MRS. PLOWSON.
Among the packet of which Robert Audley had in George's trunk, there was one with the name of the missing man's father—the father, who had been too a friend to his son, and who had himself of the by George's marriage to the man to his own resources. Robert Audley had Mr. Harcourt Talboys; but George's careless talk of his father had his friend some of that gentleman's character. He had to Mr. Talboys after the of George, his letter, which at the writer's of some play in the business; and, after the of weeks, he had a epistle, in which Mr. Harcourt Talboys that he had his hands of all in his son George's upon the man's wedding-day; and that his was only in with his marriage. The of this added in a that if George Talboys had any low design of his friends by this disappearance, and playing on their with a view to advantage, he was most in the of those with he had to deal.
Robert Audley had answered this by a lines, Mr. Talboys that his son was likely to himself for the of any deep-laid design on the pockets of his relatives, as he had left twenty thousand in his bankers' hands at the time of his disappearance. After this letter, Robert had all of from the man who, in the natural of things, should have been most in George's fate; but now that he himself every day some step nearer to the end that so him, his mind to this Mr. Harcourt Talboys.
"I will into Dorsetshire after I Southampton," he said, "and see this man. If he is to let his son's a dark and to all who him—if he is to go to his to the last of this fellow's end—why should I try to the skein, to fit the pieces of the terrible puzzle, and together the which, when collected, may make such a whole? I will go to him and my him. It will be for him to say what I am to do."
Robert Audley started by an early for Southampton. The thick and white upon the country through which he went; and the had himself in so many and railway as to appear a of goods, than a of a learned profession. He looked out of the window, with the of himself and an Indian officer, who was his only companion, and the landscape, which had a phantom-like in its of snow. He himself in the of his railway rug, with a shiver, and to with the which him to travel by an early train upon a winter's day.
"Who would have that I have so of the fellow," he muttered, "or so without him? I've a little in the three cents.; I'm to my uncle's title; and I know of a dear little girl who, as I think, would do her best to make me happy; but I that I would give up all, and in the world to-morrow, if this be away, and George Talboys by my side."
He Southampton eleven and twelve o'clock, and walked across the platform, with the in his face, toward the and the end of the town. The clock of St. Michael's Church was twelve as he the old square in which that stands, and his way through the narrow leading to the water.
Mr. Maldon had his gods in one of those which love to upon some of waste ground to the skirts of a town. Brigsome's Terrace was, perhaps, one of the most of that was of and since the his and the his plan. The who had in the ten eight-roomed prison-houses had himself the door of an while the were yet unfinished. The man who had the and had gone through the while the paper-hangers were still in Brigsome's Terrace, and had his and himself simultaneously. Ill luck and to the habitations. The and the broker's man were as well as the and the to the noisy children who played upon the waste ground in of the windows. Solvent were at hours by the noise of away in the night. Insolvent openly the of the water-rate from their ten-roomed strongholds, and for without any visible means of that necessary fluid.
Robert Audley looked about him with a as he from the into this poverty-stricken locality. A child's was one of the houses as he approached, and he with a of that if the little had George's son, he would have been in some measure for the boy's death.
"The child shall not sleep another night in this hovel," he thought, as he at the door of Mr. Maldon's house. "He is the of my best friend, and it shall be my to secure his safety."
A girl opened the door and looked at Mr. Audley as she asked him, very much through her nose, what he pleased to want. The door of the little room was ajar, and Robert the of and and the voice of little George gayly. He told the that he had come from London, that he wanted to see Master Talboys, and that he would himself; and walking past her, without he opened the door of the parlor. The girl at him as he did this; and as if by some and terrible conviction, her over her and ran out into the snow. She across the waste ground, into a narrow alley, and till she herself upon the of a called the Coach and Horses, and much by Mr. Maldon. The lieutenant's had taken Robert Audley for some new and of poor's rates—rejecting that gentleman's account of himself as an for the of defaulters—and had off to give her master timely of the enemy's approach.
When Robert entered the sitting-room he was to little George seated opposite to a woman who was doing the of a repast, spread upon a dirty table-cloth, and by a measure. The woman rose as Robert entered, and very to the barrister. She looked about fifty years of age, and was in widow's weeds. Her was fair, and the two of her cap were of that sunless, which pink and white eyelashes. She had been a beauty, perhaps, in her time, but her features, although regular in their shape, had a mean, look, as if they had been too small for her face. This was in her mouth, which was an for the set of teeth it contained. She as she to Mr. Robert Audley, and her smile, which the part of this set of square, hungry-looking teeth, by no means added to the of her personal appearance.
"Mr. Maldon is not at home, sir," she said, with civility; "but if it's for the water-rate, he me to say that—"
She was by little George Talboys, who from the high chair upon which he had been perched, and ran to Robert Audley.
"I know you," he said; "you came to Ventnor with the big gentleman, and you came here once, and you gave me some money, and I gave it to gran'pa to take of, and gran'pa it, and he always does."
Robert Audley took the boy in his arms, and him to a little table in the window.
"Stand there, Georgey," he said, "I want to have a good look at you."
