"No, no, don't," cried Vane, excitedly, for the turn matters had taken was startling. "It was not Chakes, Mr Gramp; it was I."

"You, Mr Lee, sir? You?" cried the man, aghast with wonder. "Whatever put it into your head to try and do such a thing as that? Mischief?"

"No, no, it was not that; the clock wouldn't go, and I came up here all alone, and it did seem so tempting that I began to clean a wheel or two, and then I wanted to do a little more, and a little more, and I got the clock pretty well all to pieces; and then—somehow—well, two of the wheels were left out."

The clockmaker burst into a hearty fit of laughter.

"I should think they were left out," he cried. "Then I must use your name instead of Chakes, eh?"

"No, no, Mr Gramp; pray don't do that; the rector doesn't know. I only told my uncle, and I wasn't thinking about you when I tried to set it going."

"But, you see, sir, it was such a thing to do—to meddle with a big church clock. If it had been an old Dutch with wooden works and sausage weights, or a brass American, I shouldn't have said a word; but my church clock, as I've tended for years! really, sir, you know it's too bad a deal."

"Yes, Mr Gramp, it was too bad; a great piece of—of—assumption."

"Assumption, sir; yes, sir, that's the very word. Well, really, I hardly know what to say."

"Say nothing, Mr Gramp."

"You did tell the doctor, sir?"

"Yes, I told uncle."

"Hum! I'm going to call at the Little Manor to see the doctor about the tall eight-day. Perhaps I'd better consult him."

"Well, yes, speak to uncle if you like, but go by what he says."

The clockmaker nodded, and went on with his work, and from looking on, Vane came to helping, and so an hour passed away, when it suddenly occurred to him that Aunt Hannah had said something about a message she wanted him to take, so he had unwillingly to leave the clock-chamber.

"Good-day, sir, good-day. I shall see you this evening."

"Yes, of course," said Vane; and then, as he hurried down the stairs, it seemed as if there was to be quite a vexatious re-opening of the case.

"I do wish I had not touched the old thing," muttered Vane, as he went back. "I couldn't offer him half-a-crown to hold his tongue. Clockmaker's too big."

But he did not see the clockmaker again that day, for, as he entered the little drawing-room—

"My dear," cried Aunt Hannah, "I was wishing that you would come. I want you to go over to Lenby for me, and take this packet—a bottle, mind, for Mrs Merry. It's a liniment your uncle has made up for her rheumatism."

"Mrs Merry, aunt?"

"Yes, my dear, at the far end of the village; she's quite a martyr to her complaint, and I got your uncle to call and see her last time you were out for a drive. Have the pony if you like."

"Yes, take her, boy," said the doctor. "She is getting too fat with good living. No; I forgot she was to be taken to the blacksmith's to be shod this afternoon."

"All right, uncle, I'll walk over," cried Vane, "I shall enjoy it."

"Well, it will not do you any harm. Go across the rough land at the edge of the forest. You may find a few ferns worth bringing for the greenhouse. And pray try for a few fungi."

Vane nodded, thrust the packet in his breast, and, taking trowel and basket, he started for his three-miles cross-country walk to Lenby, a tiny village, famous for its spire, which was invisible till it was nearly reached, the place lying in a nook in the wold hills, which, in that particular part, were clothed with high beeches of ancient growth.

The late autumn afternoon was glorious, and the little town was soon left behind, the lane followed for a time, but no gipsy van or cart visible, though there was the trace of the last fire. Being deep down in the cutting-like hollow, Vane could not see over the bank, where a donkey was grazing amongst the furze, while, completely hidden in a hollow, there was one of those sleeping tents, formed by planting two rows of willow sticks a few feet apart and then bending over the tops, tying them together, and spreading a tilt over all.

This was invisible to the boy and so were the heads of the two stout gipsy lads, who peered down at him from a little farther on, and then drew softly away to shelter themselves among the bushes and ferns till they were beyond hearing. When, stooping low, they ran off towards the wood, but in a stealthy furtive manner as if they were trying to stalk some wild animal and cut it off farther on, where the place was most solitary and wild.

In happy ignorance of the interest taken in his proceedings, Vane trudged along till it seemed to him that it was time to climb up out of the lane by the steep sand bank, and this he did, but paused half-way without a scientific or inventive idea in his head, ready to prove himself as boyish as anyone of his years, for he had come upon a magnificent patch of brambles sending up in the hot autumn sunshine cone after cone of the blackest of blackberries such as made him drive his toes into the loose sand to get a better foothold, and long for a suitable basket, the one he carried being a mere leather bag.

"Aunt would like a lot of these," he thought, and resisting the temptation to have a feast he left them on the chance of finding them next day when he could come provided with a basket. For blackberries found as much favour with Aunt Hannah as the doctor's choicest plums or apples.

A little higher, though, Vane paused again to stain his fingers and lips with the luscious fruit, which, thanks to the American example, people have just found to be worthy of cultivation in their gardens.

"'Licious," said Vane, with a smack of the lips, and then, mounting to the top of the bank he stood for a few moments gazing at the glorious prospect, all beautiful cultivation on his right, all wild grass, fern, and forest on his left.

This last took most of his attention, as he mapped out his course by the nearest way to the great clump of beeches which towered above the oaks, and then at once strode onward, finding an easy way where a stranger would soon have found himself stuck fast, hedged in by thorns.

"I'll come back by the road," thought Vane. "After all it's better and less tiring."

But with the beeches well in view, he made light of the difficulties of the little trodden district, which seemed to be quite a sanctuary for the partridges, three coveys rising, as he went on, with a tremendous rush and whirr of wing, to fly swiftly for a distance, and then glide on up and down, rising at clumps of furze, and clearing them, to descend into hollows and rise again apparently, after the first rush, without beat of wing.

"It's very curious, that flying," said Vane to himself, as he stood sheltering his eyes to watch the last covey till it passed out of sight—"ten of them, and they went along just as if they had nothing to do but will themselves over the ground. It must be a fine thing to fly. Find it out some day," he said; and he hurried on again to reach the spot where a little rill made a demarcation between the sand and bog he had traversed, and the chalk which rose now in a sharp slope on the other side.

He drew back a little way, took a run and leaped right across the cress-bordered clear water, alighting on hard chalk pebbles, and causing a wild splashing and rustling as a pair of moor-hens rose from amongst the cress, their hollow wings beating hard, their long green legs and attenuated toes hanging apparently nerveless beneath them, and giving a slight glimpse of their coral-coloured beak, and crests and a full view of the pure white and black of their short barred tail ere they disappeared amongst the bulrushes which studded one side of the winding stream.

Vane watched them for a moment or two, and shook his head.

"Partridges beat them hollow. Wonder whether I can find uncle any truffles."

He made for the shade of the beeches, passing at once on to a crackling carpet of old beech-mast and half rotten leaves, while all around him the great trees sent up their wonderfully clean, even-lined trunks, and boughs laden with dark green leaves, and the bronzy brown-red cases of the tiny triangular nuts, the former ready now to gape and drop their sweet contents where those of the past year had fallen before.

"Pity beech-nuts are so small," he said, as he stood looking up in the midst of a glade where the tall branches of a dozen regularly planted trees curved over to meet those of another dozen, and touching in the centre, shutting out the light, and forming a natural cathedral nave, such as might very well have suggested a building to the first gothic architect for working the design in stone.

"Ought to be plenty here," said Vane to himself after drinking his fill of the glorious scene with its side aisles and verdant chapels all around; and stooping down at the foot of one tree, he began with the little trowel which he had taken from his pocket to scrape away the black coating of decayed leaves, and then dig here and there for the curious tubers likely to be found in such a place, but without result.

"Hope uncle hasn't bought a turkey to stuff with truffles," he said with a laugh, as he tried another place; "the basket does not promise to be very heavy."

He had no better luck here, and he tried another, in each case carefully scratching away the dead leaves to bare the soft leaf-mould, and then dig carefully.

"Want a truffle dog, or a pig," he muttered; and then he pounced upon a tuber about twice as large as a walnut, thrusting it proudly into his basket.

"Where one is, there are sure to be others," he said; and he resumed his efforts, finding another and another, all in the same spot.

"Why, I shall get a basketful," he thought, and he began to dwell pleasantly upon the satisfaction the sight of his successful foray would give the doctor, who had a special penchant for truffles, and had often talked about what expensive delicacies they were for those who dwelt in London.

Encouraged then by his success, he went on scraping and grubbing away eagerly with more or less success, while the task grew more mechanical, and after feeling that his bottle was safe in his breast-pocket, he began to think that it was time to leave off, and go on his mission; but directly after, as he was rubbing the clean leaf-mould from off a tuber, his thoughts turned to Distin, and the undoubted enmity he displayed.

"If it was not such a strong term," he said to himself, "I should be ready to say he hates me, and would do me any ill-turn he could."

He had hardly thought this, and was placing his truffle in the basket, when a faint noise toward the edge of the wood where the sun poured in, casting dark shadows from the tree-trunks, made him look sharply in that direction.

For a few moments he saw nothing, and he was about to credit a rabbit with the sound, when it suddenly struck him that one of the shadows cast on the ground not far distant had moved slightly, and as he fixed his eyes upon it intently, he saw that it was not a shadow cast by a tree, unless it was one that had a double trunk for some distance up and then these joined. The next moment he was convinced:—for it was the shadow of a human being hiding behind a good-sized beech, probably in profound ignorance that his presence was clearly shown to the person from whom he was trying to hide.



