LITTLE GEORGEY LEAVES HIS OLD HOME.
"I am going to take your away with me, Mr. Maldon," Robert said gravely, as Mrs. Plowson retired with her charge.
The old man's was slowly away like the of a London fog, through which the to appear. The very of Lieutenant Maldon's took a time in the of rum-and-water; but the light at last the clouds, and the old man his to the sticking-point.
"Yes, yes," he said, feebly; "take the boy away from his old grandfather; I always so."
"You always that I should take him away?" the half-drunken with a glance. "Why did you think so, Mr. Maldon?"
The of got the of the light of for a moment, and the answered vaguely:
"Thought so—'cause I so."
Meeting the barrister's frown, he another effort, and the light again.
"Because I you or his father would 'm away."
"When I was last in this house, Mr. Maldon, you told me that George Talboys had for Australia."
"Yes, yes—I know, I know," the old man answered, confusedly, his with his two hands—"I know; but he might have come back—mightn't he? He was restless, and—and—queer in his mind, perhaps, sometimes. He might have come back."
He this two or three times in feeble, tones; about on the mantle-piece for a dirty-looking pipe, and and it with hands that violently.
Robert Audley those poor, withered, of tobacco upon the rug, and able to a for their unsteadiness. Then walking once or twice up and the little room, he left the old man to take a from the great consoler.
Presently he upon the half-pay with a dark in his face.
"Mr. Maldon," he said, slowly the of every as he spoke, "George Talboys for Australia—that I know. More than this, he came to Southampton; and the you told me on the 8th of last September was to you by the message which you on that day."
The dirty pipe from the hand, and against the iron fender, but the old man no to a fresh one; he sat in every limb, and looking, Heaven how piteously, at Robert Audley.
"The was to you, and you your lesson. But you no more saw George Talboys here on the 7th of September than I see him in this room now. You you had the message, but you had only a part of it—the is in my possession."
Lieutenant Maldon was now.
"What have I done?" he murmured, hopelessly. "Oh, my God! what have I done?"
"At two o'clock on the 7th of September last," the pitiless, voice, "George Talboys was alive and well at a house in Essex."
Robert paused to see the of these words. They had produced no in the old man. He still sat from to foot, and with the and solid of some every is by terror.
"At two o'clock on that day," Robert Audley, "my friend was alive and well at ——, at the house of which I speak. From that hour to this I have been able to that he has been by any creature. I have taken such steps as must have resulted in the of his whereabouts, were he alive. I have done this and carefully—at first, hopefully. Now I know that he is dead."
Robert Audley had been prepared to some in the old man's manner, but he was not prepared for the terrible anguish, the terror, which Mr. Maldon's as he the last word.
"No, no, no, no," the lieutenant, in a shrill, half-screaming voice; "no, no! For God's sake, don't say that! Don't think it—don't let me think it—don't let me of it! Not dead—anything but dead! Hidden away, perhaps—bribed to keep out of the way, perhaps; but not dead—not dead—not dead!"
He these aloud, like one himself, his hands upon his head, and and in his chair. His hands no longer—they were by some that gave them a new power.
"I believe," said Robert, in the same solemn, voice, "that my friend left Essex; and I he died on the 7th of September last."
The old man, still his hands among his thin hair, from his chair to the ground, and at Robert's feet.
"Oh! no, no—for God's, no!" he hoarsely. "No! you don't know what you say—you don't know what your mean!"
"I know their weight and value only too well—as well as I see you do, Mr. Maldon. God help us!"
"Oh, what am I doing? what am I doing?" the old man, feebly; then himself from the ground with an effort, he himself to his full height, and said, in a manner which was new to him, and which was not without a of his own—that which must be always to misery, in it may appear—he said, gravely:
"You have no right to come here and a man who has been drinking, and who is not himself. You have no right to do it, Mr. Audley. Even the—the officer, sir, who—who—." He did not stammer, but his so that his to be into pieces by their motion. "The officer, I repeat, sir, who a—thief, or a—." He stopped to his lips, and to still them if he by doing so, which he not. "A or a murderer—" His voice died away upon the last word, and it was only by the motion of those that Robert what he meant. "Gives him warning, sir, warning, that he may say nothing which shall himself—or—or—other people. The—the—law, sir, has that amount of for a—a—suspected criminal. But you, sir,—you come to my house, and you come at a time when—when—contrary to my habits—which, as people will tell you, are sober—you take the opportunity to—terrify me—and it is not right, sir—it is—"
Whatever he would have said died away into gasps, which to him, and into a chair, he his upon the table, and aloud. Perhaps in all the of which had been in those and houses—in all the miseries, the shames, the sorrows, the which own for their father—there had been such a as this. An old man his from the light of day, and in his wretchedness. Robert Audley the painful picture with a and face.
