The Man Who Stole the Castle

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AUNT, and grey, and pitiably lonely it stood, in the deepening December twilight, with its towers and turrets black against the sky. A poor apology for a wind, with nothing cheery or boisterous in its composition—a very ghost of a wind, that fitted to a nicety the ghostly thing about which it moaned—swept up from the woods, and feebly rattled the casements, and tried the grim-looking doors. Away in some distant deserted stable-yard the melancholy baying of a hound could be heard.

Within, the desolate old pile was scarcely more cheerful than without. In the huge hall a fire crackled and spluttered on the hearth; but it was a fire with no life or animation about it—a fire that burned under protest, as it were, with no real heart in the business. And before the fire, with one heavy riding boot kicking uneasily and impatiently at the logs, stood a young man, wearing as desolate an air as his surroundings.

Yet, had there been anyone there to observe him, he might have been pronounced a well set-up fellow, strong-limbed and goodly to look upon. The long brown riding coat, with its high collar, could not quite conceal the outlines of his figure; the hair which escaped from under the three-cornered hat was thick, and black, and curly. But the handsome face wore a petulant frown upon it, and he thrashed his boot now and again savagely with the riding-whip he carried. On a table near at hand stood two candles, in high, old-fashioned candlesticks; save for these and the light of the fire the great sombre place was in darkness.

He turned away impatiently from the fire at last, and poured out a glass of wine from a bottle which stood on the table, and drank it off.

“Poor sport,” he muttered, “drinking to oneself. Poor sport, one's own company. Gad, what a deuce of a gloomy hole this is! My worthy father—peace to his bones!—little thought what he was doing when, in the pride of his heart and his big purse, he purchased this for me. A castle, indeed! What the dickens do I want with a castle?”

He took another impatient turn about the room, and then, with a whimsical laugh, caught up one of the tall candlesticks, and held it high above his head. By the dim light of it could be seen various old pictures in their faded frames, staring down at him—pictures of dead and gone men and women to whom this place had been a home. Stiff and courtly dames were there, with long waists and expansive skirts; dames ogling him archly in powder and patches; gallant men in armour, frowning down upon him; gallants in laces and lovelocks, who had perchance fought for that ill-fated king who lost his head one snowy morning at Whitehall.

“Ah! I wonder what you'd say to me if you could speak—some of you up there. You belong here; this is your natural home; you quite appropriately come out of your frames, and dance here at night in the moonlight, and flirt, and love, and kill each other, just as merrily as I've no doubt you did in the flesh. You go back for more years than I could count—and, oh, God! the respectability of you all! The glorious, unimpeachable aristocracy of you! While Ithat's it, have a good look at me, my starched old dame in the long waist and the ruff”—he flared the candle towards one of the canvases as he spoke: “look well on me! My father was a linen-draper—a very respectable old man—a stout citizen of London town, and nothing better; and as for my grandfather, I'm afraid he wasn't even quite so good as that. But this is the turn of the wheel; while my worthy parent was piling up the golden pieces steadily, the last of your old race was spending them; so that it came to pass, at last, that honest Jacob Dalwyn—citizen and linen-draper of London Town—was able to fulfil his ambition—poor foolish old man!—and try to make a gentleman of his son, by buying from a bankrupt nobleman the castle and estates which that worthy had gambled away. So wags the world!”

He walked across to the table, and set down the candle, and flung himself into a great, high-backed old chair near the fire.

“Jack Dalwyn with a castle!” He burst into a roar of laughter. “Jack Dalwyn a lord of the manor—squire and what-not! Was ever any unfortunate fish more completely out of the water? Why, the thing hangs about me like a millstone. The old servants who have been here all their lives eye me distrustfully; I am nothing to them but the man who pays their wages. The very dogs are chained up lest they should tear me to pieces, as they would any other stranger who ventured within the gates. The county people who call upon me are civil only in proportion to the weight of my dead father's money-bags. A miserable usurper, without even the grace to wear his honours decently; a gentleman in name—a thing that sprang up like a mushroom in a night!”

In his restless impatience he got up again and strode up and down the hall. A shaft of moonlight, coming suddenly in at an upper window, shone full upon two pictures, more modern in tone and colouring than the others—the pictures of two children, a boy and a girl. The originals must have been quite young when the portraits were painted—mere babies, in fact, although the boy had a gallant little riding-coat on, and the girl, for all her smiling, childish face, the long, straight, demure gown of a woman.