CHAPTER NINETEEN.

VANE IS MISSING.

Aunt Hannah had been very busy devoting herself according to her custom in watching attentively while Eliza bustled about, spreading the cloth for high tea—a favourite meal at the Little Manor. She had kept on sending messages to Martha in the kitchen till that lady had snorted and confided to Eliza, "that if missus sent her any more of them aggrawating orders she would burn the chicken to a cinder."

For Aunt Hannah's great idea in life was to make those about her comfortable and happy; and as Vane would return from his long walk tired and hungry, she had ordered roast chicken for tea with the sausages Mrs Rounds had sent as a present after the pig-killing.

That was all very well. Martha said "yes, mum," pleasantly and was going to do her best; but unfortunately, Aunt Hannah made a remark which sent the cook back to her kitchen, looking furious.

"As if I ever did forget to put whole peppers in the bread sauce," she cried to Eliza with the addition of a snort, and from that minute there were noises in the kitchen. The oven door was banged to loudly; saucepans smote the burning coals with their bottoms heavily; coals were shovelled on till the kitchen became as hot as Martha's temper, and the plates put down to heat must have had their edges chipped, so hardly were they rattled together.

But in the little drawing-room Aunt Hannah sat as happy and placid as could be till it was drawing toward the time for Vane's return, when she took her keys from her basket, and went to the store-room for a pot of last year's quince marmalade and carried it into the dining-room.

"Master Vane is so fond of this preserve, Eliza," she said. "Oh, and, by the way, ask Martha to send in the open jam tart. I dare say he would like some of that."

"I did tell Martha so, ma'am."

"That was very thoughtful of you, Eliza."

"But she nearly snapped my head off, ma'am."

"Dear, dear, dear, I do wish that Martha would not be so easily put out."

Aunt Hannah gave a glance over the table, and placing a fresh bunch of flowers in a vase in the centre, and a tiny bowl of ornamental leaves, such as the doctor admired, by his corner of the table, smiled with satisfaction to see how attractive everything looked. Then she went back to her work in the drawing-room, but only to pop up again and go to the window, open it, and look out at where the doctor was busy with his penknife and some slips of bass, cutting away the old bindings and re-tying some choice newly-grafted pears which had begun to swell and ask for more room to develop.

"It's getting very nearly tea-time, my dear," she cried. "Bruff went half an hour ago."

"Yes, quarter of an hour before his time," said the doctor. "That's a curious old silver watch of his, always fast, but he believes in it more than he does in mine."

"But it is time to come in and wash your hands, love."

"No. Another quarter of an hour," said the doctor. "Vane come back?"

"No, dear, not yet. But he must be here soon."

"I will not keep his lordship waiting," said the doctor, quietly going on with his tying; and Aunt Hannah toddled back to look at the drawing-room mantel-clock.

"Dear me, yes," she said; "it is nearly a quarter to six." Punctually to his time, the doctor's step was heard in the little hall, where he hung up his hat before going upstairs to change his coat and boots and wash his hands. Then descending.

"Time that boy was back, isn't it?" he said going behind Aunt Hannah, who was looking out of the window at a corner which afforded a glimpse of the road.

"Oh, my dear, how you startled me!" cried Aunt Hannah.

"Can't help it, my dear. I always was an ugly man."

"My dear, for shame! yes, it's quite time he was back. I am growing quite uneasy."

"Been run over perhaps by the train."

"Oh, my dear!" cried Aunt Hannah in horrified tones. "But how could he be? The railway is not near where he has gone."

"Of course it isn't. There, come and sit down and don't be such an old fidget about that boy. You are spoiling him."

"That I am sure I am not, my dear."

"But you are—making a regular Molly of him. He'll be back soon. I believe if you had your own way you would lead him about by a string."

"Now that is nonsense, my dear," cried Aunt Hannah. "How can I help being anxious about him when he is late?"

"Make more fuss about him than if he was our own child."

Aunt Hannah made no reply, but sat down working and listening intently for the expected step, but it did not come, and at last she heaved a sigh.

"Yes, he is late," said the doctor, looking at his watch. "Not going anywhere else for you, was he?"

"Oh, no, my dear; he was coming straight back."

"Humph!" ejaculated the doctor; "thoughtless young dog! I want my tea."

"He can't be long now," said Aunt Hannah.

"Humph! Can't be. That boy's always wool-gathering instead of thinking of his duties."

Aunt Hannah's brow wrinkled and she looked five years older as she rose softly to go to the window, and look out.

"That will not bring him here a bit sooner, Hannah," said the doctor drily. "I dare say he has gone in at the rectory, and Syme has asked him to stay."

"Oh, no, my dear, I don't think he would do that, knowing that we should be waiting."

"Never did, I suppose," said the doctor.

Aunt Hannah was silent. She could not deny the impeachment, and she sat there with her work in her lap, thinking about how late it was; how hungry the doctor would be, and how cross it would make him, for he always grew irritable when kept waiting for his meals.

Then she began to think about going and making the tea, and about the chicken, which would be done to death, and the doctor did not like chickens dry.

Just then there was a diversion.

Eliza came to the door.

"If you please 'm, cook says shall she send up the chicken? It's half-past six."

Aunt Hannah looked at the doctor, and the doctor looked at his watch.

"Wait a minute," he said; and then: "No, I'll give him another quarter of an hour."

"What a tantrum Martha will be in," muttered Eliza, as she left the room.

"Oh, that poor chicken!" thought Aunt Hannah, and then aloud:—

"I hope Vane has not met with any accident."

"Pshaw! What accident could he meet with in walking to the village with a bottle of liniment and back, unless—"

"Yes?" cried Aunt Hannah, excitedly; "unless what, my dear?"

"He has opened the bottle and sat down by the roadside to drink it all."

"Oh, my dear, surely you don't think that Vane would be so foolish."

"I don't know," cried the doctor, "perhaps so. He is always experimentalising over something."

"But," cried Aunt Hannah, with a horrified look, "it was liniment for outward application only!"

"Exactly: that's what I mean," said the doctor. "He has not been content without trying the experiment of how it would act rubbed on inside instead of out."

"Then that poor boy may be lying somewhere by the roadside in the agonies of death—poisoned," cried Aunt Hannah in horror; but the doctor burst out into a roar of laughter.

"Oh, it's too bad, my dear," cried Aunt Hannah, tearfully. "You are laughing at me and just, too, when I am so anxious about Vane."

"I'm not: a young rascal. He has met those sweet youths from the rectory, and they are off somewhere, or else stopping there."

The doctor rose and rang the bell.

"Are you going to send up to see, my dear?"

"No, I am not," said the doctor, rather tartly. "I am going to—"

Eliza entered the room.

"We'll have tea directly, Eliza," said the doctor; and Aunt Hannah hurried into the dining-room to measure out so many caddy spoonfuls into the hot silver pot, and pour in the first portion of boiling water, but listening for the expected footstep all the time.

That meal did not go off well, for, in spite of the doctor's assumed indifference, he was also anxious about his nephew. Aunt Hannah could not touch anything, and the doctor's appetite was very little better; but he set this down to the chicken being, as he said, dried to nothing, and the sausages being like horn—exaggerations, both—for, in spite of Martha's threats, she was too proud of her skill in cooking to send up anything overdone.

The open jam tart was untouched, and the opening of that pot of last year's quince marmalade proved to have been unnecessary; for, though Aunt Hannah paused again and again with her cup half-way to her lips, it was not Vane's step that she heard; and, as eight o'clock came, she could hardly keep back her tears.

All at once the doctor rose and went into the hall, followed by Aunt Hannah, who looked at him wistfully as he put on a light overcoat, and took hat and stick.

"I'll walk to the rectory," he said, "and bring him back."

Aunt Hannah laid her hand upon his arm, as he reached the door.

"Don't be angry with him, my dear," she whispered.

"Why not? Is that boy to do just as he pleases here? I'll give him a good sound thrashing, that's what I'll do with him."

Aunt Hannah took away the doctor's walking stick, which he had made whish through the air and knock down one of Vane's hats.

"There, I'll do it with my fist," cried the doctor. "You cannot amputate that."

"My dear!" whispered Aunt Hannah, handing back the stick.

"All right, I will not hit him, but I'll give him a most tremendous tongue thrashing, as they call it here."

"No, no; there is some reason for his being late."

"Very well," cried the doctor. "I shall soon see."

The door closed after him, and Aunt Hannah began to pace the drawing-room, full of forebodings.

"I am sure there is something very wrong," she said, "or Vane would not have behaved like this."

She broke down here, and had what she called "a good cry." But it did not seem to relieve her, and she recommenced her walking once more.

At every sound she made for the door, believing it was Vane come back, and, truth to tell, thinking very little of the doctor, but every time she hurried to the door and window she was fain to confess it was fancy, and resumed her weary agitated walk up and down the room.

At last, though, there was the click of the swing-gate, and she hurried to the porch where she was standing as the doctor came up.

"Yes, dear," she cried, before he reached the door. "Has he had his tea?"

The doctor was silent, and came into the hall where Aunt Hannah caught his arm.

"There is something wrong?" she cried.

"No, no, don't be agitated, my dear," said the doctor gently. "It may be nothing."

"Then he is there—hurt?"

"No, no. They have not seen him."

