Phoebe, Junior

Cotsdean paying furtive visits in the study. He recollected him as one of the few poor people for whom his father had a liking. But what could there be between them? He was puzzled, and as Betsy was passing the open door at the time, called her in. The evening was falling quickly, the day had changed from a beautiful bright morning to a rainy gusty afternoon, tearing the leaves and blossoms from the trees, and whirling now and then a shower of snowy petals, beautiful but ill-omened snow, across the dark window. Beyond that the firmament was dull; the clouds hung low, and the day was gone before it ought. When Betsy came in she closed the door, not fastening it, but still, Reginald felt, shutting him out too much from the sickbed, to which he might be called at any moment. But he was not alarmed by this, though he remarked it. He questioned Betsy closely as to his father’s possible connection with this man. In such a moment, confidential, half-whispered interviews are the rule of a house. Everyone has so much to ask; so much to say in reply; so many particulars to comment upon which the rest may have forgotten. She would have liked to enter upon the whole story, to tell how the master was took, and how she herself had thought him looking bad when he came in; but even to talk about Cotsdean was pleasant.

“I told Miss Beecham,” said Betsy, “and I told the other gentleman, Mr. Northcote, as was asking me all about it. It’s months and months since that Cotsdean got coming here⁠—years I may say; and whenever he came master looked bad. If you’ll believe me, Mr. Reginald, it’s money as is at the bottom of it all.”

“Money? hush, what was that? I thought I heard something upstairs.”

“Only the nurse, sir, as is having her tea. I’m ready to take my oath as it’s money. I’ve been in service since I was nine years old,” said Betsy, “I’ve had a deal of experience of gentlefolks, and it’s always money as is the thing as sets them off their head. That’s what it is. If that Cotsdean didn’t come here something about money, never you believe me no more.”

“Cotsdean! a poor shopkeeper! what could he have to do with my father’s affairs?” Reginald was not speaking to the woman, but drearily to himself. If this was the only clue to the mystery, what a poor clue it was!

“I dunno, sir,” said Betsy, “it ain’t for me to tell; but one thing I’m sure of⁠—Lord bless us, what’s that?”

Reginald rushed to the door, nearly knocking her down as he pushed her aside with his hand. When they got outside, it was only the hatstand in the hall that had fallen, something having been torn off from it apparently in mad haste, and the door had opened and shut. Reginald rushed upstairs, where the nurse was sitting quietly at her tea, the bed-curtains being drawn.

“All right, sir; he’s in a nice sleep,” said that functionary; “I didn’t light no candles, not to disturb him, poor gentleman.”

Reginald tore the curtains aside, then turned and dashed downstairs, and out into the windy twilight. In that moment of stillness and darkness the patient had escaped. He could see a strange figure walking rapidly, already halfway up Grange Lane, and rushed on in pursuit without taking thought of anything. The sick man had seized upon a long coat which had been hanging in the hall, and which reached to his heels. Reginald flew on, going as softly as he could, not to alarm him. Where could he be going, utterly unclothed except in this big coat? Was it simply madness that had seized him, nothing more or less? He followed, with his heart beating loudly. There seemed nobody about, no one to whom he could make an appeal to help him, even if he could overtake the rapidly progressing fugitive. But even while this thought crossed his mind, Reginald saw another figure, broad and tall, developing in the distance, coming towards them, which stopped short, and put out an arm to stop the flight. Even that moment gave him the advantage, and brought him near enough to make out that it was Mr. Copperhead.

“The very man I want,” he heard him say with his loud voice, putting his arm within that of Mr. May, who resisted, but not enough to attract the attention of the newcomer, as Reginald came up breathless and placed himself on his father’s other side. The darkness prevented any revelation of the strange appearance of the fugitive, and Mr. Copperhead was not lively of perception in respect to people unconnected with himself.

“You, too,” he cried, nodding at Reginald, “come along. I’ve come to save that boy of mine from a little artful⁠—Come, both of you. The sight of a young fellow like himself will shame him more than anything; and you, May, you’re the very man I want⁠—”

“Not there, not there, for God’s sake!” said Mr. May, with a hoarse cry, “not there, my God! Reginald! it used to be hanging. Do you mean to give me up?”

“Hold him fast,” Reginald whispered in desperation, “hold him fast! It is madness.”

“Lord bless us!” said Mr. Copperhead, but he was a man who was proud of his strength, and not given to timidity. He held his captive fast by the arm, while Reginald secured him on the other side. “Why, what’s this, May? rouse yourself up; don’t give in, man. No, you ain’t mad, not a bit of you. Come along, wait here at Tozer’s for me, while I do my business; and then I’ll look after you. Come on.”

There was a violent but momentary struggle; then all at once the struggling man yielded and allowed himself to be dragged within the garden-door. Was it because an ordinary policeman, one of the most respectful servants of the law, who would have saluted Mr. May with