"If I had this," he thought, "I might have him. It would have been better, perhaps, to have him."
The room, the dirt, the confusion, the of the old man, with his upon the tablecloth, the débris of a dinner, the of Robert Audley as he of another man, as old as this one, but, ah! how different in every other quality! who might come by and by to the same, or a anguish, and to shed, perhaps, yet tears. The moment in which the rose to his and the him, was long to take him to Essex, and to him the image of his uncle, by and shame.
"Why do I go on with this?" he thought; "how I am, and how I am on. It is not myself; it is the hand which is me and upon the dark road, end I not of."
He this, and a hundred times more than this, while the old man sat with his still hidden, with his anguish, but without power to keep it down.
"Mr. Maldon," Robert Audley said, after a pause, "I do not ask you to me for what I have upon you, for the is me that it must have come to you sooner or later—if not through me, through some one else. There are—" he stopped for a moment hesitating. The did not cease; it was sometimes low, sometimes loud, out with fresh violence, or away for an instant, but ceasing. "There are some which, as people say, cannot be hidden. I think there is truth in that common saying which had its in that old which people from and not from books. If—if I were to let my friend in his grave, it is but likely that some who had the name of George Talboys, might by the accident upon the of his death. To-morrow, perhaps; or ten years hence, or in another generation, when the—the hand that him is as cold as his own. If I let the rest; if—if I England forever, and from the possibility of across another to the secret, I would do it—I would gladly, do it—but I cannot! A hand which is than my own me on. I wish to take no of you, less than of all other people; but I must go on; I must go on. If there is any you would give to any one, give it. If the toward which I am traveling day by day, hour by hour, any one in you have an interest, let that person I come to the end. Let them this country; let them all who know them—all peace their has endangered; let them go away—they shall not be pursued. But if they your warning—if they try to their present position in of what it will be in your power to tell them—let them of me, for, when the hour comes, I that I will not them."
The old man looked up for the time, and his upon a handkerchief.
"I to you that I do not you," he said. "I to you that I cannot understand; and I do not that George Talboys is dead."
"I would give ten years of my own life if I see him alive," answered Robert, sadly. "I am sorry for you, Mr. Maldon—I am sorry for all of us."
"I do not that my son-in-law is dead," said the lieutenant; "I do not that the is dead."
He in a manner to to Robert Audley that his wild of had been by his for the of George; but the was shallow.
Mrs. Plowson re-entered the room, leading little Georgey, with that which yellow soap and can produce upon the countenance.
"Dear alive!" Mrs. Plowson, "what has the old been taking on about? We him in the passage, sobbin' awful."
Little George up to his grandfather, and the wet and with his hand.
"Don't cry, gran'pa," he said, "don't cry. You shall have my watch to be cleaned, and the shall you the money to pay the while he the watch—I don't mind, gran'pa. Let's go to the jeweler, the in High street, you know, with painted upon his door, to that he comes from Lombar—Lombardshire," said the boy, making a at the name. "Come, gran'pa."
The little took the toy from his and for the door, proud of being of a talisman, which he had so often useful.
"There are at Southampton," he said, with a to Robert Audley. "My gran'pa says when he takes my watch that he it to keep the from the door. Are there where you live?"
The did not answer the child's question, but stopped him as he was his toward the door.
"Your not want the watch to-day, Georgey," he said, gravely.
"Why is he sorry, then?" asked Georgey, naively; "when he wants the watch he is always sorry, and his so"—the boy stopped to with his small fists—"and says that she—the lady, I think he means—uses him very hard, and that he can't keep the from the door; and then I say, 'Gran'pa, have the watch;' and then he takes me in his arms, and says, 'Oh, my angel! how can I my angel?' and then he cries, but not like to-day—not loud, you know; only his cheeks, not so that you him in the passage."
