him.
'Hush!' she whispered eagerly, 'don't call out like that! The villain, the brutal, heartless villain is somewhere about the stables. If he hears you, he'll come in and beat her again.—Oh, hush! hush, for God's sake! It's true he beat her—the cowardly, hellish brute!—only for making that one little mistake with the cards. No! no! no! don't speak out so loud, or you'll ruin us. How did you ever get in here?—Oh! you must be quiet! There, sit down—Hark! I'm sure he's coming! Oh! go away—go away!'
She tried to pull Valentine out of the chair into which she had thrust him but the instant before. He seized tight hold of her hand and refused to move. If Mr. Jubber had come in at that moment, he would have been thrashed within an inch of his life.
The child had ceased moaning when she saw Valentine. She anxiously looked at him through her tears—then turned away quickly—took out her little handkerchief—and began to dry her eyes.
'I can't go yet—I'll promise only to whisper—you must listen to me,' said Mr. Blyth, pale and panting for breath; 'I mean to prevent this from happening again—don't speak!—I'll take that injured, beautiful, patient little angel away from this villainous place: I will, if I go before a magistrate!'
The woman stopped him by pointing suddenly to the child.
She had put back the handkerchief, and was approaching him. She came close and laid one hand on his knee, and timidly raised the other as high as she could towards his neck. Standing so, she looked up quietly into his face. The pretty lips tried hard to smile once more; but they only trembled for an instant, and then closed again. The clear, soft eyes, still dim with tears, sought his with an innocent gaze of inquiry and wonder. At that moment, the expression of the sad and lovely little face seemed to say—'You look as if you wanted to be kind to me; I wish you could find out some way of telling me of it.'
Valentine's heart told him what was the only way. He caught her up in his arms, and half smothered her with kisses. The frail, childish hands rose trembling, and clasped themselves gently round his neck; and the fair head drooped lower and lower, wearily, until it lay on his shoulder.
The clown's wife turned away her face, desperately stifling with both hands the sobs that were beginning to burst from her afresh. She whispered, 'Oh, go, sir,—pray go! Some of the riders will be in here directly; you'll get us into dreadful trouble!'
Valentine rose, still holding the child in his arms. 'I'll go if you promise me—'
'I'll promise you anything, sir!'
'You know the rectory! Doctor Joyce's—the clergyman—my kind friend—'
'Yes, sir; I know it. Do please, for little Mary's sake be quick as you can!'
'Mary! Her name's Mary!' Valentine drew back into a corner, and began kissing the child again.
'You must be out of your senses to keep on in that way after what I've told you!' cried the clown's wife, wringing her hands in despair, and trying to drag him out of the corner. 'Jubber will be in here in another minute. She'll be beaten again, if you're caught with her; oh Lord! oh Lord! will nothing make you understand that?'
He understood it only too well, and put the child down instantly, his face turning pale again; his agitation becoming so violent that he never noticed the hand which she held out towards him, or the appealing look that said so plainly and pathetically: 'I want to bid you good-bye; but I can't say it as other children can.' He never observed this; for he had taken Mrs. Peckover by the arm, and had drawn her away hurriedly after him into the passage.
The child made no attempt to follow them: she turned aside, and, sitting down in the darkest corner of the miserable place, rested her head against the rough partition which was all that divided her from the laughing audience. Her lips began to tremble again: she took out the handkerchief once more, and hid her face in it.
'Now, recollect your promise,' whispered Valentine to the clown's wife, who was slowly pushing him out all the time he was speaking to her. 'You must bring little Mary to the Rectory to-morrow morning at twelve o'clock exactly—you must! or I'll come and fetch her myself—'
'I'll bring her, sir, if you'll only go now. I'll bring her—I will, as true as I stand here!'
'If you don't!' cried Valentine, still distrustful, and trembling all over with agitation—'If you don't!'—He stopped; for he suddenly felt the open air blowing on his face. The clown's wife was gone, and nothing remained for him to threaten, but the tattered horse-cloths that hung over the empty doorway.
CHAPTER IV. MADONNA'S MOTHER.
It is a quarter to twelve by the hall clock at the Rectory, and one of the finest autumn mornings of the whole season. Vance, Doctor Joyce's middle-aged man servant, or 'Bishop' Vance, as the small wits of Rubbleford call him, in allusion to his sleek and solemn appearance, his respectable manner, his clerical cravat, and his speckless black garments, is placing the cake and cowslip wine on the dining-table, with as much formality and precision as if his master expected an archbishop to lunch, instead of a clown's wife and a little child of ten years old. It is quite a sight to see Vance retiring and looking at the general effect of each knife and fork as he lays it down; or solemnly strutting about the room, with a spotless napkin waving gently in his hand; or patronisingly confronting the pretty housemaid at the door, and taking plates and dishes from her with the air of a kitchen Sultan who can never afford to lose his dignity for a moment in the presence of the female slaves.
The dining-room window opens into the Rectory garden. The morning shadows cast by the noble old elm-trees that grow all round, are fading from the bright lawn. The rich flower-beds gleam like beds of jewels in the radiant sunshine. The rookery is almost deserted, a solitary sleepy
Valentine has in truth let nobody have any rest, either in the house or the garden, since the first thing in the morning. The rector having some letters to write, has bolted himself into his study in despair, and defies his
