scraps, and Gran wants to ask Miss Hodge about the book in her bedroom,' said the little boy. 'So we shall have to go to the village, if you don't mind.'
'Very good, sir,' said George.
'And, George, I shall have to ask your advice about the brush.'
'Yes, sir?'
'And, George——'
'Sir?'
'Do
'I sincerely hope so, sir. But kissing goes by favour, as they say.'
'Is that what you say to yourself when you don't get what you want, George?'
'No, sir. I merely say
Mrs. Bradley cackled.
The cottage in which Miss Hodge lived whilst her house was let was about three-quarters of a mile from the sea and on the outskirts of the village. There was no pavement to walk on, but on either side of the front door flowers flourished in their season, as they did in front of all the cottages on that side of the village inn. The front door led directly into the parlour, and was opened to the visitors almost before they had finished knocking.
Miss Hodge, a thin, upright, fresh-faced, pleasant, elderly woman, had come directly from the kitchen, wafted towards the visitors upon an odour of cooking. She wiped her hands on her apron.
'Good morning, madam,' she said. 'Good morning, Master Derek. A nasty morning! Will you come in? Nothing wrong, I hope?'
'Nothing at all. It is just a question of a book which Derek has found,' said Mrs. Bradley.
'You see, Miss Hodge, it would make an awfully nice scrap-book, and I have to give in a scrap-book, as my holiday task, to Miss Winter at school. Now, I've got the scraps—I think you would like to see them ...'
'I'm sure, Master Derek.'
'... and all I want, you see, is the book.' He produced it. Miss Hodge gave her hands an extra rub on the apron, and then took up the diary, but did no more than glance at the beginning of it.
'Dear me, Master Derek! Now what can you have got hold of here, I wonder?' she said mildly. 'This isn't the mistress's writing. I don't seem to know this hand.' She looked at Mrs. Bradley. 'He can have the empty pages and welcome, Madam, if that would do, but I'd better p'raps just see what it is, as it seems to be wrote out so neat. Now, where did I put my glasses?'
Derek, assisting in the search, discovered them. Miss Hodge, in the laboured manner of an unaccustomed reader, perused a page or two slowly, and then looked over the top of her spectacles.
'It seems as if Miss Bella wrote it. I never knew she could write so nice. It's very like Mr. Tom's hand, now I call his letters to mind. But it's certainly all about Miss Bella, and partly about her aunt, my poor mistress, by the look of it. Ah, I remember now. Mrs. Muriel sent it after Miss Bella died.'
'Oh, we can get hold of another book,' said Mrs. Bradley quickly. 'I am sure you wouldn't want us to have this one.'
'Oh,
'If Master Derek fancies this one, he shall have it, bless him! Only, I can't quite fancy throwing away Miss Bella's own words, her having such a sad end and so much trouble,' said Miss Hodge, 'although they found her 'Not Guilty.' Not that it did her any good, poor soul. I wonder if I could take out these pages that's wrote on without hurting the rest of the book?'
'Dear me,' said Mrs. Bradley.' Well, if you're quite sure he can have the book, Miss Hodge, I'll undertake to remove the written pages without spoiling them, and I'll get them bound for you, unless you'd like to take them out yourself. You see, the diary is very well put together in these sections. We should merely need to cut through the strings here and here ...'
'I'd much rather you did it, madam, than I. I'm sure you know more about it. And perhaps you'd care to have a read of it, madam. It was quite a celebrated case in its way, poor Miss Bella's case was....'
Mrs. Bradley, perceiving that Miss Hodge proposed to unfold a tale, sent Derek out to find George.
'Yes, Miss Bella had a sad life of it, poor thing,' continued Miss Hodge, when Derek and George had gone off to the village shop. 'She worked hard at that Home for dreadful boys until her aunt died, and then, when she might have been happy and independent, her gentleman cousin, Mr. Tom, fell out of a window, in what was said to be a haunted house, and then, of all things, if she wasn't arrested for murdering him, if ever you heard anything so wicked!'
'Why did they think she had murdered him?' asked Mrs. Bradley, interested not only in the story itself but in the persistent idea of a haunted house which seemed to run through it.
