style="font-size:15px;"> “Oh no, my dear, of course not!” said Mr Rowle. “You’re too highly respectable a girl to do such a thing; but where I was once there was a housemaid as stole a little bronze pen-tray out of the study, and she was found out about it, and given into custody of the police, and got three months.”
Jane looked fiercely at him and whisked out of the room.
“Please, Mr Rowle,” I said, “the little pen-tray that mamma gave poor papa has – has – ”
I could say no more, for the recollection of that birthday present, towards which I had subscribed some of my pocket-money, caused such a choking sensation that I was ready to break down once more, and I had to strive hard to keep it back.
“Gone out of the study, young un? Oh no, not it. You fancy as it has.”
“I’m sure it has gone, sir,” I said eagerly. “I was looking for it yesterday.”
“Ah, well, you’ll see when we get downstairs,” said Mr Rowle, and he went on from room to room, always sending a few puffs of smoke into each, till we went downstairs, meeting Jane on the way, looking very hot and indignant as she carried up the little china candlesticks, and sure enough, to my great surprise, on entering the study, there was the pen-tray in its familiar place.
“There; what did I tell you?” said Mr Rowle, laughing. “It was underneath some papers, or p’raps Jane took it down to give it a rub or two.”
“That must have been it, sir,” I said; and I went out to have a walk round the garden. But somehow everything looked so different: the grass had not been cut for days, the beds were rapidly growing weedy, and the flowers and fruit looked so different, or seemed to look so different, that I was glad to go back into the house, where I found another stranger, a little dapper, red-faced man, who nodded to me familiarly, and then resumed a conversation with Mr Rowle.
“My clerk will be here directly,” I heard him say, “and we’ll soon run over the inventory.”
“The sooner the better, I say, Mr Jevins, sir,” said Mr Rowle, “and then we shall know what we’re at.”
“You don’t mean – ” began the newcomer.
“No, sir, I don’t, because I’ve had too sharp a hye on ’em; but there’s one young lady here as wouldn’t take nothing out of her reach, and if I was Mr Blakeford I’d make a clean sweep out, and the sooner the better.”
The little man drew a silver pencil-case out of his pocket, slid out a pen, and then, taking a little ink-bottle from another pocket, he took out the cork and balanced it on the top of a china figure; then, securing the ink-bottle to one of the buttons of his coat by a little loop, he pulled out a long pocket-book, drew from it an elastic band with a snap, opened it, and fastened the leaves back with the band, just as a tall, gaunt, elderly man came in with a pen behind one ear, a pencil behind the other, making him look in profile like some peculiar kind of horned snail.
I watched their acts with boyish interest as they proceeded methodically to set down the contents of room after room, punching the chairs, turning up the settees, feeling the curtains, and tapping the mirrors, till at the end of the second day, all being done, they closed their books with a snap, nodded to me, and after a short chat with Mr Rowle took their departure.
“Sale’s on Toosday week,” said that gentleman as I looked at him inquiringly. “What’s going to be done o’ you?”
“Done with me?” I said.
“Yes; where are you going to be?”
“I’m going to stop here,” I said.
“That can’t be, anyhow, young un. Haven’t you got any friends?”
“Yes,” I said; “there’s Dick Wilmot, but he’s at school.”
“I say, young un, what a precious innocent you are! Haven’t you never been away at school?”
“No, sir.”
“Where have you been, then?”
“Here at home with papa and mamma.”
“Lor’, what a shame, to be sure! Why, you don’t seem to know nothin’.”
“Indeed I do,” I said indignantly. “I can read, and write, and cipher, and I know a little botany, and Latin, and French, and papa was teaching me the violin.”
“What, the fiddle? Well, that may be some use to you; but as for t’others, bah! I never found the want of any on ’em. How old are you?”
“Just turned eleven, sir.”
“’Leven, and bless your ’art, young un, you’re about as innocent as a baby.”
“If you please, sir, I’m very sorry.”
“Sorry? So am I. Why, up in London I’ve seen boys of ’leven as was reglar old men, and know’d a’most everything. Lookye here, young un, don’t you know as your poor guv’nor died ever so much in debt through some bank breaking?”
“I heard poor papa say that the bank had shut its doors.”
“That’s right,” said Mr Rowle, nodding. “Well, young un; and don’t you know what that means for you?”
“No, sir,” I said.
“Phew?” replied, Mr Rowle, whistling; “well, p’raps it’s kindest to tell you, after all. Why, look here, young un, this place, with every stick in it, is going to be sold up – plate, linen, furniture, chayney, glass, and the house and all, and you’ll have to go to some of your friends, unless Mr Blakeford’s got his plans made for you.”
“Please, sir, I don’t think I’ve got any friends to go to,” I said; “I thought I was going to stay at home – at least, I hoped so,” I added despondently.
“It’s a rum go,” muttered Mr Rowle, as he raised his hat with one hand and re-arranged his hair with the stem of his pipe. “Ah, well, I s’pose I’ve no call to be putting things into your head, only I should like to see you not quite so innocent, and better able to look after yourself.”
Mr Rowle and I had many such conversations during the interval before the sale, in all of which he was so much troubled by what he called my innocence, that I began to look upon my ignorance of the world as something approaching a crime. I saw no more of Mr Blakeford or my uncle, and the days glided slowly by till just before the sale, when the servants came upon me one evening in the dining-room, to announce that they were going, and to say “good-bye.”
“Going?” I said; “what, all?”
“Yes,” said cook sharply, and I think there was a twinkle of moisture in her eyes; “yes, Master Antony, we’re all going, and we’ve come to say good-bye.”
I believe that cook would have taken me in her arms and hugged me in good motherly fashion, but for the third person. As it was, she shook hands very warmly and looked tenderly at me for a moment – not more – for her soul seemed to be aroused within her at the presence of Mr Rowle, at whom she darted the most furious of glances, an example followed by the other two maids; and then we were alone.
“Bless