"He has not been with the pupils?"

"No."

"Oh, my dear, my dear, what does it mean?" cried Aunt Hannah.

"It is impossible to say," said the doctor, "but we must be cool. Vane is not a boy to run away."

"Oh, no."

"So I have sent Bruff over to ask what time he got to Lenby, and what time he left, and, if possible, to find out which way he returned. Bruff may meet him. We don't know what may have kept him. Nothing serious, of course."

But the doctor's words did not carry conviction; and, as if sympathising with his wife, he took and pressed her hand.

"Come, come," he whispered, "try and be firm. We have no reason for thinking that there is anything wrong."

"No," said Aunt Hannah, with a brave effort to keep down her emotion.—"Yes, Eliza, what is it?"

There had been a low whispering in the hall, followed by Eliza tapping at the door and coming in.

"I beg pardon, ma'am," said the maid, hastily, "but cook and me's that anxious we hoped you wouldn't mind my asking about Master Vane."

A curious sound came from the passage, something between a sigh and a sob.

"There is nothing to tell you," said the doctor, "till Bruff comes back. Mr Vane has been detained; that's all."

"Thank you, sir," said Eliza. "It was only that we felt we should like to know."

In spite of the trouble she was in there was room for a glow of satisfaction in Aunt Hannah's mind on finding how great an interest was felt by the servants; and she set herself to wait as patiently as she could for news.

"It will not be so very long, will it dear?" she whispered, for she could not trust herself to speak aloud.

"It must be two hours," said the doctor gravely. "It is a long way. I am sorry I did not make Bruff drive, but I thought it would take so long to get the pony ready that I started him at once;" and then ready to reprove his wife for her anxiety and eagerness to go to door or window from time to time, the doctor showed himself to be just as excited, and at the end of the first hour, he strode out into the hall.

Aunt Hannah followed him.

"I can't stand it any longer, my dear," he cried. "I don't believe I care a pin about the young dog, for I am sure he is playing us some prank, but I must go and meet Bruff."

"Yes, do, do," cried Aunt Hannah, hurriedly getting the doctor's hat and stick. "But couldn't I go, too?"

The doctor bent down, and kissed her.

"No, no, my dear, you would only hinder me," he said, tenderly, and to avoid seeing her pained and working face he hurried out and took the road for Lenby, striking off to the left, after passing the church.

But after walking sharply along the dark lane, for about a couple of miles, it suddenly occurred to the doctor that the chances were, that Bruff, who knew his way well, would take the short cuts, by the fields, and, after hesitating for a few minutes, he turned and hurried back.

"A fool's errand," he muttered. "I ought to have known better."

As matters turned out, he had done wisely in returning, and the walk had occupied his mind, for, as he came within hearing of the Little Manor again, he fancied that a sound in front was the click of the swing-gate.

It was: for he reached the door just as Eliza was on her way to the drawing-room to announce that Bruff had come back.

"Bring him here," said the doctor, who had entered. "No: stop: I'll come and speak to him in the kitchen."

But Aunt Hannah grasped his hand.

"No, no," she whispered firmly now. "I must know the worst."

"Send Bruff in," said the doctor, sternly, and the next minute the gardener was heard rubbing his boots on the mat, and came into the hall, followed by the other servants.

"Well, Bruff," said the doctor, in a short, stern way, "you have not found him?"

"No, sir, arn't seen or heard nowt."

"But he had been and left the medicine?"

"Nay, sir, not he. Nobody had seen nowt of him. He hadn't been there."

Aunt Hannah uttered a faint gasp.

"But didn't you ask at either of the cottages as you passed?" asked the doctor sharply.

"Cottages, sir? Why, there arn't none. I cut acrost the fields wherever I could, and the only plaace nigh is Candell's farm—that's quarter of a mile down a lane."

"Yes, yes, of course," said the doctor. "I had forgotten. Then you have brought no news at all?"

"Well, yes, sir; a bit as you may say."

"Well, what is it, man? Don't keep us in suspense."

"Seems like news to say as he arn't been nowheres near Lenby."

"Can you form any idea of where he is likely to have gone?"

Bruff looked in his hat and pulled the lining out a little way, and peered under that as if expecting to find some information there, but ended by shaking his head and looking in a puzzled fashion at the doctor.

"Come with me," said the latter, and turning to Aunt Hannah, he whispered: "Go and wait patiently, my dear. I don't suppose there is anything serious the matter. I daresay there is a simple explanation of the absence if we could find it; but I feel bound to try and find him, if I can, to-night."

"But how long will you be?"

"One hour," said the doctor, glancing at his watch. "If I am not back then you will have a message from me in that time, so that you will be kept acquainted with all I know."

"Please, sir, couldn't we come and help?" said cook eagerly. "Me and 'Liza's good walkers."

"Thank you," said the doctor; "the best help you can render is to sit up and wait, ready to attend to your mistress."

He turned to Aunt Hannah who could not trust herself to speak, but pressed his hand as he passed out into the dark night, followed by Bruff.

"The rectory," he said briefly; and walked there rapidly to ring and startle Joseph, who was just thinking of giving his final look round before going to bed.

"Some one badly, sir?" he said, as he admitted the doctor and gardener, jumping at the conclusion that his master was wanted at a sick person's bedside.

"No. Have you seen Mr Vane since he left after lessons this morning?"

"No, sir."

"Where is the rector?"

"In his study, sir."

"And the young gentlemen?"

"Just gone up to bed, sir."

"Show me into the study."

Joseph obeyed, and the rector, who was seated with a big book before him, which he was not reading, jumped up in a startled way.

"Vane Lee?" he cried.

"Yes: I'm very anxious about Vane. He was sent over to Lenby, this afternoon and has not returned. I want to ask Macey and Gilmore if they know anything of his whereabouts."

"But some one came long ago. They have not seen him since luncheon."

"Tut—tut—tut!" ejaculated the doctor.

"Not been back then?"

The doctor shook his head, and the rector suggested that he had stayed at Lenby and half a dozen other things which could be answered at once.

"Would you mind sending for the lads to come down?"

"Certainly not. Of course," cried the rector; and he rang and sent up a message.

"I don't suppose they are in bed," he said. "They always have a good long gossip; and, as long as they are down in good time I don't like to be too strict. But, my dear Lee. You don't think there is anything serious?"

"I don't know what to think, Syme," cried the doctor, agitatedly.

"Is it an escapade—has he run off?"

"My dear sir, you know him almost as well as I do. Is he the sort of boy to play such a prank?"

"I should say, no. But, stop, you have had some quarrel. You have been reproving him."

"No—no—no," cried the doctor. "Nothing of the kind. If there had been I should have felt more easy."

"But, what can have happened? A walk to Lenby and back by a boy who knows every inch of the way."

"That is the problem," said the doctor. "Ah, here is someone."

For there was a tap at the door, and Macey entered, to look wonderingly from one to the other.

"Aleck, my boy," said the doctor, "Vane is missing. Can you suggest anything to help us? Do you know of any project that he had on hand or of any place he was likely to have gone to on his way to Lenby?"

"No," said Macey, quickly.

"Take time, my dear boy, and think," said the rector.

"But I can't think, sir, of anything," cried Macey. "No. Unless—"

"Yes," cried the doctor; "unless what?"

"He was going to Lenby, you say."

"Yes."

"Well, mightn't he have stopped there?"

"No, no, my boy," cried the doctor, in disappointed tones, as Gilmore came in, and directly after Distin, both looking wonderingly round. "We sent there."

"Then I don't know," said Macey, anxiously. "He might have gone over the bit of moor though."

"Yes," said the doctor; "he could have gone that way."

"Well, sir, mightn't he have been caught among the brambles, or lost his way?"

"No, my boy, absurd!"

"I once did, sir, and he came and helped me out."

"Oh, no," cried the doctor; "impossible."

"But there are some very awkward pieces of bog and peat and water-holes, sir," said Gilmore; and as he said this Distin drew a deep breath, and took a step back from the shaded lamp.

The rector also drew a deep breath, and looked anxiously at the doctor, who stood with his brow contracted for a few moments, and then shook his head.

"He was too clever and active for that," he cried. "No, Gilmore, that is not the solution. He is not likely to have come upon poachers? There are a great many pheasants about there?"

"No poachers would be about in the afternoon," said the rector. "My dear Lee, I do not like to suggest so terrible a thing, but I must say, I think it is our duty to get all the help we can, and search the place armed with lanterns."

The doctor looked at him wildly.

"Of course we'll help. What do you say?"

"Yes," said the doctor hoarsely. "Let us search."

The rector rang the bell, and Joseph answered directly.

"Wait a moment," cried the doctor. "Mr Distin, you have not spoken yet. Tell me: what is your opinion. Do you think Vane can have come to harm in the moor strip yonder?"

Distin shrank back as he was addressed, and looked round wildly, from one to the other.

"I—I?" he faltered.

"Yes, you—my dear boy," said the rector, sharply. "Answer at once, and do, pray, try to master that nervousness."

Distin passed his tongue over his lips, and his voice sounded very husky as he said, almost inaudibly at first, but gathering force as he went on:—

"I don't know. I have not seen him since this morning."

"We know that," said the doctor; "but should you think it likely, that he has met with an accident, or can you suggest anywhere likely for him to have gone?"

