if ye set yer mind to trying, but not whiles ye go on fretting and grumbling—ye’ll never get free, while yu hug and draggle yer chain that way—snap it off like a man.”
“Oh Butterworth, I do. You know we never talk about it, and it was only to-night I came here, becausewell, Amyce and I told you who is coming to-morrow. Now, Butterworth, you’ve no right to be so cross to me; it’s not proper, you forget that I’m your master, and I’m not going to be ordered about like a child.”
“Bless you, Sir John, I’m not ordering you, and I wouldn’t take liberties for owt in the world—its only for your own good, honey. Didn’t I use to nurse you when you was a small lad, and didn’t my poor lady, when she was dying, tell me, ‘Butterworth,’ says she, ‘look to your master, he’s that unfortunate, he’ll want yu’—an’ I’ve done it—come honey, don’t take on, go to bed.”
Uncle John let the faithful, kind-hearted creature take his arm, and lead him away; but at the door he paused, and I heard him saying, “You’ll see Amyce is nicely dressed to-morrow, and you’ll tell her how to behave. You don’t think I’ve done wrong in—you know what, Butterworth? I meant to have told you first, only I forgot. He could not leave London for more than a few days, and I did so wish to see him, and that’s why I asked him to come. And you know he ought to meet Amyce now for—” but the voices died away, Butterworth was closing the door, and to my intense horror I heard her turn the key in the lock outside—I was a prisoner!
I believe I called after them, but no one heard me; the next instant my uncle’s room door banged, and I was in darkness save for a faint line of moonlight creeping through the shutters of the oriel window—in silence, save for the low nibbling of a mouse behind the skirting board. I crept to the door and waited there, in the hope of being able to attract Butterworth’s attention as she left my uncle’s room: but I had a long period of waiting, and was even desperately resigning myself to the prospect of passing the night in confinement, and wondering what excuse I could offer to the housemaid in the morning, when at last the old woman came out into the passage on her way upstairs.
I called her—first too low for her to hear—then with a despairing energy, which brought her quickly to my rescue. She burst the door open and confronted me as I stood trembling on the other side, with a face nearly as white as my dressing-gown. A few words explained my situation and my misdemeanour, and Butterworth divided her efforts between scolding and consoling me. She saw me to my room, made up my fire, and insisted on waiting to tuck me up in bed, that, as she said, she might know I was out of harm’s way; and as for them nasty novels, if I didn’t give her my word of honour never to read them again at improper times, she vowed she’d pack ’em all back to Hemsley to-morrow, sure as a gun—a threat which immediately extracted from me the necessary promise.
“Butterworth,” I whispered, as she bent over my pillow to kiss me, “what is all this mystery—do tell me?”
“What mystery, dear?”
“About those things in the davenport, and what Uncle John and you were saying, and how has it all to do with the gentleman who is coming to-morrow.”
“Hush, Miss Amyce, you mustn’t be curious. You was never meant to know; wait a bit, and mebbe, you’ll be told some day.”
“Oh, but nonsense, I shan’t repeat it; and since I’ve heard half, you must tell me the rest. I’ll promise not to tell tales, and—well—oh, do Butterworth, like a good, kind creature.”
Butterworth had set down her candle and was wrinkling her forehead. I saw the hesitation in her mind, and by throwing in an adroit word of coaxing, gained the day.
“Well, Miss Amyce, then you must not let wit I told you owt about it, but you know that gentleman who is coming?”
I nodded.
“Well, Master John—Sir John I mean—ought to have married his mother a many years ago; she was a very nice, pretty young lady, and they were cousins, and the wedding-day and all was fixed; but master, he thought she didn’t care enough about him, and was marrying him for his money, or some such thing, and he jilted her. And then after all, when it was too late, he found out he had made a mistake, and behaved very cruelly, and he’s never been the same gentleman since.”
“Oh, tell me about it.”
“I can’t, now, its too long a story; but ye see, when master jilted her, Amyce Dillon,—you were called after her, dear,—Amyce Dillon went and married some one else off-hand—just to spite her old love, so it was said, which was very wrong of her if it was true; but I always think her nasty old mother made her do it; anyhow, poor thing, she died brokenhearted when her first child was born. This gentleman who is coming to-morrow is her son—Mr. Hedworth Charlton, they call him.”
“Oh, dear, what a pity—about her dying, I mean. And so Uncle John took her loss dreadfully to heart? I dare say it was her glove I saw him fondling to-night.”
“Likely enough, for he never forgets her. But Miss Amyce, you must really go to sleep, now; good night,” and despite my entreaties Butterworth took her departure from the room.
Long I lay awake, thinking of Butterworth’s story, and the strange scene I had witnessed in the boudoir. Poor old Uncle John, how dearly he must have loved Amyce Dillon. But I wondered why, if this had been the case, he invited to his house a man who was his rival’s son, and bore that rival’s name—was old love so all-powerful as to vanquish bygone resentment?—was the fact of his being Amyce Dillon’s offspring sufficient to ensure Hedworth Charlton a welcome at any price in the home and heart of one who had long ago loved his mother—yes, and injured his mother? For I heard the story in greater detail afterwards. In his youthful days my uncle had had a hasty and passionate disposition. When a trifle light as air roused his jealousy, he had cruelly flung his betrothed from him, paying no regard to her protestations of truth and unchanged love. They