“And who were you, I wonder?” muttered Jack Dalwyn, coming to a halt before them. “Did your merry laughter ring through these old rooms? Perhaps—who knows?—you've danced in the firelight here many and many a time. Poor babies, even you would understand the trick of the business better than I do. These walls were home to you, not the dreary strange place I find them. Gad, I'll have no more of this,” he exclaimed, suddenly, turning away, and going back to the fire. “I want light—and warmth—and pleasant faces—and someone to talk with. I won't stay here. I'll get me down to the Elverton Head in the village; mine host will be glad of a chat, and maybe a drop of his ale will be more to my liking than the wine from the dark, musty cellars of this place. Besides, the Elverton Head is more fitting a place for me, I think, than Elverton Castle; I'll warrant I'm more at home in taverns than in mansions.”

With a reckless laugh he strode across the hall, and threw open a door which admitted him into a smaller hall, giving on to a great, bare, echoing court-yard. The moon was high, and the wind had dropped; a few light flakes of snow were falling. Shivering a little, and drawing his coat more closely about him, he walked rapidly on, down the broad avenue which led to the house, and out through the great gates, which the lodge-keeper opened. Once outside, on the moonlit road, he seemed to breathe more freely; shook him self, laughed a little, and turned in the direction of the village.

The bell-ringers were at work lustily in the belfry of the little village church, and the bells rocked and flung out the music of their chiming towards him as he walked. But even the music of the bells brought no solace; they seemed to roar out at him plainly, “Go away; you don't belong here! Go away; we don't want you! Go away; you don't belong here!” Over and over again through his head they seemed to drive that pitiless tune. The light shining through the red blinds of the Elverton Head seemed more inviting, and he thrust open the low swing-door with his foot, and stalked moodily into the place.

To a man in any other frame of mind the room in which he found himself would have seemed cheerful enough, with its low ceiling, crossed by beams blackened with age; its dark oak panels reflecting every glancing gleam of firelight from the broad hearth; the well-sanded floor, and the two enormous old settles drawn up in comfortable proximity to the blazing logs. The room was empty save for the landlord, who stood in his shirt-sleeves leaning over the back of one of the settles, puffing at a long clay pipe, and meditatively watching the fire. He moved with alacrity as Dalwyn came towards him, and motioned with homely courtesy to the settle.

“Good evenin', sir—your sarvant, sir. Weather promises fine for Christmas, sir.”

“Oh—bother the weather,” growled Jack, as he threw himself upon the settle. “Bring me some ale, will you—and a pipe?”

The landlord, somewhat abashed, moved away to do his guest's bidding, and Jack Dalwyn, leaning back in a corner of the settle, looked at the fire with a rueful laugh. “Christmas, indeed! Gad!—I'd forgotten all about it. There's a merry Christmas before me, I'll warrant, in that stone vault. I'll get back to town to-morrow, and have a merry time in the old fashion.”

The landlord, entering at this moment with a tankard of ale and a long clay pipe and tobacco, put an end to Jack's further self-communing. The man was about to withdraw, having doubtlessly observed the humour of his visitor, but Jack called him back.

“You're quiet here to-night, landlord?”

“Aye, master; they begins their Christmassing early i' these parts. What wi' one festival an' another, most on 'em begins it nigh a week afore, an' finishes it nigh a week arter. Yes, we're a bit quiet-like to-night, sir. Quite glad to see you, sir, an' honoured, I'm sure, sir.” He made a low bow as he spoke.

“Thankee,” said Jack, shortly. “Frankly, I came down here because it's so infernally dull at that place of mine that I get the horrors.”

“Ah, sir,” said the landlord, sympathetically, “I daresay you do find it a bit lonesome.”

“Lonesome!” exclaimed Jack, with a laugh. “I assure you, my friend, that there are ghosts on every stairway—or there seem to be; sighs and whispers in every creaking door and waving tapestry in the place. Tell me”—he broke off suddenly and faced the landlord squarely—“what sort of man was the late owner, Sir Richard Elverton?”

“As free and open-'anded a gentleman”

“Yes; I should suppose he was open-handed. But where is he now?”

“He died abroad, sir, nigh upon a year ago. Got into some trouble, so the tale went, sir, i' London—about a money matter. His wife—sweet lady—lies over there i' Elverton Church i' the family vault. They do say as 'ow the loss of the old place fair broke 'er heart. But she's at peace now, poor thing.”