"No, sir, no," said Distin, firmly now. "I can't think of anywhere, nor should I think he is likely to have sunk in either of the bog holes, though he is very fond of trying to get plants of all kinds when he is out."

"Yes, yes," said the doctor, hoarsely. "I taught him;" and as he spoke Distin gave a furtive look all round the room, to see that nearly everyone was watching him closely.

"We must hope for the best, Lee," said the doctor, firmly. "Joseph, take Doctor Lee's man with you, go down the town street and spread the alarm. We want men with lanterns as quickly as possible. That place must be searched."

The two men started at once, and the rector, after an apology, began to put on his boots once more.

"I promised to go or send word to the Manor," said the doctor, "but I feel as if I had not the heart to go."

"To tell Mrs Lee, sir?" said Distin, quickly.

"Yes, to say that we are all going to search for Vane," said the doctor, "but not what we suspect."

"I understand," said Distin, quickly; and, as if glad to escape, he hurried out of the room, and directly after they heard the closing of the outer door, and his steps on the gravel as he ran.



CHAPTER TWENTY.

NO NEWS.

"Distin seems curiously agitated and disturbed," said the doctor.

"Yes: he is a nervous, finely-strung youth," replied the rector. "The result of his birth in a tropical country. It was startling, too, his being fetched down from bed to hear such news."

"Of course—of course," said the doctor; and preparations having been rapidly made by the rector, who mustered three lanterns, one being an old bull's-eye, they all started.

"Better go down as far as the church, first, and collect our forces. Then we'll make a start for the moor. But who shall we have for guide?"

"Perhaps I know the place best," said the doctor; and they started in silence, passing down the gravel drive, out at the gate, and then along the dark lane with the lights dancing fitfully amongst the trees and bushes on either side, and casting curiously weird shadows behind.

As they reached the road, Macey, who carried one lantern, held it high above his head and shouted.

"Hush—hush!" cried the doctor, for the lad's voice jarred upon him in the silence.

"Distin's coming, sir," said Macey.

There was an answering hail, and then the pat-pat of steps, as Distin trotted after and joined them.

By the time the church was reached, there was plenty of proof of Vane's popularity, for lanterns were dancing here and there, and lights could be seen coming from right up the street, while a loud eager buzz of voices reached their ears. Ten minutes after the doctor found himself surrounded by a band of about forty of the townsfolk, everyone of whom had some kind of lantern and a stick or pole, and all eager to go in search of the missing lad.

Rounds the miller was one of the foremost, and carried the biggest lantern, and made the most noise. Chakes the sexton, was there, too, with his lantern—a dim, yellow-looking affair, whose sides were of horn sheets, with here and there fancy devices punched in the tin to supply air to the burning candle within.

Crumps, from the dairy, Graders the baker, and John Wrench the carpenter, all were there, and it seemed a wonder to Macey where all the lanterns had come from. But it was no wonder, for Greythorpe was an ill-lit place, where candles and oil-lamps took the place of gas even in the little shops, and there were plenty of people who needed the use of a stable-light.

There were two policemen stationed in Greythorpe, but they were off on their nightly rounds, and it was not until the weird little procession of light-bearers had gone half a mile from the town that there was a challenge from under a dark hedge, and two figures stepped out into the road.

"Eh? Master Vane Lee lost?" said one of the figures, the lights proclaiming them to be the policemen, who had just met at one of their appointed stations; "then we'd better jyne you."

This added two more lanterns to the bearers of light, but for a long time they were not opened, but kept as a reserved force—ready if wanted.

At last, in almost utter silence, the moor was reached, the men were spread out, and the search began. But it was ended after an hour's struggling among the bushes, and an extrication of Chakes, and Wrench the carpenter, from deep bog holes into which they had suddenly stepped, and, on being drawn out, sent home.

Then Rounds spoke out in his loud, bluff way.

"Can't be done, doctor, by this light. It's risking the lives of good men and true. I want to find young Mester, and I'll try as if he was a son of my own, but we can't draw this mash to-night."

There was a dead silence at this, and then the rector spoke out.

"I'm afraid he is right, Lee. I would gladly do everything possible, but this place really seems impassable by night."

The doctor was silent, and the rector spoke again:

"What do you say, constable?"

"As it can't be done, sir, with all respect to you as the head of the parish."

"Seems to me like getting up an inquess, sir," said Dredge the butcher, "with ooz all dodging about here with our lights, like so many will-o'-the-wispies."

"Ay, I was gooin' to say as theered be job for owd Chakes here 'fore morning if he gets ower his ducking."

"I'm afraid you are right," said the doctor, sadly. "If I were sure that my nephew was somewhere here on the moor, I should say keep on at all hazards, but it is too dangerous a business by lantern light."

"Let's give a good shout," cried the miller; "p'r'aps the poor lad may hear it. Now, then, all together: one, two three, and Ahoy!"

The cry rang far out over the moor, and was faintly answered, so plainly that Macey uttered a cry of joy.

"Come on," he cried; "there he is."

"Nay, lad," said the miller; "that was on'y the echo."

"No, no," said Macey; "it was an answer."

"It did sound like it," said the rector; and the doctor remained in doubt.

"You listen," said the miller; and, putting his hands on either side of his mouth, he gave utterance to a stentorian roar.

"Vane, ho!"

There was a pause, and a "ho!" came back.

"All right?" roared the miller.

"Right!" came back.

"Good-night!" shouted the miller again.

"Night!"

"There, you see. Only an echo," said the miller. "Wish it wasn't. Why, if it had been his voice, lads, we'd soon ha' hed him home."

"Yes, it's an echo, Aleck," said Gilmore, sadly.

"But we could stop, and go on searching, sir," cried Macey. "It's such a pity to give up."

"Only till daybreak, my lad," said the doctor, sadly. "We can do no good here, and the risk is too great."

Gilmore uttered a low sigh, and Macey a groan, as, after a little more hesitation, it was decided to go back to the town, and wait till the first dawn, when the search could be resumed.

"And, look here, my lads," cried the miller; "all of you as can had better bring bill-hooks and sickles, for it's bad going through these brambles, even by day."

"And you, constables," said the rector; "you are on duty along the roads. You will keep a sharp look-out."

"Of course, sir, and we'll communicate with the other men we meet from Lenby and Riby, and Dunthorpe. We shall find him, sir, never fear."

The procession of lanterns was recommenced, but in the other direction now, and in utter despondency the doctor followed, keeping with the rector and his pupils, all trying in turn to suggest some solution of the mystery, but only for it to close in more darkly round them, in spite of all.

The police then left them at the spot where they had been encountered, and promised great things, in which nobody felt any faith; and at last, disheartened and weary, the churchyard was reached, and the men dismissed, all promising to be ready to go on at dawn. Then there was a good deal of opening of lanterns, the blowing out of candle and lamp, the closing of doors, and an unpleasant, fatty smell, which gradually dispersed as all the men departed but the miller.

"Hope, gentlemen," he said, in his big voice, "you don't think I hung back from helping you."

"No, no, Rounds," said the doctor, sadly; "you are not the sort of man to fail us in a pinch."

"Thankye, doctor," said the bluff fellow, holding out his hand. "Same to you. I aren't forgot the way you come and doctored my missus when she was so bad, and you not a reg'lar doctor, but out o' practice. But nivver you fear; we'll find the lad. I shan't go to bed, but get back and light a pipe. I can think best then; and mebbe I'll think out wheer the young gent's gone."

"Thank you, Rounds," said the doctor. "Perhaps we had all better go and try and think it out, for Heaven grant that it may not be so bad as we fear."

"Amen to that!" cried the miller, "as clerk's not here. And say, parson, I'll goo and get key of owd Chakes, and, at the first streak o' daylight, I'll goo to belfry, and pull the rope o' the ting-tang to rouse people oop. You'll know what it means."

He went off; and the rest of the party, preceded by Joseph Bruff having sought his cottage, walked slowly back, all troubled by the same feeling, omitting Distin, that they had done wrong in giving up so easily, but at the same time feeling bound to confess that they could have done no good by continuing the search.

As they reached the end of the rectory lane and the doctor said "good-night," the rector urged him to come up to the rectory and lie down on a couch till morning, but Doctor Lee shook his head.

"No," he said, "it is quite time I was back. There is someone sorrowing there more deeply than we can comprehend. Till daybreak, Syme. Good-night."

Macey stood listening to the doctor's retiring footsteps and then ran after him.

"Hi! Macey!" cried Gilmore.

"Mr Macey, where are you going?" cried the rector.

But the boy heard neither of them as he ran on till the doctor heard the footsteps and stopped.

"Yes," he said, "what is it?"

"Only me—Aleck Macey, sir."

"Yes, my lad? Have you brought a message from Mr Syme?"

"No, sir; I only wanted—I only thought—I—I—Doctor Lee, please let me come and wait with you till it's time to start."

Macey began falteringly, but his last words came out with a rush.

"Why not go back to bed, my lad, and get some rest—some sleep?"

"Rest?—sleep? Who is going to sleep when, for all we know, poor old Vane's lying helpless somewhere out on the moor. Let me come and stop with you."

For answer the doctor laid his hand upon Macey's shoulder, and they reached the Little Manor swing-gate and passed up the avenue without a word.

There were lights burning in two of the front windows, and long before they reached the front door in the porch, it was opened, and a warm glow of light shone out upon the advancing figures. It threw up, too, the figure of Aunt Hannah, who, as soon as she realised the fact that there were two figures approaching, ran out and before the doctor could enlighten her as to the truth, she flung her arms round Macey's neck, and hugged him to her breast, sobbing wildly.