Painful as the child's was to Robert Audley, it a to the old man. He did not the boy's talk, but walked two or three times up and the little room and his and his to be by Mrs. Plowson, who very to out the of his agitation.
"Poor dear old gentleman," she said, looking at Robert.
"What has to him so?"
"His son-in-law is dead," answered Mr. Audley, his upon Mrs. Plowson's face. "He died, a year and a after the death of Helen Talboys, who in Ventnor churchyard."
The into which he was looking very slightly, but the that had been looking at him away as he spoke, and Mrs. Plowson was to her white with her she answered him.
"Poor Mr. Talboys dead!" she said; "that is news indeed, sir."
Little George looked up at his guardian's as this was said.
"Who's dead?" he said. "George Talboys is my name. Who's dead?"
"Another person name is Talboys, Georgey."
"Poor person! Will he go to the pit-hole?"
The boy had that of death which is to children by their wise elders, and which always leads the mind to the open and it any higher.
"I should like to see him put in the pit-hole," Georgey remarked, after a pause. He had in the neighborhood, and was valuable as a on account of his appearance. He had come, therefore, to look upon the of as a festivity; in which cake and wine, and a drive were the leading features.
"You have no to my taking Georgey away with me, Mr. Maldon?" asked Robert Audley.
The old man's had very much by this time. He had another pipe the of the looking-glass, and was trying to light it with a of newspaper.
"You do not object, Mr. Maldon?"
"No, sir—no, sir; you are his guardian, and you have a right to take him where you please. He has been a very great to me in my old age, but I have been prepared to him. I—I may not have always done my to him, sir, in—in the way of schooling, and—and boots. The number of which boys of his age wear out, sir, is not easily by the mind of a man like yourself; he has been away from school, perhaps, sometimes, and occasionally when our have got low; but he has not been treated. No, sir; if you were to question him for a week, I don't think you'd that his old said a word to him."
Upon this, Georgie, the of his old protector, set up a terrible howl, and that he would him.
"Mr. Maldon," said Robert Audley, with a which was half-mournful, half-compassionate, "when I looked at my position last night, I did not that I come to think it more painful than I it then. I can only say—God have upon us all. I it my to take the child away, but I shall take him from your house to the best in Southampton; and I give you my that I will nothing from his which can in any manner—I mean," he said, off abruptly, "I this. I will not to come one step nearer the through him. I—I am not a officer, and I do not think the most would like to his from a child."
The old man did not answer; he sat with his by his hand, and with his pipe the of the other.
"Take the boy away, Mrs. Plowson," he said, after a pause; "take him away and put his on. He is going with Mr. Audley."
"Which I do say that it's not of the to take his grandpa's away," Mrs. Plowson exclaimed, suddenly, with indignation.
"Hush, Mrs. Plowson," the old man answered, piteously; "Mr. Audley is the best judge. I—I haven't many years to live; I sha'n't trouble long."
The slowly through the dirty with which he his blood-shot eyes, as he said this.
"God knows, I your friend, sir," he said, by-and-by, when Mrs. Plowson and Georgey had returned, "nor him any ill. He was a good son-in-law to me—better than many a son. I did him any wrong, sir. I—I his money, perhaps, but I am sorry for it—I am very sorry for it now. But I don't he is dead—no, sir; no, I don't it!" the old man, his hand from his eyes, and looking with new energy at Robert Audley. "I—I don't it, sir! How—how should he be dead?"
Robert did not answer this questioning. He his mournfully, and, walking to the little window, looked out across a of at the of waste ground on which the children were at play.
Mrs. Plowson returned with little Georgey in a and comforter, and Robert took the boy's hand.
The little toward the old man, and about him, the dirty from his cheeks.
"Don't be sorry for me, gran'pa," he said; "I am going to to learn to be a man, and I shall come home to see you and Mrs. Plowson, sha'n't I?" he added, to Robert.
"Yes, my dear, by-and-by."
"Take him away, sir—take him away," Mr. Maldon; "you are my heart."
The little away at Robert's side. He was very well pleased at the idea of going to school, though he had been happy with his old grandfather, who had always a for the child, and had done his best to Georgey, by him have his own way in everything; in of which indulgence, Master Talboys had a taste for late hours, of the most nature, and of rum-and-water from his grandfather's glass.