“Ah! And she was the last of them, I suppose?”

“Why, no, sir, there's the bonniest little lad as ever you put eyes on, somewhere at school nigh about 'ere, with the little lass, his sister. Of course, the title's 'is now, you'll understand, although it's a precious empty one for the poor lad.”

“I'm afraid so,” said Jack Dalwyn, feeling more like a criminal than ever. “And I suppose these—these babies have nothing in the world, eh?”

“Can't say, sir, I'm sure,” replied the landlord. “Mighty little Sir Richard left be'ind, if all that's said be true.” The man had raised his head in an attitude of listening, and now made, with some excitement, for the door. “There's a sound o' wheels on the road, sir; and maybe it's travellers. You'll excuse me, sir, I know.”

Jack Dalwyn, drawn up in the shelter of the settle, the protecting wing of which completely hid him from the observation of anyone entering the inn, idly speculated in his own mind as to what travellers these might be, coming to such a benighted spot at such an hour, the while he cosily enjoyed the warmth of the fire. An exclamation from the landlord first roused him, and he sat still, listening. He heard a man's gruff tones; saw, out of the corner of his eye, lights flashing to and fro before the windows; and then—wonder of wonders!—heard the high, imperious treble of a child.

“How do you do, Cummings? Quite surprised to see us, eh? We didn't really expect to come at all, you know; but the business was pressing, and there was no time to be lost. Gad! Cummings, but we've had a cold drive—my lady sister and myself—and we want something to warm us before we go farther. And, Cummings, where are your manners? Do you stare at all your guests in that fashion? Come, man, bustle yourself; some mulled wine for the lady to begin with.”

Jack Dalwyn peeped round the corner of the settle. Standing in the very centre of the sanded floor were two children—so desolate-looking, despite the grand air the boy had assumed, that Jack's heart began to ache for sheer pity. They stood, drawn close together, with the boy's arm protectingly round the girl; the boy was apparently the elder of the two, but even his years could not have amounted to more than nine at the most.

“Craving your pardon, sir,” said the landlord, recovering a little from his astonishment; “but I was so took aback at the sight of you and the young lady 'ere, that I did forget my manners for a minute. Your pardon again, sir.”

“Ah—so you haven't forgotten me then?” said the boy. “Honest Cummings! We always liked Cummings, didn't we, Barbara?”

The girl slowly nodded her head, and the landlord beamed his appreciation of their confidence.

“And so, as we were very tired, and as we were not quite sure what would happen if we went straight on to the castle”

“To the castle?” echoed the landlord, blankly, with a quick glance towards the settle.

“We thought we'd come in here, and ask—well, ask your advice.”

The landlord scratched his head in some perplexity, and then his eyes instinctively turned towards where Dalwyn was sitting. Jack rose slowly, and came towards the group, baring his head ceremoniously as he faced the boy. The boy, for his part, did the same, and eyed the stranger with frank curiosity.

“Perhaps I may be of some assistance, sir, he said, flattering the child by approaching him as though there were no question of years between them. “Landlord Cummings—I should be glad of this gentleman's acquaintance; will you present me?”

“This, sir,” said the landlord, glad of the opportunity to share his perplexity with someone else, “this is Master Leonard Elverton”

“Sir Leonard Elverton, “by your leave, good Cummings,” broke in the boy, quickly. “And this, sir,” he added, “is my sister, Mistress Barbara Elverton.”

Jack Dalwyn swept his hat to the floor, in a low bow to the girl, and lightly put the little hand she held out to him to his lips. “My name,” he said, “is Jack Dalwyn, at your service, Sir Leonard.” Turning hastily to the landlord, as that worthy was backing away, he added in a low voice, “Not a word to these babies about the castle until I tell you.” Aloud he cried, “Come, landlord—supper and some mulled wine at once. Serve it here before the fire. This lady and gentleman will, I trust, be my guests.”

The faces of the children lit up as the landlord bustled away to carry out Jack's orders. Jack gently drew the girl towards the fire and seated her on the settle; and, with the tenderness of a woman, loosened her cloak, and lifted the big, cumbrous bonnet from the fair, curly head.

“Why, little one,” he said, as he knelt before her, “how tired and cold you are! You have come a long, long journey, I'm afraid?”

