The Trials of the Tredgolds.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "A PRODIGAL SON," &c.

CHAPTER VII.

" 'GOOD BY!"

AFTER Some few minutes greater calmness prevailed in John Moyle's studio.

The sculptor did not speak; he shrank back from his visitors, keeping as far away from them as he could, still leaning against the wall, anxious, as it seemed, that the brick-work should sunder and permit him to escape; and he kept his eyes fixed upon the ground, as though afraid lest raising them he should encounter Bryan's angry glance. He feared to stir ever so little, lest attention should be drawn to him. Now and then his lips parted, as though in utterance of some words of apology or appeal; but no sound issued.

In the absolute quiet of the scene, however, Bryan grew more composed, more collected. He brushed his large hands across his eyes.

"Tell us about it, Noel, my lad; tell us how it happened," he said in a low voice.

"It's soon told, Bryan," Noel answered. "You know I'd been looking forward to the boys coming back to school; it was so dull being there all by myself. I didn't think what was going to happen, though. Well, a day or two ago some of them came,―a good many,—and there was a new boy among them. He was older than me; bigger, too. And the Doctor made a great fuss about him; because, don't you see, they said he was related to some lord or other,-Lord Beauflower, I think it was; and he was called 'The Honourable,' though he was such a boy,the Honourable Clement Buckhurst, that was his name. Well, it didn't matter much to me, you know, his being an Honourable. I'm sure I don't know why he came to such a school as ours if he was any body important. But the Doctor thought a good deal of it; and they say he went about telling all the boys' fathers and mothers that the school was very aristocratic-was filled with young noblemen-something of that sort. Well, the fellows always like to get up a fight with a new boy, you know; just to see what he's made of, and what sort of a boy he is, you know; and Jeffs,-he's cock this half-that is, he will be, supposing Barlow don't come back,-Jeffs said that of the boys that had come back, I was nearest the size of the new fellow; that he wasn't so very much bigger than me, and that I ought to fight him, and that fellows would think me a sneak if I didn't. Well, you know, I didn't want to fight him, that is, not much, but I didn't like to be called a sneak; and then, you know, Jeff's dared me to fight him, and then of course I felt I must. But I was pretty sure I could lick him,-though he was bigger,-if we did get to fighting. And then they went on at the new fellow, and told

him I'd called him names, and would he stand it from a boy like me? And he said he wouldn't. He was a swearing, bouncing sort of a boy; not a bit of a coward, though he had hands like a girl, and long hair, and didn't know how to hold his fists. And the fellows laughed at him, and called him Miss Clementina; so then he got into a rage, and said he didn't care who he fought. And then he called me names-shameful names; some of the fellows had put him up to that. I couldn't stand it, you know, because it wasn't only me he insulted, but my father and mother; and though they're both dead now, you know,-dead ever so long back, when I was a baby, before I ever knew them,-I couldn't have them insulted and do nothing, could I?"

"No, no, my boy," Bryan murmured, as he drew Noel towards him, very carefully and tenderly, lest he should press upon the wounded arm.

"Well, then, I hit him," the boy continued, "and he cut at me with a whip he had in his hand. He didn't hurt me much, because I dodged him. Then I ran in to take it from him, and we broke it between us. Well, after that, it was settled that we should fight-that was yesterday; and the fellows made a ring, and we went to have it out in the corner of the meadow behind the elms, where we couldn't be seen from the house. I was very angry, but I think I fought well; Jeffs said I did: he was umpire, and timed the rounds. It lasted a good time. Buckhurst wasn't in a hurry to give in; I will say that for him: I don't think there is any want of pluck about him. But I knew more what to do with my hands than he did, though I was smaller and not so heavy. I got this mark on the side of my forehead, and this on my cheek, nothing else to speak of, and these don't hurt a bit; but he got two black-eyes, and his nose bled, and his lip was cut. I hit as hard as I could; I couldn't help doing so when I'd once begun; I was sorry afterwards, when I saw him looking so bad; but he should have given in before: he said he'd had enough at last. So we shook hands; and Jeffs complimented me, and sent for beer for both of us, and paid for it himself. He'd just come from home, and had had a good many tips, you see. Well, I think it would have been all right, and no one any the worse for the fight, only it so happened that some of Buckhurst's relations,-his mother, or aunt, or some one, came down to the school, though he'd only been there a day or two, to see if he was all right and comfortable and that; and he had to go into the parlour to see them, and then they saw his eyes all swollen up, and his nose bleeding. Well, they got into a dreadful way about it. And the Doctor, he flew into a terrible rage, and said he'd make an example of the boy who'd done it; and he called me a brute, and a savage, and a coward, and a degraded creature. then he caned me just before prayers; and then he caned me after prayers. Buckhurst behaved very well. He told the Doctor he wasn't hurt (I don't think that was true), and that he didn't care about it, and that the fight was all his fault, and that I ought not to be punished for it. But the Doctor wouldn't listen to him, though he said that Buckhurst's

