Miser Farebrother: A Novel (vol. 1 of 3). Farjeon Benjamin Leopold

and made his way to a back door. It yielded to his touch. He lit a candle which he had brought with him, and entered. All was still and lonely; not a sound reached his ears; there was not a crumb in the mansion upon which even a rat or a mouse could live. Stealthily and warily he made a tour of the rooms, shading the light with his hand when he was near a window. There was small need for such a precaution, but he took it, nevertheless.

      "Safe and sure!" he muttered – "safe and sure!"

      He was gratified and amazed to discover so many pieces of old furniture in the house; and he made out a list upon paper of what it would be necessary to bring with him when he actually took possession: his desk, containing his private papers and account-books, in which were entered his precious transactions; a few pots and pans, and some sheets and blankets; the personal clothing his wife would attend to. These things could be put into a cart, and a single horse would be sufficient to convey them from London. He had ascertained the distance – between fifteen and sixteen miles. He and his wife and child could ride in the cart. So much saved!

      Determining to come again before the final step was taken, he left the house at two in the morning as secretly and quietly as he had entered it.

      His second visit was paid in the course of the following week, at about the same hour of the night. He entered the house, again without being disturbed, and lighting his candle, made another tour of the rooms. He stood in one which had been a principal bedroom, and he resolved to turn it to the same use. On this occasion he made a more careful examination of the furniture, which, in consequence of the craze for the antique, he knew to be worth a great deal of money; and he was rubbing his hands with glee, having placed the candle on a table, and was thinking, "All mine! all mine!" when a sound from the bedstead almost drove the blood from his heart. It was a sound of soft breathing.

      He stood for a few moments transfixed; his tongue clave to the roof of his mouth; his feet seemed fastened to the floor. The sound of soft, regular breathing continued, and presently, as nothing more alarming occurred, he began to recover himself. His feet became loosened, his limbs regained their power of action. Noiselessly he took from his pockets two articles – one a revolver, which he always carried about him; the other a bottle of water. He moistened his throat, and returned the bottle to his pocket; and then, holding the pistol, without any distinct idea of the use he might put it to, he tremblingly approached the bed. There, fully dressed, lay a lad of some thirteen or fourteen years of age.

      A common-looking lad, sleeping very peacefully and calmly.

      Miser Farebrother, seeing before him an enemy whom he could easily overcome, shook the lad roughly, and cried, "Now, then, what are you doing here?"

      The lad jumped up, and slid from the bed to the floor.

      "Do you hear me?" cried Miser Farebrother. "What are you doing here, you vagabond?"

      That the lad was terribly frightened was clear by his movements; he shrank back and cowered at the sight of the pistol, but he managed to blurt out:

      "I ain't doing no harm, your honour! I'm only having a sleep."

      "How dare you sleep here?" demanded Miser Farebrother, in a tone of authority. "You have come to commit a robbery – to rob me! I'll put you in jail for it."

      "Don't your honour – don't!" pleaded the lad, still cowering and shrinking. "I ain't done a morsel of harm – upon my soul I ain't! I didn't come here to steal nothink – upon my soul I didn't!"

      Miser Farebrother put the pistol into his pocket, and the lad began to whimper.

      "Do you know I could take your life, could lawfully take it," said Miser Farebrother, "for breaking into my house as you have done, and sleeping upon my bed?"

      "Yes, your honour; but please don't! I didn't break into the house. The door was open."

      "Stop that crying."

      "Yes, your honour."

      And the lad, in default of a handkerchief, dug his knuckles into his eyes. A lad of resource and some decision of character, he cried no more. This fact was not lost upon Miser Farebrother.

      "You did not break into the house, you say?"

      "No, your honour; upon my soul I didn't!"

      "And you found the door open?"

      "Yes, your honour."

      "Which door?"

      "The kitchen door, your honour."

      "How long have you been here?"

      "Three days, your honour."

      This piece of information rather confounded Miser Farebrother, who, himself an interloper, was feeling his way; but he was politic enough not to betray himself.

      "Three days, eh – and not yet caught?"

      "Nobody wants to ketch me, your honour."

      "Not your father and mother?"

      "Ain't got none, your honour."

      "Somebody else, then, in their place?"

      "There ain't nobody in their place. There ain't a soul that's got a call to lay a hand upon me."

      "Except me."

      "Yes, your honour," said the lad, humbly: "but I didn't know."

      His complete subservience and humbleness had an effect upon Miser Farebrother. He judged others by himself – a common enough standard among mortals – and he was not the man to trust to mere words; but there was a semblance of truth in the manner of the lad which staggered him. In all England it would have been difficult to find a man less given to sentiment, and less likely to be led by it, but the lad's conspicuous helplessness, and his ingenuous blue eyes – which, now that the pistol was put away, looked frankly at the miser – no less than his own scheme of taking possession of Parksides by stealth and in secrecy, were elements in favour of this lad, so strangely found in so strange a situation. A claim upon Parksides Miser Farebrother undoubtedly possessed; he held papers, in the shape of liens upon complicated mortgages, which he had purchased for a song; but he had something more than a latent suspicion that the law's final verdict was necessary to establish the validity and exact value of his claim. This he had not sought to obtain, knowing that it would have led him into ruinous expense and probable failure. These circumstances were the breeders of an uneasy consciousness that he and the lad, in their right to occupy Parksides, were somewhat upon an equality. Hence it was necessary to be cautious, and to feel his way, as it were.

      "Where are your people?" he asked.

      The lad stared at him.

      "My people!"

      "Your people," repeated Miser Farebrother. "Where you live, you know."

      "Ain't got no people," said the lad. "Don't live nowhere."

      "Listen to me, you young scoundrel," said Miser Farebrother, shaking a menacing forefinger at him; "if you're trying to impose upon me by a parcel of lies, you'll find yourself in the wrong box. As sure as I'm the master of this house, I'll have you locked up and fed upon stones and water for the rest of your life."

      "I ain't trying to impose upon you," persisted the lad, speaking very earnestly; "I ain't telling you a parcel of lies. Look here, your honour, have you got a book?"

      "What book?"

      "I don't care what book – any book! Give it me, and I'll kiss it, and swear on it that I've told you the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth."

      "You'll have to tell something more of yourself before I've done with you. Where did you live before you lived nowhere?"

      "Hailsham, your honour."

      "Where's that?"

      "Don't know, your honour."

      "How far from here?"

      "Six days, your honour."

      "None of your nonsense. How far?"

      "Couldn't tell to a yard, if you was to skin me alive. It took me six days to git here."

      "You walked?"

      "Yes, your honour;