The girl nodded sleepily, and the boy broke in quickly, in response to Jack's question. “Yes, Mr. Dalwyn, it was rather a long way; we've been travelling for hours. In fact, we've run away.”

“Run away?” echoed Jack.

“Yes—from school. A horrid place, where everyone was unkind to us, and where they said cruel things about me and about—my father.” The small hands were clenched, and the boy's lips quivered. “My father's dead, you know,” he added, “and they told me he couldn't pay for us any longer, and that I—that I was a beggar. So, of course, Bab and I couldn't stand that, and so we came home.”

“Home?” echoed Jack, blankly.

“Yes, to the castle. You see, there's something to be put right; I am Sir Leonard Elverton, and the castle belongs to me, doesn't it?”

“Y-yes,” said Jack, slowly. “I suppose it does.”

“Of course it does,” said the boy, unhesitatingly. “That is really why we've come so hurriedly. Someone has stolen our castle.”

Jack Dalwyn rose from his knees, and stood before the fire looking down at the boy. “That's dreadful,” he said, in a low voice. “You don't—don't know who stole it, I suppose?”

“No,” said the boy, “but I shall soon find out, and then, whoever it is will have to look out for himself. Of course, I shall fight for it, if necessary; my ancestors fought for it, years and years ago, and, of course, I must be prepared to do the same.”

At this moment the landlord bustled in, followed by his assistants, and in a few moments a little round table was laid in the full glow of the firelight, and the children prepared eagerly for their meal. Jack made a pretence of eating, but his heart was sick and heavy within him. In imagination he saw himself in all his brute strength, and with all the power of his wealth behind him, arrayed against these two helpless children; saw himself relentlessly snatching from them their birthright, and flinging them to the mercy of a hard world. He was quite glad when the landlord caused a diversion by nervously approaching the table while the meal was in progress, and addressing him.

“Craving your pardon, sir, there's a man 'ere a-askin' for a matter o' four guineas and a half for a post-chaise for this young gen'elman and the little lady. He's wantin' to know if he's to wait, sir?”

The boy answered the question with charming frankness. “You see, Cummings,” he said, “it's rather awkward. I—I haven't any money, and I don't quite know”

“Permit me,” said Jack, lightly. “Only a loan, you know—between gentlemen. Tell the man to wait,” he added, turning to the landlord, “and assure him that he shall be paid. See that he has something to eat, will you?”

The landlord withdrew, and the boy turned to Jack with a grateful smile. “It's very fortunate we met you, sir,” he said, “and I am very grateful. Do you reside in this neighbourhood?”

“Oh, yes—hereabouts,” said Jack, with a wave of the hand. “But tell me more about this castle of yours. Speak low—see, Mistress Barbara has fallen asleep.”

“Well, you must know,” began the boy, “that we had a letter from our old nurse—the one who was with us before my father went abroad. She wrote to tell me of his death, and to tell me that a wicked man had stolen my castle, and that I had no home at all. Of course she's old, and she's a woman, and she doesn't understand things; I shall soon show her, and everyone else, that people can't go about stealing castles and expect to have no notice taken of it. So, as the people at the school were very unkind, and as I felt that I must fight for Barbara as well as myself, I came away directly I got the letter. And here we are.”

“Yes,” said Jack, slowly; “and, being here, what are you going to do?”

“Do? I'm going home.” How proudly he said it, and how his childish, innocent courage shone in his eyes!

“To-night?”

“Yes—to-night,” exclaimed the boy, starting to his feet, and looking about for his coat.

“Will you permit me to—to come with you?” asked Jack, scarcely able to restrain a smile at the absurdity of the position.

“I shall be very glad,” said the boy. “You look strong, and if there's any fighting to do And I shall be glad,” he added, courteously, “to offer you my hospitality, at least for the night.”

Jack gasped, but contrived to hide his feelings under an elaborate bow. Orders were given, and the chaise was brought again to the door. Jack wrapped the cloak about the sleeping child, and lifted her in his arms, and carried her to the vehicle. Landlord Cummings, speechless with astonishment, stood in the road, ceremoniously to hand them in. With a cracking of the postilion's whip, and the clatter of hoofs, Jack Dalwyn drove back to the castle with the two children.