'Oh, I don't know. There was a whole lot of wicked, lying stories getting spread about after the poor mistress's death, and I believe someone wrote some ugly letters. And then, when Mr. Tom died so very shortly afterwards, it seemed that somebody thought themselves clever enough to put two and two together, and so she was arrested, and tried, poor thing. They had to let her off, of course, because nothing was proved against her, but it preyed so on her mind that she killed herself, and the money all went to Miss Tessa, the other niece.'
'How long ago was this?' asked Mrs. Bradley.
'Six years ago this month she was tried and let off,' said Miss Hodge. 'I remember it by when the mistress died and left me the house and the money.'
'I expect I was in America then,' said Mrs. Bradley. 'I suppose I missed the whole thing. It must have been very dreadful for the people who knew her. I'd like to read the diary, if I may, and I'll bring it back to you the moment I've finished with it and bound the pages, shall I?'
'No hurry, madam. Keep it as long as you like if it interests you. I just don't care to destroy it. That's all it is. I don't suppose I should ever read it myself, not all that writing. Just the little bits about the mistress.'
'I ought to pay you for the pages I'm going to use, Miss Hodge,' said Derek, when he returned from the village shop. 'I have my own money, you know.'
'Good gracious me, Master Derek! I'm sure you're more than welcome,' said the old servant. 'Especially,' she added, with the sentimentality of her class and generation, 'if you'd give me a nice kiss for it, now.'
'With pleasure,' said Derek gravely, putting his arms round her neck. Mrs. Bradley cackled at this display of social tact by her grandson, and her eyes were bright as a bird's as she looked at the manuscript in her hand.
The diary, as Miss Hodge had indicated, was neatly and legibly written with a fine pen, and some attempt had been made at literary style, as though the diarist, consciously or unconsciously, had hoped that eyes other than her own would read the manuscript. Later on, Mrs. Bradley obtained permission to make an exact copy of it. This ran as follows :
I dreamt Aunt Flora was dead. They say the wish is father to the thought, so perhaps to the dream as well. It is not that I wish the poor old woman any ill, but there is no doubt that at ninety she is too long-lived. It is no joke for me to be earning my living at the age of forty-seven when I have had expectations (as they say) of two thousand pounds a year since I was twenty.
The chaplain's wife said yesterday that some people (meaning me) had much to be thankful for. A good salary, she remarked, no encumbrances (they have six children and the chaplain's mother to provide for) and a good appetite (I shall never go there to tea again !) are gifts of good fortune which fall to the lot of only one or two. She knows of nobody else, she added, quite so fortunately placed as I am. Detestable woman. I should regard myself as fortunately placed if I had my two thousand a year, and should be thankful—very thankful—for it, but I see nothing else in life to merit or justify my thanks. I responded to the chaplain's wife that a good husband and six olive branches were surely excellent reasons for thanks. Her reply, although phrased in the conventional terms, was extremely wintry.
I asked Vera, the kitchenmaid, to-day, what she thought any of us had to be thankful for. She said good health, which I believe she enjoys. But I have rheumatism always here, because of these stone floors, and I catch cold easily. The worst of it is that I get no sympathy from anybody. The others are never seedy or off-colour. Besides, I think they dislike me. Aunt Flora does not care much about me, either. Although she is ninety she retains all her faculties, as they say, and I believe she enjoys teasing me about the money. She asked me this Christmas-time what I intended to do with the two thousand when I got it, so I said I should start a restaurant. I should not dream of doing anything of the sort. I am not going to do any work at all when I get that money, and I am going to make quite sure that I spend the whole of the two thousand every year. I cannot touch the capital, of course. That remains for Tessa, and I imagine that her brat will get the income when I am gone unless cousin Tom comes next. As I have not seen the will, I do not know anything about this, but imagine that he is left out.
The chaplain preached to the boys to-day on Hosea, who seems to have had a sad life caused chiefly by a bad wife. I do not know what lesson there was for the boys in this. What hideous little faces they all have. It is nonsense to say, as William does in staff meetings sometimes when he thinks we all need a pep talk, that criminals are made and not born. These boys are predestined to crime, and no psychologist or educationist is going to persuade me otherwise. As for wives—a lot they are going to know about them! Most of these will be in prison a year after we let them out of here.
Denny has a poison bottle in which he places butterflies, moths, and other creatures for his collection. His ' smelling salts' the boys call it. How they love to watch the creatures die! And what a good thing it would be if this institution were one gigantic bottle into which we could drop the boys, one by