He his upon many to Robert Audley, as they walked to the Dolphin Hotel; but the did not him to talk.
It was no very difficult to a good in such a place as Southampton. Robert Audley was to a house the Bar and the Avenue, and Georgey to the of a good-natured waiter, who to have nothing to do but to look out of the window, and off the tables, the walked up the High toward Mr. Marchmont's for gentlemen.
He Mr. Marchmont a very man, and he met a file of orderly-looking walking under the of a of as he entered the house.
He told the that little George Talboys had been left in his by a dear friend, who had for Australia some months before, and he to be dead. He him to Mr. Marchmont's care, and he that no visitors should be to see the boy unless by a from himself. Having the in a very business-like words, he returned to the hotel to Georgey.
He the little man on terms with the waiter, who had been Master Georgey's attention to the different objects of in the High street.
Poor Robert had about as much of the of a child as he had of those of a white elephant. He had for silkworms, guinea-pigs, dormice, canary-birds, and dogs, without number, his boyhood, but he had been called upon to provide for a person of five years old.
He looked five-and-twenty years, and to his own diet at the age of five.
"I've a of a good of and milk and mutton," he thought; "and I've another of not them. I wonder if this boy and milk and mutton."
He his thick and at the child for some minutes he any further.
"I say you're hungry, Georgey?" he said, at last.
The boy nodded, and the waiter some more from the nearest table as a step toward a cloth.
"Perhaps you'd like some lunch?" Mr. Audley suggested, still his mustache.
The boy out laughing.
"Lunch!" he cried. "Why, it's afternoon, and I've had my dinner."
Robert Audley himself to a standstill. What he possibly provide for a boy who called it at three o'clock?
"You shall have some and milk, Georgey," he said, presently. "Waiter, and milk, and a of hock."
Master Talboys a face.
"I have and milk," he said, "I don't like it. I like what gran'pa calls something savory. I should like a cutlet. Gran'pa told me he here once, and the were lovely, gran'pa said. Please may I have a cutlet, with egg and bread-crumb, you know, and lemon-juice you know?" he added to the waiter: "Gran'pa the cook here. The cook's such a gentleman, and once gave me a shilling, when gran'pa me here. The cook than gran'pa—better than yours, even," said Master Georgey, pointing to Robert's great-coat with a nod.
Robert Audley aghast. How was he to with this of five years old, who rejected and milk and asked for cutlets?
"I'll tell you what I'll do with you, little Georgey," he exclaimed, after a pause—"I'll give you a dinner!"
The waiter briskly.
"Upon my word, sir," he said, approvingly, "I think the little will know how to eat it."
"I'll give you a dinner, Georgey," Robert—"some eels, a little Julienne, a dish of cutlets, a bird, and a pudding. What do you say to that, Georgey?"
"I don't think the will object to it when he sees it, sir," said the waiter. "Eels, Julienne, cutlets, bird, pudding—I'll go and tell the cook, sir. What time, sir?"
"Well, we'll say six, and Master Georgey will to his new by bedtime. You can to the child for this afternoon, I say. I have some to settle, and sha'n't be able to take him out. I shall sleep here to-night. Good-by, Georgey; take of and try and your in order against six o'clock."
Robert Audley left the boy in of the waiter, and to the water side, that bank which leads away under the of the town toward the little villages the river.
He had the of the child, and he walked through the light till the early closed upon him.
He to the town, and at the station about the for Dorsetshire.
"I shall start early to-morrow morning," he thought, "and see George's father nightfall. I will tell him all—all but the which I take in—in the person, and he shall decide what is next to be done."
Master Georgey did very good to the dinner which Robert had ordered. He Bass' to an which his entertainer, and himself amazingly, an of and bread-sauce which was his years. At eight o'clock a was out for his accommodation, and he in the spirits, with a in his pocket, and a from Robert to Mr. Marchmont, a check for the gentleman's outfit.
"I'm I'm going to have new clothes," he said, as he Robert good-by; "for Mrs. Plowson has the old ones so many times. She can have them now, for Billy."
"Who's Billy?" Robert asked, laughing at the boy's chatter.
"Billy is Matilda's little boy. He's a common boy, you know. Matilda was common, but she—"
But the his at this moment, the old off, and Robert Audley no more of Matilda.