The unusual noise made by the carriage in the echoing court-yard caused quite a commotion. Dogs barked, and windows were thrown open, and two or three startled servants came hurriedly out bearing lights. But one—an ancient man, who had lived there nearly all his days—on catching sight of the boy raised a feeble shout; and, in an instant, they came flocking about the children, careless of the reason for their coming, and glad only to welcome them home again. Jack Dalwyn stood apart, scarcely noticed by any of them, until the boy, in his courteous fashion, and with an irony of which he was happily ignorant, drew him forward, and introduced him to the amazed servants.

“This is a gentleman—a very good friend of mine—Mr. Dalwyn. He has been exceedingly kind to me and to my sister. You will be good enough to have a room prepared for him at once—at once, I say.”

While the wondering servants hesitated, and glanced uneasily from Dalwyn to the child, and back again, Jack stepped quickly forward. “Obey his instructions,” he said, in a low and hurried voice to the group—“and ask no questions. You”—he turned to one of the younger women—“take charge of the young lady, and see that a room is prepared for her at once. Tell the housekeeper that a room is to be prepared for the young gentleman also. Now, Sir Leonard”—he turned to the boy with a smile, and held out his hand—“let us go and find the man who has stolen your castle.”

“Is he here?” asked the boy, drawing back a little anxiously.

“Yes, I'm afraid he is. You'd better see him, and get it over—don't you think so?”

“Oh, yes, I'll see him. You'll help me, won't you? You're bigger and stronger than I am—and I”

“Yes, a great deal bigger and stronger, I'm afraid,” said Jack, with a sigh. “But come along, we'd better get it over, I suppose.” And together they marched hand in hand into the big hall.

Jack Dalwyn noticed, in a moody, foolish fashion, that the dying fire seemed to leap up into renewed brightness as the boy came in; that the frowning pictures on the walls took on an aspect less grim, and seemed to strive, in their stiff fashion, to welcome the child. The thought of what he must say to the boy—of the black light in which he must appear—almost unnerved him; he made a hurried attempt to postpone the interview.

“Don't you think,” he began, nervously, “don't you think we'd better wait until to-morrow?”

“No—that's impossible!” exclaimed the boy, impatiently. “I must see him to-night. Where is he? I thought he would be here.”

Jack walked across to the fire, and half-turned his back upon the child, and stirred the embers uneasily with his boot. “He is here,” he said, at last, in a low voice.

“Here? Where?”

“Yes. Don't you see him? … Child—I am the man who has stolen your castle.”

The child stared at him in blank amazement. “You? I—I don't understand. What are you saying?”

Jack Dalwyn, still looking into the fire, waved his hand towards a seat near him. “Sit down,” he said, gently, “and I'll try to tell you all about it, although the Lord only knows,” he muttered to himself, “how I'm going to make it clear to you.”

The boy drew nearer slowly, and seated himself, never once taking his bright eyes from the man's face. Jack, for his part, dared not look at him.

“You must know, Leonard,” he began, “that, in this queer old world of ours, about which you know so little yet, there is what men call trade—and sale—and barter. All those things shouldn't touch your life at all, Heaven knows; you were born in a world outside them, and they only smirch you by accident. It was by one of those disgraceful processes that I came into possession of this castle—your home; and if you asked anyone in the world—anyone you know you can trust—any of these old servants even—they'd all tell you that the castle belongs to me.”

“But—I crave your pardon, sir—it does not,” said the boy, firmly.

“Well—we'll say it does not; we're coming to that point presently. The only question is—what are we going to do about it?”

Jack was so terribly in earnest that the question to him was of the most serious import—quite as serious, in fact, as it was to the boy. Legal technicalities—the rights of possession, and what-not—all were lost sight of. He saw the amazing business only from the child's standpoint; stood before that child a wretched criminal, convicted of a mean theft—and blushed before him in consequence.

“Well,” said the boy, slowly, “I suppose I've got to fight you. I'm sorry—because I rather liked you. And it's so near Christmas time, too, that I had hoped to offer you my hospitality.”

“If,” said Jack, speaking in his most whimsical mood—“if I told you, in all sincerity, that I am very sorry to have wronged you or your sweet sister; and if I tell you that I will do all in my power to make reparation—don't you think we might still be friends, and that I might stay here for—let us say—a day or two? Come—there's my hand on it!”