"Oh, my dear, my dear, where have you been—where have you been?"

As she spoke, she buried her face upon the lad's shoulder, while Macey looked up speechlessly at the doctor, and he, choked with emotion as he was, could not for some moments find a word to utter.

Still, clinging to him in the darkness Aunt Hannah now took tightly hold of the boy's arm, as if fearing he might again escape from her, and drawing him up toward the door from which the light shone now, showing Eliza and Martha both waiting, she suddenly grasped the truth, and uttered a low wail of agony.

"Not found?" she cried. "Oh, how could you let me, how could you! It was too cruel, indeed, indeed!"

Aunt Hannah's sobs broke out loudly now; and, unable to bear more, Macey glided away, and did not stop running after passing the gate till he reached the rectory door.



CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

IN THE EARLY MORNING.

Churchwarden Rounds kept his word, for at the first break of day his vigorous arms sent the ting-tang ringing in a very different way to that adopted by old Chakes for the last few minutes before service commenced on Sunday morning and afternoon. And he did not ring in vain, for though the search was given up in the night the objections were very genuine. Everyone was eager to help so respected a neighbour as the doctor, and to a man the searchers surrounded him as he walked up to the church; even Wrench the carpenter, and Chakes the sexton putting in an appearance in a different suit to that worn over-night and apparently none the worse for the cold plunge into peaty water they had had.

The rector was not present, and the little expedition was about to start, when Macey came running up to say that Mr Syme was close behind.

This decided the doctor to pause for a few minutes, and while it was still twilight the rector with Gilmore and Distin came up, the former apologising for being so late.

"I'm afraid that I fell asleep in my chair, Lee," he whispered. "I'm very sorry."

"There is no need to say anything," said the doctor sadly. "It is hardly daybreak even now."

Gilmore looked haggard, and his face on one side was marked by the leather of the chair in which he had been asleep. Macey looked red-eyed too, but Distin was perfectly calm and as neat as if he had been to bed as usual to enjoy an uninterrupted night's rest.

When the start was made, it having been decided to follow the same course as over-night, hardly a word was said, for in addition to the depression caused by the object in view, the morning felt chilly, and everything looked grim and strange in the mist.

The rector and doctor led the way with the churchwarden, then followed the rector's three pupils, and after them the servants and townspeople in silence.

Macey was the first of the rectory trio to speak, and he harked back to the idea that Vane must be caught in the brambles just as he had been when trying to make a short cut, but Gilmore scouted the notion at once.

"Impossible!" he said, "Vane wouldn't be so stupid. If he is lost on the moor it is because he slipped into one of those black bog holes, got tangled in the water-weeds and couldn't get out."

"Ugh!" exclaimed Macey with a shudder. "Oh, I say: don't talk like that. It's too horrid. You don't think so, do you, Distie? Why it has made you as white as wax to hear him talk like that."

Distin shivered as if he were cold, and he forced a smile as he said hastily:—

"No: of course I don't. It's absurd."

"What is?" said Gilmore.

"Your talking like this. It isn't likely. I think it's a great piece of nonsense, this searching the country."

"Why, what would you do?" cried Macey.

"I—I—I don't know," cried Distin, who was taken aback. "Yes, I do. I should drive over to the station to see if he took a ticket for London, or Sheffield, or Birmingham, or somewhere. It's just like him. He has gone to buy screws, or something, to make a whim-wham to wind up the sun."

"No, he hasn't," said Macey sturdily; "he wouldn't go and upset the people at home like that; he's too fond of them."

"Pish!" ejaculated Distin contemptuously.

"Distie's sour because he is up so early, Gil," continued Macey. "Don't you believe it. Vane's too good a chap to go off like that."

"Bah! he is always changing about. Why, you two fellows call him Weathercock."

"Well!" cried Gilmore; "it isn't because we don't like him."

"No," said Macey, "only in good-humoured fun, because he turns about so. I wish," he added dolefully, "he would turn round here now."

"You don't think as the young master's really drownded, do you?" said a voice behind, and Macey turned sharply, to find that Bruff had been listening to every word.

"No, I don't," he cried angrily; "and I'll punch anybody's head who says he is. I believe old Distie wishes he was."

"You're a donkey," cried Distin, turning scarlet.

"Then keep away from my heels—I might kick. It makes me want to with everybody going along as cool as can be, as if on purpose, to fish the best chap I ever knew out of some black hole among the bushes."

"Best chap!" said Distin, contemptuously.

"Yes: best chap," retorted Macey, whose temper was soured by the cold and sleeplessness of the past night.

Further words were stopped by the churchwarden's climbing up the sandy bank of the deep lane, and stopping half-way to the top to stretch out his hand to the rector whom he helped till he was amongst the furze, when he turned to help the doctor, who was, however, active enough to mount by himself.

The rest of the party were soon up in a group, and then there was a pause and the churchwarden spoke.

"If neither of you gentlemen, has settled what to do," he said, "it seems to me the best thing is to make a line of our-sens along top of the bank here, and then go steady right along towards Lenby—say twenty yards apart."

The doctor said that no better plan could be adopted, but added:—

"I should advise that whenever a pool is reached the man who comes to it should shout. Then all the line must stop while I come to the pool and examine it."

"But we've got no drags or hooks, mester," whispered the churchwarden, and the doctor shuddered.

"No," he said hastily, "but I think there would certainly be some marks of struggling at the edge—broken twigs, grass, or herbage torn away."

"Look at Distie," whispered Gilmore.

"Was looking," replied Macey who was gazing fixedly at his fellow-pupil's wild eyes and hollow cheeks. "Hasn't pitched, or shoved him in, has he?"

"Hush! Don't talk like that," whispered Gilmore again; and just then the object of their conversation looked up sharply, as if conscious that he was being canvassed, and gazed suspiciously from one to the other.

Meanwhile the miller who had uncovered so as to wipe his brow, threw his staring red cotton handkerchief sharply back into the crown of his hat and knocked it firmly into its place.

"Why, of course," he said: "That's being a scientific gentleman. I might have thought of that, but I didn't."

Without further delay half the party spread out toward the wood which formed one side of the moor, while the other half spread back toward the town; and as soon as all were in place the doctor, who was in the centre, with Rounds the miller on his right, and the rector on his left, gave the word. The churchwarden shouted and waved his hat and with the soft grey dawn gradually growing brighter, and a speck or two of orange appearing high up in the east, the line went slowly onward towards Lenby, pausing from time to time for pools to be examined and for the more luckless of the party to struggle out of awkward places.

The rector's three pupils were on the right—the end nearest the town, Distin being the last in the line and in spite of Macey's anticipations, he struggled on as well as the best man there.

Patches of mist like fleecy clouds, fallen during the night, lay here and there; and every now and then one who looked along the line could see companions walk right into these fogs and disappear for minutes at a time to suddenly step out again on to land that was quite clear.

Hardly a word was spoken, the toil was sufficient to keep every one silent. For five minutes after a start had been made every one was drenched with dew to the waist, and as Macey afterwards said if they had forded the river they could not have been more wet.

Every now and then birds were startled by someone, to rise with a loud whirr if they were partridges, with a rapid beating of pinions and frightened quacking if wild-fowl; and for a few moments, more than once, both Macey and Gilmore forgot the serious nature of their mission in interest in the various objects they encountered.

For these were not few.

Before they had gone a quarter of a mile there was a leap and a rush, and unable to contain himself, Bruff, who was next on Macey's left suddenly shouted "loo—loo—loo—loo."

"See him, Mester Macey!" he cried. "Oh, if we'd had a greyhound."

But they had no long-legged hound to dart off after the longer-eared animal; and the hare started from its form in some dry tussock grass, went off with its soft fur streaked to its sides with the heavy dew, and was soon out of reach.

Then a great grey flapped-wing heron rose from a tiny mere and sailed heavily away.

That pool had to be searched as far as its margin was concerned; and as it was plainly evident that birds only had visited it lately, the line moved on again just as the red disk of the sun appeared above the mist, and in one minute the grim grey misty moor was transformed into a vast jewelled plain spangled with myriads upon myriads of tiny gems, glittering in all the colours of the prism, and sending a flash of hopeful feeling into the boys' breasts.

"Oh!" cried Macey; "isn't it lovely! I am glad I came."

"Yes," said Gilmore; and then correcting himself. "Who can feel glad on a morning like this!"

"I can," said Macey, "for it all makes me feel now that we are stupid to think anything wrong can have happened to poor old Weathercock. He's all right somewhere."

Something akin to Macey's feeling of light-heartedness had evidently flashed into the hearts of all in the line, for men began to shout to one another as they hurried on with more elasticity of tread; they made lighter of their difficulties, and no longer felt a chill of horror whenever Rounds summoned all to a halt, while the doctor passed along the line to examine some cotton-rush dotted margin about a pool.

Working well now, the line pressed on steadily in the direction of Lenby, and a couple of miles must have been gone over when a halt was called, and after a short discussion in the centre, the churchwarden came panting along the line giving orders as he went till he reached the end where the three pupils were.

"Now, lads," he cried, "we're going to sweep round now, like the soldiers do—here by this patch of bushes. You, Mr Distin, will march right on, keeping your distance as before, and go the gainest way for the wood yonder, where you'll find the little stream. Then you'll keep back along that and we shall sweep that side of the moor till we get to the lane again."