He the boy's to the light, and pushed the off his with hands.
"You are more like your father every day, Georgey; and you're a man, too," he said; "would you like to go to school?"
"Oh, yes, please, I should like it very much," the boy answered, eagerly. "I to at Miss Pevins' once—day-school, you know—round the in the next street; but I the measles, and gran'pa wouldn't let me go any more, for I should catch the again; and gran'pa won't let me play with the little boys in the street, they're boys; he said boys; but he said I mustn't say boys, it's naughty. He says and devil, but he says he may he's old. I shall say and when I'm old; and I should like to go to school, please, and I can go to-day, if you like; Mrs. Plowson will my ready, won't you, Mrs. Plowson?"
"Certainly, Master Georgey, if your it," the woman answered, looking at Mr. Robert Audley.
"What on earth is the with this woman," Robert as he from the boy to the fair-haired widow, who was herself slowly toward the table upon which little George Talboys talking to his guardian. "Does she still take me for a tax-collector with toward these and chattels; or can the of her manner still. That's likely, though; for Lieutenant Maldon may have, it's not very that this woman has any knowledge of them."
Mrs. Plowson had herself close to the little table by this time, and was making a upon the boy, when Robert round.
"What are you going to do with the child?" he said.
"I was only going to take him away to wash his face, sir, and his hair," answered the woman, in the most in which she had spoken of the water-rate. "You don't see him to any advantage, sir, while his is dirty. I won't be five minutes making him as as a new pin."
She had her long, thin arms about the boy as she spoke, and she was going to him off bodily, when Robert stopped her.
"I'd see him as he is, thank you," he said. "My time in Southampton isn't very long, and I want to all that the little man can tell me."
The little man closer to Robert, and looked into the barrister's eyes.
"I like you very much," he said. "I was of you when you came before, I was shy. I am not now—I am nearly six years old."
Robert the boy's encouragingly, but he was not looking at little George; he was the fair-haired widow, who had moved to the window, and was looking out at the of waste ground.
"You're about some one, ma'am, I'm afraid," said Robert.
She as the this remark, and answered him in a manner.
"I was looking for Mr. Maldon, sir," she said; "he'll be so if he doesn't see you."
"You know who I am, then?"
"No, sir, but—"
The boy her by a little watch from his and it to Robert.
"This is the watch the lady gave me," he said. "I've got it now—but I haven't had it long, the who it is an man, gran'pa says, and always it such a long time; and gran'pa says it will have to be again, of the taxes. He always takes it to be when there's taxes—but he says if he were to it the lady would give me another. Do you know the lady?"
"No, Georgey, but tell me about her."
Mrs. Plowson another upon the boy. She was with a pocket-handkerchief this time, and great about the of little George's nose, but Robert off the weapon, and the child away from his tormentor.
"The boy will do very well, ma'am," he said, "if you'll be good to let him alone for five minutes. Now, Georgey, you on my knee, and tell me all about the lady."
The child from the table onto Mr. Audley's knees, his by a very of his guardian's coat-collar.
"I'll tell you all about the lady," he said, "because I like you very much. Gran'pa told me not to tell anybody, but I'll tell you, you know, I like you, and you're going to take me to school. The lady came here one night—long ago—oh, so long ago," said the boy, his head, with a was of some of time. "She came when I was not nearly so big as I am now—and she came at night—after I'd gone to bed, and she came up into my room, and sat upon the bed, and cried—and she left the watch under my pillow, and she—Why do you make at me, Mrs. Plowson? I may tell this gentleman," Georgey added, the widow, who was Robert's shoulder.
Mrs. Plowson some to the that she was Master George was troublesome.
"Suppose you wait till I say so, ma'am, you stop the little fellow's mouth," said Robert Audley, sharply. "A person might think from your manner that Mr. Maldon and you had some you, and that you were of what the boy's talk may let slip."
He rose from his chair, and looked full at Mrs. Plowson as he said this. The fair-haired widow's was as white as her cap when she to answer him, and her were so that she was to wet them with her the would come.
The little boy her embarrassment.
"Don't be to Mrs. Plowson," he said. "Mrs. Plowson is very to me. Mrs. Plowson is Matilda's mother. You don't know Matilda. Poor Matilda was always crying; she was ill, she—"
The boy was stopped by the of Mr. Maldon, who on the of the door at Robert Audley with a half-drunken, half-terrified aspect, with the of a retired officer. The girl, and panting, close her master. Early in the day though it was, the old man's speech was thick and confused, as he himself to Mrs. Plowson.
"You're a prett' to call yoursel' woman?" he said. "Why don't you take th' 'way, er wash 's face? D'yer want to me? D'yer want to 'stroy me? Take th' 'way! Mr. Audley, sir, I'm ver' to see yer; ver' 'appy to 'ceive in m' humbl' 'bode," the old man added with politeness, into a chair as he spoke, and trying to look at his visitor.
"Whatever this man's are," Robert, as Mrs. Plowson little George Talboys out of the room, "that woman has no of them. Whatever the may be, it and at every step; but I try in to or to stop upon the road, for a hand than my own is pointing the way to my friend's unknown grave."