The boy sprang up, and clapped his own hand in an instant into the other's outstretched palm. “Oh, of course,” he cried, “I can't turn you out in such a hurry as all that. There's plenty of room in this place, you know, and I beg that you will make yourself quite at home—for the present, at least.”

“Thank you,” said Jack. “I'm sure it's very kind of you, and I'll endeavour not to trouble you more than I can help. Perhaps you would like to retire now; your room has been prepared.”

With exaggerated courtesy they bade each other good-night, and Jack Dalwyn was left alone. For hours he sat before the fire, drawing mental pictures of many things. He felt again the sleeping child's unconscious touch upon his neck, when he had lifted her from the settle in the inn. He never remembered to have held a child in his arms before; he smiled a little when he thought what some of his gay London friends would have thought could they have followed his adventures of that night. He thought, too, of the children sleeping snugly in their beds, in their own home, well cared for; and then drew a fearful mental picture of them going hand in hand through perhaps such a bitter night as this, homeless, and starving, and ex posed to every terror of a world of which as yet they were ignorant. Pacing about the hall, he came again face to face with those two pictures; and wondered how he should bear to live there, when the originals had been sent away, as law and justice demanded. And, sitting there in the darkness, he slowly beat out in his mind the thing that he must do.

Quite early in the morning, long before the children were astir, a man set out on a swift horse for London. He had orders to find two people, and bring them back with him, at whatever cost. The one was a certain Mr. Josiah Hankey, a man of law, who had transacted Jack Dalwyn's business, and that of his father before him; the other was a certain Mistress Aurora Pepper, the old nurse mentioned by the boy, who had left the castle only when the children had been sent to school, and who had been in constant communication with them ever since. Some of the servants had been able to tell where she lodged, and the messenger received orders, coupled with fearful threats, to bring her back, alive or dead.

Travelling in those days took time, and horses, even of the fastest, had to be cared for. Thus it happened that Jack Dalwyn had to wait, with what patience he might, for two whole days before the arrival of those he had summoned; and during that time he had opportunities for observing the children. All that he saw only confirmed him more strongly in his resolution. This place, so strange and dreary to him, was a palace of delight to them, with a story in every beam and stone of it; the frowning pictures were loved friends, to whom their innocent confidences were freely given; the very dogs, who strained fiercely at their chains when he went near, suffered themselves to be caressed by these babies with every manifestation of delight. There was only one satisfactory thing about it all, and that was that the children, in those two days, lost any feeling of resentment they might have cherished towards him, and showed a growing affection for him in a thousand ways. This was especially the case on the part of the girl; and Jack Dalwyn grew to love the touch of her small, warm fingers twined round his, and to listen eagerly for the sound of her prattling voice. The boy, with that curious dignity which he probably felt was necessary to the occasion, stood more aloof, apparently still regarding Jack as one who must be watched, lest an advantage be taken.

The old nurse, in fear and trembling, duly arrived, accompanied by the lawyer. Jack, without further ado, dismissed her to the children, telling her that he would have some conversation with her later, and would then give whatever explanation might be necessary.

The lawyer, Mr. Josiah Hankey, was a small, dry, withered old man, whose long acquaintance with his profession had driven out of him whatever original beliefs in the sweetness and beauty of humanity he might once have possessed; a man who rarely committed himself to an opinion without looking at it carefully on all sides, and then, after all, giving it grudgingly. He believed Jack Dalwyn to be a feather-brained mad rascal, but even he was astounded at the proposition laid before him. He fairly sat up and gasped when Jack had finished.

“Do you mean to tell me,” asked the lawyer, “in common sober earnest, that you purpose giving up this fine old place, bought with your father's money, to two penniless children about whom you know nothing?”

“I know quite enough,” said Jack, simply. “This is their home—theirs by right. Good God! man, you surely wouldn't advocate the visiting of the sins of the fathers on the heads of such innocents as these? Now—don't argue about the matter; my mind is firmly made up, and I want you to do as I suggest. You will safeguard their interests, and will see that the sum I have mentioned is withdrawn from my income each year, and disbursed for their maintenance, and for the keeping up of this place. You will arrange about their education—not too much of it; I won't have them driven. You understand me?”

“Perfectly,” replied the lawyer, drily. “And how long, pray, is this fooling to continue?”

“As long as I choose,” replied Jack. “We'll let the years take care of themselves; all you have to do is to be careful of your stewardship for the present. Now, while you refresh yourself, I'll have a talk with this old nurse of theirs.”