conduct was as excellent as mine was execrable, that his behaviour was worthy of his noble birth, and that mine was just what might be expected from a boy of such low origin as I sprang from."

"He said that?"

Yes; and that he'd flog my evil passions, my wickedness, out of me; and that he'd cane me, morning, noon, and night, till I was a better boy, and he did hit awful hard, harder than ever; and I couldn't help crying a little. Somehow the tears would come into my eyes-he hurt me so. But I don't think the other fellows saw me cry; for it wasn't so much at the time he caned me, but afterwards, when I'd gone to bed, at night, in the dark; and oh, Bryan, I did feel so wretched then, and I longed so to see you again, to have another talk with you, as we had out in the meadow, and up in the balcony at the Old Ship! Do you remember? Wasn't that prime? I got caned for it though; but I didn't mind about that; it was nothing to what I got for fighting Buckhurst."

"My poor Noel!"

"And then I made up my mind before I went to sleep-and I was awake a very long time, long after the other fellows in my room had gone fast asleep, and were snoring, some of them,-I made up my mind, that if the Doctor caned me again for fighting Buckhurst, I wouldn't stay at school any longer. I'd run away, and try and find you out, Bryan, for you're the only friend I've got in the world; and I knew you'd help me, I was sure you would; and if I couldn't find you, why then I knew I could but do as I said I would, and look out for a ship, and go to sea as a cabin-boy. Well, and he did cane me again, the next morning, before breakfast, as bad as ever; and so I ran away, and here I am, Bryan: that's all my story. Oh, and please may I have something to drink; for I'm so thirsty, and oh, I'm so tired."

The sculptor stirred himself.

"Something to drink? Poor lad, surely, surely," he said nervously, as he approached Bryan and the boy. "What shall it be? brandy, portwine, any thing? Don't think of the expense."

"The cold tea will do, John," Bryan said, with less anger in his tone than he had employed in recent speech to the sculptor; "we mustn't make the boy feverish."

The tea was poured into a cup, and the boy emptied it with avidity. "How refreshing!" he said. "Please give me some more."

His request was complied with.

Bryan then took off his pilot-coat, and spread it on the ground, first taking from the breast-pocket of the coat a pipe and a tobacco-pouch.

"You're very tired, my boy," he said; "it's a long walk to this place from Burchell Hall, especially for one of your size. Lie down, and try and get some sleep, at least for an hour or two."

"Let me call for Trinder," John Moyle interposed; "let me send for some blankets, or a mattress; let me make him more comfortable. Pray let me, Bryan."

"The

"He'll do well enough," Bryan said with some sternness. boy's dog-tired. He'd sleep on a bed of thorns. Pray heaven he never gets a worse bed than he's got now!"

with

"You will help me, Bryan, won't you?" asked Noel. "You won't leave me? You won't take me back to the Doctor's? Let me go you; let me live as you live; let me work with you. I'll do any thing you tell me ; only let me go with you-only don't leave me!"

"It shall be so, Noel, if you will, my boy. You shall go with me; we'll keep together always; we'll never part, you and I; and I'll do all I can to help you; I will indeed, so help me God!"

Bryan spoke passionately, with a tremor in his voice, and stooped down to kiss the boy tenderly on the forehead, as he lay, wrapped in the pilot-coat, upon the brick-floor of the studio. A few minutes, and Noel was fast asleep.