"But we shall miss ever so much in the middle," cried Gilmore.

"Ay, so we shall, lad, but we'll goo up along theer afterwards, and back'ards, and forwards till we've been all over."

"But, I say," cried Macey, "you don't think we shall find him here, do you?"

"Nay, I don't, lad; but the doctor has a sort of idee that we may, and I'm not the man to baulk him. He might be here, you see."

"Yes," said Macey; "he might. There: all right, we'll go on when you give the word."

"Forrard, then, my lads; there it is, and I wish we may find him. Nay, I don't," he said, correcting himself, "for, poor lad he'd be in a bad case to have fallen down here for the night. Theer's something about it I can't understand, and if I were you, Mr Distin, sir, I'd joost chuck an eye now and then over the stream towards the edge of the wood."

Distin nodded and the line was swung round, so as to advance for some distance toward the wood which began suddenly just beyond the stream. There another shout, and the waving of the miller's hat, altered the direction again, and with Distin close by the flowing water, the line was marched back toward the lane with plenty of repetitions of their outward progress but it was at a slower rate, for the tangle was often far more dense.

And somehow, perhaps from the brilliancy of the morning, and the delicious nature of the pure soft air, the lads' spirits grew higher, and they had to work hard to keep their attention to the object they had in view, for nature seemed to be laying endless traps for them, especially for Macey, who certainly felt Vane's disappearance most at heart, but was continually forgetting him on coming face to face with something fresh. Now it was an adder coiled up in the warm sunshine on a little dry bare clump among some dead furze. It was evidently watching him but making no effort to get out of his way.

He had a stick, and it would have been easy to kill the little reptile, but somehow he had not the heart to strike at him, and he walked on quickly to overtake the line which had gone on advancing while he lagged behind.

Ten minutes later he nearly stepped upon a rabbit which bounded away, as he raised his stick to hurl it after the plump-looking little animal like a boomerang.

But he did not throw, and the rabbit escaped. He did not relax his efforts, but swept the tangle of bushes and brambles from right to left and back to the right, always eagerly trying to find something, if only a footprint to act as a clue that he might follow, but there was no sign.

All at once in a sandy spot amongst some furze bushes he stopped again, with a grim smile on his lip.

"Very evident that he hasn't been here," he muttered, as he looked at some scattered specimens of a fungus that would have delighted Vane, and been carried off as prizes. They were tall-stemmed, symmetrically formed fungi, with rather ragged brown and white tops, which looked as if in trying to get them open into parasol shape the moorland fairies had regularly torn up the outer skin of the tops with their little fingers; those unopened though showed the torn up marks as well, as they stood there shaped like an egg stuck upon a short thin stick.

"Come on!" shouted Gilmore. "Found anything?"

Macey shook his head, and hurried once more onward to keep the line, to hear soon afterwards scape, scape, uttered shrilly by a snipe which darted off in zigzag flight.

"Oh, how poor old Vane would have liked to be here on such a morning!" thought Macey, and a peculiar moisture, which he hastily dashed away, gathered in his eyes and excused as follows:—

"Catching cold," he said, quickly. "No wonder with one's feet and legs so wet, why, I'm soaking right up to the waist. Hallo! what bird's that?"

For a big-headed, thick-beaked bird flew out of a furze bush, showing a good deal of white in its wings.

"Chaffinch, I s'pose. No; can't be. Too big. Oh, I do wish poor old Vane was here: he knows everything of that kind. Where can he be? Where can he be?"

It was hot work that toiling through the bushes, but no one murmured or showed signs of slackening as he struggled along. There were halts innumerable, and the doctor could be seen hurrying here and hurrying there along the straggling line till at last a longer pause than usual was made at some pool, and heads were turned toward those who seemed to be making a more careful examination than usual; while, to relieve the tedium of the halt, Distin suddenly went splashing through the shallow stream on to the pebbly margin on the other side.

"Shan't you get very wet?" shouted Gilmore.

"Can't get wetter than I am," was shouted back then. "I say it's ten times better walking here. Look out! Moor-hens!"

"And wild ducks," cried Gilmore, as a pair of pointed-winged mallards flew up with a wonderfully graceful flight.

But the birds passed away unnoticed, for just then Distin uttered a cry which brought Macey tearing over the furze and brambles following Gilmore, who was already at the edge of the stream, and just then the signal was given by the miller to go on.



CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

VANE IS TAKEN AT A DISADVANTAGE.

Vane felt for the moment quite startled, the place being so silent and solitary, but the idea of danger seemed to him absurd, and he stood watching the shadow till all doubt of its being human ceased, for an arm was raised and then lowered as if a signal was being made.

"What can it mean?" he thought. And then:—"I'll soon see."

Just as he had made up his mind to walk forward, there was a slight movement and a sharp crack as of a twig of dead wood breaking under the pressure of a foot, and he who caused the sound, feeling that his presence must be known, stepped out from behind the tree.

"Why, I fancied it was Distie," said Vane to himself with a feeling of relief that he would have found it hard to explain, for it was one of the gipsy lads approaching him in a slow, furtive way.

"Thought they were gone long enough ago," he said to himself; and then speaking: "Hi! you, sir; come here!—Make him try and dig some up. Wonder they don't hunt for truffles themselves," he added. "Don't think they are wholesome, perhaps."

The lad came slowly toward him, but apparently with great unwillingness.

"Come on," cried Vane, "and I'll give you a penny. Hallo! Here's the other one!"

For the second lad came slouching along beneath the trees.

"Here, you two," cried Vane, waving his trowel; "come along and dig up some of these. That's right. You've got sticks. You can do it with the points."

The second boy had come into sight from among the trees to Vane's left, and advanced cautiously now, as if doubtful of the honesty of his intentions.

"That's right," cried Vane. "Come along, both of you, and I'll give you twopence a piece. Do you hear? I shan't hurt you."

But they did not hasten their paces, advancing very cautiously, stick in hand, first one and then the other, glancing round as if for a way of escape, as it seemed.

"Why, they're as shy as rabbits," thought Vane, laughing to himself. "It's leading such a wild life, I suppose. Here," he cried to the first lad, who was now within a yard of him, while the other was close behind; "see these? I want some of them. Come on, and I'll show you how to find them. Why, what did you do that for?"

Vane gave a bound forward, wincing with pain, for he had suddenly received a heavy blow on the back from the short cudgel the boy behind him bore, and as he turned fiercely upon him, thrusting the trowel into his basket and doubling his fist to return the blow, the first boy struck him heavily across the shoulder with his stick.

If the gipsy lads imagined that the blows would cow Vane, and make him an easy victim for the thrashing they had evidently set themselves to administer, they were sadly mistaken. For uttering a cry of rage as the second blow sent a pang through him, Vane dashed down his basket and trowel, spun round and rushed at his second assailant, but only to receive a severe blow across one wrist while another came again from behind.

"You cowards!" roared Vane; "put down those sticks, or come in front."

The lads did neither, and finding in spite of his rage the necessity for caution, Vane sprang to a tree, making it a comrade to defend his back, and then struck out wildly at his assailants.

So far his efforts were in vain. Sticks reach farther than fists, and his hands both received stinging blows, one on his right, numbing it for the moment and making him pause to wonder what such an unheard-of attack could mean.

Thoughts fly quickly at all times, but with the greatest swiftness in emergencies, and as Vane now stood at bay he could see that these two lads had been watching him for some time past, and that the attack had only been delayed for want of opportunity.

"I always knew that gipsies could steal," he thought, "but only in a little petty, pilfering way. This is highway robbery, and if I give them all I've got they will let me go."

Then he considered what he had in his pockets—about seven shillings, including the half-pence—and a nearly new pocket-knife. He was just coming to the conclusion that he might just as well part with this little bit of portable property and escape farther punishment, when one of the boys made a feint at his head and brought his stick down with a sounding crack, just above his left knee, while the other struck him on the shoulder.

Vane's blood was up now, and forgetting all about compromising, he dashed at one of his assailants, hitting out furiously, getting several blows home, in spite of the stick, and the next minute would have torn it from the young scoundrel's grasp if the other had not attacked him so furiously behind that he had to turn and defend himself there.

This gave the boy he was beating time to recover himself, and once more Vane was attacked behind and had to turn again.

All this was repeated several times, Vane getting far the worst of the encounter, for the gipsy lads were as active as cats and wonderfully skilful at dealing blows; but all the same they did not escape punishment, as their faces showed, Vane in his desperation ignoring the sticks and charging home with pretty good effect again and again.

"It's no good; I shall be beaten," he thought as he now protected himself as well as he could by the shelter afforded by the tree he had chosen, though poor protection it was, for first one and then the other boy would dart in feinting with his stick and playing into the other's hand and giving him an opportunity to deliver a blow. "I shall have to give in, and the young savages will almost kill me."

And all this time he was flinching, dodging and shrinking here and there, and growing so much exhausted that his breath came thick and fast.

"Oh, if I only had a stick!" he panted, as he avoided a blow on one side to receive one on the other; and this made him rush savagely at one of the lads; but he had to draw back, smarting from a sharp blow across the left arm, right above the elbow, and one which half numbed the member.

