained.

"Fred, it was not right," put in Frank.

"I never will again, Fwank—weally never."

"You won't have a chance, you little fool," said Jacob. "Maria was telling me Mrs. Rayburn won't keep you, even if my lord would let her. You'll be sent away, and Frank will stay till he's old enough to go as a page-boy at Beaucourt. That's what Mrs. Rayburn has made up her mind to."

Fred, thoroughly frightened, clung to his poor little protector, who whispered—

"I'll save you; only don't say a word."

They soon reached the north gate. It was open, and Jacob said to the boys—

"Out with you now, and run home. I want to speak to Mrs. Price."

The boys tumbled out, clutching their bags. Jacob went to the lodge: when he came back, the boys were gone. They had run across the road and scrambled over the low fence into a field, where they hid, until Jacob came out and put his horse into a brisk trot.

"We won't go by that road, because we'd meet him coming back," said Frank. "We'll go along by the wall; it's nice and shady, too. By-and-by, we'll buy some bread, and ask the way to Liverpool. This bag is very heavy."

"So is mine," said Fred; "but come along. It's very jolly!"

Away they went—poor Janet's babies!