Part 1 (2/2)

”How did he tackle the ploughin'?” asked Mrs Darvell, pausing in the act of setting aside Frank's supper on the dresser.

”Worser nor ever,” replied her husband contemptuously. ”He'll never be good for nowt, but to bide at home an' keep's hands clean. Why, look at Eli Redrup, not older nor our Frank, an' can do a man's work already.”

”Eli Redrup!” exclaimed Mrs Darvell in a shrill tone of disgust; ”you'd never even our lad to a great fullish lout like Eli Redrup, with a head like a turmut! If Frank isn't just so fierce as some lads of his age, he's got more sense than most.”

”I tell 'ee, he'll never be good for nowt,” replied her husband doggedly, as he resumed his seat in the chimney-corner and lighted his pipe.

”Onless,” he added after a moment's pause, ”he comes to be a schoolmaster; and it haggles me to think that a boy of mine should take up a line like that.”

Mrs Darvell made no answer; but as she washed up the cups and plates she cast a curious glance every now and then at her husband's silent figure, for she had a strong feeling that he knew more than he chose to tell about ”our” Frank's absence.

”Our Frank” had more than once been the innocent cause of a serious difference of opinion between Mr and Mrs Darvell. He was their only child, and had inherited his father's fair skin and blue eyes, and his mother's quickness of apprehension; but here the likeness to his parents ended, for he had a sensitive nature and a delicate frame--things. .h.i.therto unknown in Green Highlands. This did not matter so much during his childhood, when he earned golden opinions from rector and schoolmaster in Danecross, as a fine scholar, and one of the best boys in the choir; but the time came when Frank was thirteen, when he had gone through all the ”Standards,” when he must leave school, and begin to work for his living. It was a hard apprentices.h.i.+p, for something quite different from brain-work was needed now, and the boy struggled vainly against his physical weakness. It was a state of things so entirely incomprehensible to Mr Darvell, that, as he expressed it, ”it fairly haggled him.” Weakness and delicacy were conditions entirely unknown to him and all his other relations, and might, he thought, be avoided by everyone except very old people and women; so Frank must be hardened, and taught not to s.h.i.+rk his work.

The hardening process went on for some time, but not with a very satisfactory result, for added to his weakness the boy now showed an increasing terror of his father. He shrank from the hard words or the uplifted hand with an evident fear, which only strengthened Mr Darvell's anger, for it mortified him still more to find his lad a coward as well as a bungler over his work.

Frank, on his side, found his life almost intolerable just now, and all his trembling efforts ”to work like a man” seemed utterly useless, for he was crippled by fear as well as weakness. He could not take things like the other Green Highland lads of his age, who were tough of nerve and sinew, and thought nothing of cuffs on the head and abuse. It was all dreadful to him, and he suffered as much in apprehension as in the actual punishment when it came. Mingled with it all was a hot sense of injustice, for he tried to do his best, and yet was always in disgrace and despair. Where was the use of having been such a good ”scholard?”

That seemed wasted now, for Frank's poor little brain felt so muddled after a day's field-work, and he was altogether so spent with utter weariness, that the only thing to do was to tumble into bed, and books were out of the question. He was being ”hardened,” as his father called it, but not in a desirable way; for while his body remained slender and weak as ever, his mind became daily more stupid and unintelligent.

Frank's only refuge in these hard times was his mother's love. That never failed him, for the very incapacity that so excited the wrath of his father only drew him more closely to Mrs Darvell, and made her watchful to s.h.i.+eld him, if possible, from harsh treatment. She was always ready to do battle for him, and her strong big husband quailed before the small determined mother when she had her boy's cause in hand.

For Mrs Darvell was gifted with a range of expression and a freedom of speech which had been denied to her ”man,” and he had learned to dread the times when the missus was put out, as occasions when he stood defenceless before that deadly weapon--the tongue. He was dreading it now, although he sat so quietly smoking in the chimney-corner. The air had that vaguely uneasy feeling in it that precedes a storm. Presently there would be the first clap of thunder. The clock struck nine. No Frank. An unheard-of hour for any of the Green Highland folk to be out of their beds and awake. Mr Darvell rose, stretched himself, glanced nervously at his wife, and suggested humbly:

”Shall us go to bed?”

”_You_ may,” she replied, ”but I don't stir till I see the lad. If so be,” she added, ”you _can_ go to sleep with an easy mind while the lad's still out, you'd better do it.”

Her husband scratched his head thoughtfully, but made no answer; then Mrs Darvell rose and stood in front of him, shaking a menacing finger.

”Frank Darvell,” she said slowly and solemnly, ”you've bin leatherin'

that lad. Don't deny it, for I know it.”

Mr Darvell did not attempt to deny it. He only shuffled his feet a little.

”An now,” continued his wife with increasing vehemence, ”you've druv him at last to run away; don't deny it.”

”He ain't run away,” muttered Mr Darvell. ”He ain't got pluck enough to do that. He's a coward, that's what he is.”

”Coward!” cried his wife, now fairly roused, and standing in an aggressive att.i.tude. ”It's you that are the coward, you great, hulking, stupid lout, to strike a weak boy half yer size. An' to talk of goin'

to bed, an' him wandering out there in the woods. My poor little gentle lad!”

She sank down on the settle and wrung her hands helplessly, but started up again the next minute with a sudden energy which seemed to petrify her husband.

”Put on your boots,” she said, pointing to them; and as Mr Darvell meekly obeyed she went on speaking quietly and rapidly. ”Wake up Jack Gunn and send him down to Danecross. Tell him to ask at the rectory and at schoolmaster's if they've seen the lad. Take your lantern and go into the woods. There's gypsies camping out Hampden way; go there, and tell 'em to look out for him. Don't you dare to come back without the lad. I'll stop here, and burn a light and keep his supper ready. Poor little lad, he'll be starved with hunger!”

But the night waned, and no tidings came of Frank. Jack Gunn came back from Danecross having learned nothing, and the poor mother's fears increased. The boy must be wandering in those weary woods, afraid to come home--or perhaps lost. Such a thing had been known before now; and as the first streaks of light appeared in the sky, and she saw the dim figure of her husband returning alone, Mrs Darvell's courage quite forsook her.

”I shall never see him no more,” she said to herself, and cried bitterly.

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