But though he cast longing eyes round, there was no sticks save those carried by the boys, who, with flashing eyes, kept on darting in and aiming wherever they could get a chance. There was one fact, however, which Vane noticed, and which gave him a trifle of hope just when he was most despairing: his adversaries never once struck at his head, contenting themselves by belabouring his arms, back and legs, which promised to be rendered quite useless if the fight went on.

And all the time neither of the gipsy lads spoke a word, but kept on leaping about him, making short runs, and avoiding his blows in a way that was rapidly wearing him out.

Should he turn and run? No, he thought; they would run over the ground more swiftly than he, and perhaps get him down.

Then he thought of crying for help, but refrained, for he felt how distant they were from everyone, and that if he cried aloud he would only be expending his breath.

And lastly, the idea came again that he had better offer the lads all he had about him. But hardly had the thought crossed his brain, than a more vicious blow than usual drove it away, and he rushed from the shelter of the tree-trunk at the boy who delivered that blow. In trying to avoid Vane's fist, he caught his heel, staggered back, and in an instant his stick was wrested from his hand, whistled through the air, and came down with a sounding crack, while what one not looking on might have taken to be an echo of the blow sounded among the trees.

But it was not an echo, only the real thing, the second boy having rushed to his brother's help, and struck at Vane's shoulder, bringing him fiercely round to attack in turn, stick-armed now, and on equal terms. For Vane's blow had fallen on the first boy's head, and he went down half-stunned and bleeding, to turn over and then begin rapidly crawling away on hands and knees.

Vane saw this, and he forgot that he was weak, that his arms were numbed and tingling, and that his legs trembled under him. If victory was not within his grasp, he could take some vengeance for his sufferings; and the next minute the beechen glade was ringing with the rattle of stick against stick, as in a state of blind fury now, blow succeeded blow, many not being fended off by the gipsy lad's stick, but reaching him in a perfect hail on head, shoulders, arms, everywhere. They flew about his head like a firework, making him see sparks in a most startling way till Vane put all his remaining strength into a tremendous blow which took effect upon a horizontal bough; the stick snapped in two close to his hand, and he stood defenceless once more, but the victor after all, for the second boy was running blindly in and out among the trees, and the first was quite out of sight.

As he grasped the position, Vane uttered a hoarse shout and started in pursuit, but staggered, reeled, tried to save himself, and came down, heavily upon something hard, from which he moved with great rapidity and picked up to look at in dismay.

It was the trowel.

A faint, rustling sound amongst the leaves overhead roused Vane to the fact that he must have been sitting there some time in a giddy, half-conscious state, and, looking up, he could see the bright eyes of a squirrel fixed upon him, while its wavy bushy tail was twitching, and the little animal sounded as if it were scolding him for being there; otherwise all was still, and, in spite of his sufferings, it seemed very comical to Vane that the pretty little creature should be abusing him, evidently looking upon him as a thief come poaching upon the winter supply of beech-nuts.

Then the giddy feeling grew more oppressive, the trees began to slowly sail round him, and there appeared to be several squirrels and several branches all whisking their bushy tails and uttering that peculiar sound of theirs—chop, chop, chop,—as if they had learned it from the noise made by the woodman in felling trees.

What happened then Vane did not know, for when he unclosed his eyes again, it was to gaze at the level rays of the ruddy sun which streamed in amongst the leaves and twigs of the beeches, making them glorious to behold.

For a few minutes he lay there unable to comprehend anything but the fact that his head was amongst the rough, woody beech-mast, and that one hand grasped the trowel while the other was full of dead leaves; but as his memory began to work more clearly and he tried to move, the sharp pains which shot through him chased all the mental mists away and he sprang up into a sitting posture unable to resist uttering a groan of pain as he looked round to see if either of the gipsy boys was in sight.



CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

WHERE VANE SPENT THE NIGHT.

The squirrel and the squirrel only. There was not even a sound now. Vane could see the basket he had brought and the two pieces of the strong ash stick which he had broken over the fight with the second boy. The ground was trampled and the leaves kicked up, but no enemy was near, and he naturally began to investigate his damages.

"They haven't killed me—not quite," he said, half-aloud, as he winced in passing his hand over his left shoulder and breast; and then his eyes half-closed, a deathly feeling of sickness came over him and he nearly fainted with horror, for at the touch of his hand a severe pain shot through his shoulder, and he could feel that his breast and armpit was soaking wet.

Recovering from the shock of the horrible feeling he took out his handkerchief to act as a bandage, for he felt that he must be bleeding freely from one of the blows, and he knew enough from his uncle's books about injured arteries to make him set his teeth and determine to try and stop that before he attempted to get to his feet and start for home.

His first effort was to unbutton his Norfolk jacket and find the injury which he felt sure must be a cut across the shoulder, but at the first touch of his hand he winced again, and the sick feeling came back with a faint sensation of horror, for there was a horrible grating sound which told of crushed bone and two edges grinding one upon the other.

Again he mastered his weakness and boldly thrust his hand into his breast, withdrew it, and burst out into a wild hysterical laugh as he gave a casual glance at his hand before passing it cautiously into his left breast-pocket and bringing out, bit by bit, the fragments of the bottle of preparation which the doctor had dispensed, and that it had been his mission to deliver that afternoon. For in the heat of the struggle, a blow of one of the sticks had crushed the bottle, saturating his breast and side with the medicament, and suggesting to his excited brain a horrible bleeding wound and broken bones.

"Oh, dear!" he groaned; and he laughed again, "how easy it is to deceive oneself;" and he busied himself, as he spoke, in picking out the remains of the bottle, and finally turned his pocket inside out and shook it clear.

"Don't smell very nice," he said with a sigh; "but I hope it's good for bruises. Well, it's of no use for me to go on now, so I may as well get back."

He was kneeling now and feeling his arms and shoulders again, and then he cautiously touched his face and head. But there was no pain, no trace of injury in that direction, and he began softly passing his hands up and down his arms, and over his shoulders, wincing with agony at every touch, and feeling that he must get on at once if he meant to reach home, for a terrible stiffness was creeping over him, and when at last he rose to his feet, he had to support himself by the nearest tree, for his legs were bruised from hip to ankle, and refused to support his weight.

"It is of no good," he said at last, after several efforts to go on, all of which brought on a sensation of faintness. "I can't walk; what shall I do?"

He took a step or two, so as to be quite clear of the broken bottle, and then slowly lowered himself down upon the thick bed of beech-mast and leaves, when the change to a recumbent position eased some of his sufferings, and enabled him to think more clearly. And one of the results of this was a feeling of certainty that it would be impossible for him to walk home.

Then he glanced round, wondering whether his assailants had gone right away or were only watching prior to coming back to finish their work.

"I don't know what it means," he said, dolefully. "I can't see why they should attack me like this. I never did them any harm. It must be for the sake of money, and they'll come back when I'm asleep."

Vane ground his teeth, partly from rage, partly from pain, as he thrust his hand into his pocket, took out all the money he had, and then after looking carefully round, he raised the trowel, scraped away the leaves, dug a little hole and put in the coins, then covered them up again, spreading the leaves as naturally as possible, and mentally making marks on certain trees so as to remember the spot.

At the same time he was haunted by the feeling that his every act was being watched, and that the coins would be found.

"Never mind," he muttered, "they must find them," and he lay back once more to think about getting home, and whether he could manage the task after a rest, but he grew more and more certain that he could not, for minute by minute he grew cooler, and in consequence his joints and muscles stiffened, so that at last he felt as if he dared not stir.

He lay quite still for a while, half-stunned mentally by his position, and glad to feel that he was not called upon to act in any way for the time being, all of which feeling was of course the result of the tremendous exertion through which he had passed, and the physical weakness and shock caused by the blows.

It was a soft, deliciously warm evening, and it was restful to lie there, gazing through the trees at the glowing west, which was by slow degrees paling. The time had gone rapidly by during the last two hours or so, and it suddenly occurred to him in a dull, hazy way that the evening meal, a kind of high tea, would be about ready now at the little manor; that Aunt Hannah would be getting up from her work to look out of the window and see if he was coming; and that after his afternoon in the garden, the doctor would have been up to his bedroom and just come down ready to take his seat at the snug, comfortable board.

"And they are waiting for me," thought Vane.

The idea seemed more to amuse than trouble him in his half-stupefied state, for everything was unreal and dreamy. He could not fully realise that he was lying there battered and bruised, but found himself thinking as of some one else in whose troubles he took an interest.

It was a curious condition of mind to be in, and, if asked, he could not have explained why he felt no anxiety nor wonder whether, after waiting tea for a long time, the doctor would send to meet him, and later on despatch a messenger to the village, where no news would be forthcoming. Perhaps his uncle and aunt would be anxious and would send people in search of him, and if these people were sent they would come along the deep lane and over the moorland piece, thinking that perhaps he would have gone that way for a short cut.

Perhaps. It all seemed to be perhaps, in a dull, misty way, and it was much more pleasant to lie listening to the partridges calling out on the moor—that curiously harsh cry, answered by others at a distance, and watch the sky growing gradually grey, and the clouds in the west change from gold to crimson, then to purple, and then turn inky black, while now from somewhere not far away he heard the flapping of wings and a hoarse, crocketing sound which puzzled him for the moment, but as it was repeated here and there, he knew it was the pheasants which haunted that part of the forest, flying up to their roosts for the night, to be safe from prowling animals—four-legged, or biped who walked the woods by night armed with guns.