Bryan leisurely filled his pipe, lighted it, and then quietly resumed his seat. Occasionally, with a sad tenderness in his gaze, turning to contemplate the sleeper at his side, and when the boy stirred in his sleep, or murmured, as though under the influence of some painful dream, the man seemed to be equally disturbed, and sat motionless, watching, listening with an acute solicitude. But he did not speak; nor did his eyes ever turn to where John Moyle stood, leaning in a cramped attitude against the wall of the studio. It was as though Bryan completely ignored the presence of the sculptor, and deemed himself quite alone with Noel. John Moyle grew at last distressed at the absence of all recognition of him. He seemed as anxious now to arrest the attention of his companion, as he had been a little before to avoid it. The silence of the studio, or Bryan's absolute neglect of him, made him feel nervous-ill at ease. He fidgeted-moved from the wall-slowly advanced.

"Don't be hard upon me, Bryan," he said, in a low appealing voice; "have some pity!"

Bryan drew hard at his pipe, but he did not speak. He did not even glance in the direction of John Moyle, but kept his eyes fixed upon the sleeping face of the boy on the floor.

"Try and think well of me, Bryan," the sculptor went on, raising his tone a little in his urgency; "try and forgive me. Say that you'll try and forgive me!"

"Hush; not so loud! You'll wake him," Bryan whispered softly. He took his pipe from his mouth; he looked up into the elder man's face. "O John," he said tremulously, "you don't know how great kindness to me it would have been if you'd showed kindness to poor little Noel." "For the sake of old times, Bryan, forgive me!"

"Think how friendless the poor boy has been-alone in the world, homeless; with no one to do a kind deed for him, to say a kind word to him; quite alone; and at his age too; so young and delicate, and yet― (thank God! thank God: He is every where! He watches over all! He never forgets!) poor lad! so brave, and true, and good. Who wouldn't

love him?

And yet you! you, my friend, as I thought you,—you could neglect him, you could leave him to the mercy of Richard Gifford. You could let me have to thank that man for any thing! Yes, and indeed I have something to thank him for. But for him, what would have become of Noel?"

"For the sake of old times," Moyle repeated.

"Well then, for the sake of old times!" and Bryan, after a pause slowly stretched out his hand, which in a moment was eagerly clasped and shaken by the sculptor.

"I've too few friends in the world," Bryan said with a sad smile, "to be able to afford the loss of even the shadow of one of them.

And you were true to me in the past, John. I cannot forget that. I had need of all your friendship then, and you gave it me without stint; somehow, I think you were a better man when you were poor and struggling, in the old days, than now, when you are rich and prosperous, John.” "I'm not rich, I'm not rich; I have to work very, very hard for all I get!"

“Well then, as an artist you grow so absorbed in your art, that you lose sight of every other consideration. You forget that there is a world outside this studio. You toil at your marble till something of the nature of the stone grows into your nature. Yes; you could labour at that" (he pointed to the sculptured medallion in the recess hid by the curtain) "less because it was her portrait than that it was your own handiwork; it was precious to you for the art of it, not because it was the likeness of a poor dead creature, once dear, how dear! to both of us. Were she living still, she would be no more to you than a fit subject for a statue. Let her suffer how she might, you would be content to look on, pondering how you best could carve in stone her look of suffering; how represent by your art her misery, her despair."

Bryan spoke passionately, fiercely almost, and yet in a subdued tone, which lent a hoarse suppressed depth of feeling to his words. He was still mindful not to wake the sleeper at his feet.

"You don't do me justice," John Moyle said quietly.

"Tell me, then. You have carved her head in marble: here, to adorn

your own walls. Have you done like honour to her grave? Have you raised in the churchyard where she lies the simplest headstone to her memory? Have you done any thing to mark out her last resting-place? You know that you have not."

The sculptor turned away with a scared troubled look.

"Don't be hard upon me, Bryan !" he said faintly.

"I know this is so, John," Bryan went on in a softer tone, "though I haven't been to the churchyard to see. Better as it is, perhaps; better as it is. Does the world care to know the names of those at peace beneath the mounds in the graveyard? I know her grave is without the poorest of monuments, though, as I have said, I haven't been to see. Indeed, I couldn't bear to look upon it. I ask for no assurance of her