The lawyer saw that further expostulation was useless, and with a shrug of his shoulders retired. Mistress Aurora Pepper, on her entry, was visibly disconcerted by the stern glance which met her own. She curtsied, trembling.

“You know who I am?” asked Jack.

“Indeed, sir—yes,” replied the woman. “Master Dalwyn, I believe—the new owner of”

“Oh, no; that's where you're wrong,” replied Jack. “You know better than that. I'm the man who has stolen it; don't you remember?”

“Oh, sir; I beg that you won't think anything of the foolish words of an old woman to a child. Indeed, sir, I can assure you"

“There, there, my good woman, I'm not offended—and, after all, you were right. I have robbed these mites of their home, although Heaven knows I did it innocently enough. Now, listen to me. Are you willing to come back again to them?”

“Lord bless you, sir, I'd follow them all over the kingdom, if it came to that. I've never had a child of my own, but they've seemed more like my own than any others could. I'd never have left them if they hadn't been sent away from me.”

“Well; I believe you,” said Jack. “You have a kind face, and I believe you'll be good to them. I'm going to leave them here, in their old home, in your charge. I have only one stipulation to make; and that is, that you are not to say anything to them about the matter—I mean in the sense of giving them to understand that I am in any way their benefactor. I should like”—he turned away for a moment, and beat his fingers restlessly on the table—“I should like to feel that they—that they didn't quite forget me or that they didn't think badly of me. For the rest, you will be well supplied with money for all their wants and your own. I am going abroad almost immediately, and cannot tell when I return. That is all, thank you No, I want no thanks. Go back to them, and care for them.”

His resolution taken, and all things arranged for the carrying out of his strange fancy, Jack Dalwyn determined, before going away, that something should be done to mark the time. For this was Christmas Eve. “Gad!” he exclaimed, with a laugh, “they shall have the best Christmas even they have ever had, a right merry one.”

And what a Christmas it was! What a strange party it was that sat down to their Christmas fare in the great, sombre banqueting hall! Only four of them—the two children, and Jack, and Josiah Hankey, the lawyer; but what a merry group they were! Even the lawyer relaxed something of his grimness, and came out with surprising jests, and sang a song, in the exhilaration of the hour—a song that was a very old one even at that date. But the beautiful thing was the sight of the boy at the head of the table doing the honours of the feast—doing them, child though he was, so naturally and well, and with such a tender regard for the comfort of his guests, that he could not have done it better had he been a man experienced in the ways of the world. Jack Dalwyn, watching him, nudged the lawyer, and whispered in his ear.

“See, my man of law—see how well he plays the part. Better far than I could do. There's his natural place; he is the proper seed of this old tree—while I am but something of a coarser growth, that has no place here.”

When the last light but his own had been extinguished in the castle, and long after the last tired servant had crept to bed, Jack Dalwyn sat down and wrote a letter.

“,—When, in the bright morning light, you shall read this, I shall have gone away. Will you believe me when I tell you that there has been a dreadful blunder, and that, had I looked at the matter carefully, and had I known you then as I know you now, I should never have tried to take your beautiful home from you? It is yours again, never to be lost to you while you live. Your old friends are about you, and you need never fear that anyone will try again to steal from you the place of which you should be so proud. The time will come when you will understand these things better, and will learn to forgive—The Man who Stole the Castle.”

He folded the note, addressed it to “Sir Leonard Elverton,” and, carrying it in his hand, went to the wing of the castle in which the children slept. Very softly he crept into the boy's room, and stood looking at him for some minutes; the child was peacefully sleeping. He bent down at last, and gently brushed the little flushed face with his lips; laid the note on a table beside the bed, and stole away.

In little Barbara's room he stayed a longer time—seemed to find it hard, in fact, to tear himself away, now that the moment had come. But he kissed her gently at last, and then, as he was leaving the room, his glance fell upon a bright ribbon which lay on the dressing table, and which he remembered had bound the child's hair that day. He took it up softly, and put it to his lips, and then thrust it in his breast.

Coming down into the hall again, he took one long, last look round the place, and then went out quickly, and saddled his horse, and rode away. Rode out into the world with a light heart that Christmas night, while the children slumbered peacefully in their beds. But, in his wanderings in strange lands, he cherishes the hope that some day he may come back to them.

[[Category:short stories in periodicals]