For it did not matter; nothing mattered now. He was tired; and then all was blank.

Sleep or stupor, one or the other. Vane had been insensible for hours when he woke up with a start to find that lie was aching and that his head burned. He was puzzled for a few minutes before he could grasp his position. Then all he had passed through came, and he lay wondering whether any search had been made.

But still that did not trouble him. He wanted to lie still and listen to the sounds in the wood, and to watch the bright points of light just out through the narrow opening where he had seen the broad red face of the sun dip down, lower and lower out of sight. The intense darkness, too, beneath the beeches was pleasant and restful, and though there were no partridges calling now, there were plenty of sounds to lie and listen to, and wonder what they could be.

At another time he would have felt startled to find himself alone out there in the darkness, but in his strangely dulled state now every feeling of alarm was absent, and a sensation akin to curiosity filled his brain. Even the two gipsy lads were forgotten. He had once fancied that they might return, but he had had reasoning power enough left to argue that they would have come upon him long enough before, and to feel that he must have beaten them completely,—frightened them away.

And as he lay he awoke to the fact that all was not still in that black darkness, for there was a world of active, busy life at work. Now there came, like a whispering undertone, a faint clicking noise as the leaves moved. There were tiny feet passing over him; beetles of some kind that shunned the light; wood-lice and pill millipedes, hurrying here and there in search of food; and though Vane could not see them he knew that they were there.

Again there was the soft rustling movement of a leaf, and then of another a short distance away on the other side of his head. And Vane smiled as he lay there on his back staring up at the overhanging boughs through which now and then he could catch sight of a fine bright ray.

For he knew that sound well enough. It was made by great earth worms which reached out of their holes in the cool, moist darkness, feeling about for a soft leaf which they could seize with their round looking mouths, hold tightly, and draw back after them into the hole from which their tails had not stirred.

Vane lay listening to this till he was tired, and then waited for some other sound of the night.

It was not long in coming—a low, soft, booming buzz of some beetle, which sailed here and there, now close by, now so distant that its hum was almost inaudible, but soon came nearer again till it was right over his head, when there was a dull flip, then a tap on the dry beech-mast.

"Cockchafer," said Vane softly, and he knew that it had blundered up against some twig and fallen to earth, where, though he could not see it, he knew that it was lying upon its back sprawling about with its awkward-looking legs, vainly trying to get on to them again and start upon another flight.

Once more there was silence, broken only by a faint, fine hum of a gnat, and the curious wet crackling or rustling sound which rose from the leaves.

Then Vane smiled, for in the distance there was a resonant, "Hoi, hoi," such as might have been made by people come in search of him. But he knew better, as the shout rose up, and nearer and nearer still at intervals, for it was an owl sailing along on its soft, silent pinions, the cry being probably to startle a bird from its roost or some unfortunate young bird or mouse into betraying its whereabouts, so that a feathered leg might suddenly be darted down to seize, with four keen claws all pointing to one centre, and holding with such a powerful grip that escape was impossible.

The owl passed through the dark shadowy aisles, and its cry was heard farther and farther away till it died out; but there was no sense of loneliness in the beech-wood. There was always something astir.

Now it was a light tripping sound of feet over the dead leaves, the steps striking loudly on the listener's ear. Then they ceased, as if the animal which made the sounds were cautious and listening for danger. Again trip, trip, trip, plainly heard and coming nearer, and from half-a-dozen quarters now the same tripping sounds, followed by pause after pause, and then the continuation as if the animals were coming from a distance to meet at some central spot.

Rap!

A quick, sharp blow of a foot on the ground, followed by a wild, tearing rush of rabbits among the trees, off and away to their burrows, not one stopping till its cotton-wool-like tail had followed its owner into some sandy hole.

Another pause with the soft petillation of endless life amongst the dead leaves, and then from outside the forest, down by the sphagnum margined pools, where the cotton-rushes grew and the frogs led a cool, soft splashing life, there came a deep-toned bellowing roar, rising and falling with a curious ventriloquial effect as if some large animal had lost its way, become bogged, and in its agony was calling upon its owner for rescue.

No large quadruped, only a brown-ruffed, long necked, sharp-billed bittern, the now rare marsh bird which used to haunt the watery solitudes with the heron, but save here and there driven away by drainage and the naturalist's gun.

And as Vane lay and listened, wondering whether the bird uttered its strange, bellowing song from down by a pool, or as it sailed round and round, and higher and higher, over the boggy mere, he recalled the stories Chakes had told him of the days when "bootherboomps weer as plentiful in the mash as wild ducks in winter." And then he tried to fit the bird's weird bellowing roar with the local rustic name—"boomp boomp—boother boomp!" but it turned out a failure, and he lay listening to the bird's cry till it grew fainter and less hoarse. Then fainter still, and at last all was silent, for Vane had sunk once more into a half-insensible state, it could hardly be called sleep, from which he was roused by the singing of birds and the dull, chattering wheezing chorus kept up by a great flock of starlings, high up in the beech tops.

The feverish feeling which had kept him from being cold had now passed off, and he lay there chilled to the bone, aching terribly and half-puzzled at finding himself in so strange a place. But by degrees he recalled everything, and feeling that unless he made some effort to crawl out of the beech-wood he might lie there for many hours, perhaps days, he tried to turn over so as to get upon his knees and then rise to his feet.

He was not long in finding that the latter was an impossibility, for at the slightest movement the pain was intense, and he lay still once more.

But it was terribly cold; he was horribly thirsty, and fifty yards away the beech trees ended and the sun was shining hotly on the chalky bank, while just below there was clear water ready for scooping up with his hand to moisten his cracked lips. In addition, there were blackberries or, if not, dew-berries which he might reach. Only a poor apology for breakfast, but delicious now if he could only get some between his lips.

He tried again, then again, each time the pain turning him sick; but there was a great anxiety upon him now. His thoughts were no longer dull and strained in a selfish stupor; he was awake, fully awake, and in mental as well as bodily agony. For his thoughts were upon those at the little manor, and he knew that they must have passed a sleepless night on his account, and he knew, too, that in all probability his uncle had been out with others searching for him, certain that some evil must have befallen or he would have returned.

It was a terrible wrench, and he felt as if his muscles were being torn; but with teeth set, he struggled till he was upon hands and knees, and then made his first attempt to crawl, if only for a foot or two.

At last, after shrinking again and again, he made the effort, and the start made, he persevered, though all the time there was a singing in his ears, the dead leaves and blackened beech-mast seemed to heave and fall like the surface of the sea, and a racking agony tortured his limbs. But he kept on foot by foot, yard by yard, with many halts and a terrible drag upon his mental powers before he could force himself to recommence. How long that little journey of fifty or sixty yards took he could not tell; all he knew was that he must get out of the forest and into the sunshine, where he might be seen by those who came in search of him; and there was water there—the pure clear water which would be so grateful to his parched lips and dry, husky throat.

The feeling of chill was soon gone, for his efforts produced a burning pain in every muscle, but in a dim way he knew that he was getting nearer the edge, for it was lighter, and a faint splashing sound and the beating of wings told of wild-fowl close at hand in that clear water.

On then again so slowly, but foot by foot, till the last of the huge pillar-like trunks which had seemed to bar his way was passed, and he slipped down a chalky bank to lie within sight of the water but unable to reach it, utterly spent, when he heard a familiar voice give the Australian call—"Coo-ee!" and he tried to raise a hand but it fell back.

Directly after a voice cried:

"Hi! Here he is!"

The voice was Distin's, and as he heard it Vane fainted dead away.

The Weathercock—by George Manville Fenn



CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

THE LAW ASKS QUESTIONS.

Seeing the rush made by Gilmore and Macey, Bruff hesitated for a few moments, and then turned and shouted to Joseph, the next man.

"They've fun suthin," and ran after them.

Joseph turned and shouted to Wrench, the carpenter.

"They've got him," and followed Bruff.

Wrench shouted to Chakes and ran after Joseph, and in this House-that-Jack-built fashion the news ran along the line to the doctor and rector, and right to the end, with the result that all came hurrying along in single-file, minute by minute increasing the size of the group about where Vane lay quite insensible now.

"Poor old chap," cried Macey, dropping on his knees by his friend's side, Gilmore kneeling on the other, and both feeling his hands and face, which were dank and cold, while Distin stood looking down grimly but without offering to stir.

"Don't say he's dead, sir," panted Bruff.

"No, no, he's not dead," cried Macey. "Fetch some water; no, run for the doctor."

"He's coming, sir," cried Joseph, shading his eyes to look along the line. "He won't be long. Hi—hi—yi! Found, found, found!" roared the man, and his cry was taken up now and once more the news flew along the line, making all redouble their exertions, even the rector, who had not done such a thing for many years, dropping into the old football pace of his youth, with his fists up and trotting along after the doctor.

But the progress was very slow. It was a case of the more haste the worst speed, for a bee-line through ancient gorse bushes and brambles is not perfection as a course for middle-aged and elderly men not accustomed to go beyond a walk. Every one in his excitement caught the infection, and began to run, but the mishaps were many. Chakes, whose usual pace was one mile seven furlongs per hour, more or less, tripped and went down; and as nobody stopped to help him, three men passed him before he had struggled up and began to look about for his hat. The next to go down was Rounds, the miller, who, after rushing several tangles like an excited rhinoceros, came to grief over an extra tough bramble strand, and went down with a roar.