Clement Underwood was so much better as to be arrived at taking solitary rides and walks, these suiting him better than having companions, as he liked to go his own pace, and preferred silence. His sister had become much engrossed with her painting, and saw likewise that in this matter of exercise it was better to let him go his own way, and he declared that this time of thought and reading was an immense help to him, restoring that balance of life which he seemed to himself to have lost in the whirl of duties at St. Matthew’s after Felix’s death.

The shore, with the fresh, monotonous plash of the waves, when the tide served, was his favourite resort. He could stand still and look out over the expanse of ripples, or wander on, as he pleased, watching the sea-gulls float along—

There had been a somewhat noisy luncheon, for Edward Harewood, a midshipman in the Channel Fleet, which was hovering in the offing, had come over on a day’s leave with Horner, a messmate whose parents lived in the town. He was a big lad, a year older than Gerald, and as soon as a little awe of Uncle Clement and Aunt Cherry had worn off, he showed himself of the original Harewood type, directing himself chiefly to what he meant to be teasing Gerald about Vale Leston and Penbeacon.

“All the grouse there were on the bit of moor are snapped up.”

“Very likely,” said Gerald coolly.

“Those precious surveyors and engineers that Walsh brings down can give an account of them! As soon as you come of age, you’ll have to double your staff of keepers, I can tell you.”

“Guardians of ferae naturae,” said Gerald.

“I thought your father did all that was required in that line,” said Clement.

“Not since duffers and land-lubbers have been marauding over Penbeacon—aye, and elsewhere. What would you say to an engineer poaching away one of the august house of Vanderkist?”

“The awful cad! I’d soon show him what I thought of his cheek,” cried Adrian, with a flourish of his knife.

“Ha, ha! I bet that he will be shooting over Ironbeam Park long before you are of age.”

“I shall shoot him, then,” cried Adrian.

“Not improbably there will be nothing else to shoot by that time,” quietly said Gerald.

“I shall have a keeper in every lodge, and bring up four or five hundred pheasants every year,” boasted the little baronet, quite alive to the pride of possession, though he had never seen Ironbeam in his life.

Edward laughed a “Don’t you wish you may get it,” and the others, who knew very well the futility of the poor boy’s expectations, even if Gerald’s augury were not fulfilled, hastened to turn away the conversation to plans for the afternoon. Anna asked the visitor if he would ride out with her and Gerald to Clipstone or to the moor, and was relieved when he declined, saying he had promised to meet Horner.

“You will come in to tea at five?” said his aunt, “and bring him if you like.”

“Thanks awfully, but we hardly can. We have to start from the quay at six sharp.”

All had gone their several ways, and Clement, after the heat of the day, was pacing towards a secluded cove out of an inner bay which lay nearer than Anscombe Cove, but was not much frequented. However, he smelt tobacco, and heard sounds of boyish glee, and presently saw Adrian and Fergus Merrifield, bare-legged, digging in the mud.

“Ha! youngsters! Do you know the tide has turned? I thought you had had enough of that.”

“I thought I might find my aralia!” sighed Fergus. “The tide was almost as low.”

Just then there resounded from behind a projecting rock a peal of undesirable singing, a shout of laughter, and an oath, with—

“Holloa, those little beasts of teetotallers have hooked it.”

There were confused cries—“Haul ‘em back! Drench ‘em. Give ‘em a roll in the mud!” and Adrian shrank behind his uncle, taking hold of his coat, as there burst from behind the rock a party of boys, headed by the two cadets, all shouting loudly, till brought to a sudden standstill by the sight of “Parson! By Jove!” as the Horner mid muttered, taking out his pipe, while Edward Harewood mumbled something about “Horner’s brother’s tuck-out.” One or two other boys were picking up the remains of the feast, which had been on lobsters, jam tarts, clotted cream, and the like delicacies dear to the juvenile mind. The two biggest school-boys came forward, one voluble and thick of speech about Horner’s tuck-out, and “I assure you, sir, it is nothing—not a taste. Never thought of such—” Just then the other lad, staggering about, had almost lurched over into the deepening channel; but Clement caught him by the collar and held him fast, demanding in a low voice, very terrible to his hearers—

“Where does this poor boy live?”

It was Adrian who answered.

“Devereux Buildings.”

“You two, Adrian and Fergus, run to the quay and fetch a cab as near this place as it can come,” said Clement. “You little fellows, you had better run home at once. I hope you will take warning by the shame and disgrace of this spectacle.”

The boys were glad enough to disperse, being terrified by the condition of the prisoner, as well as by the detection; but the two who were encumbered with the baskets containing the bottles, jam-pots, and tin of cream remained, and so did the two young sailors, Horner saying civilly—

“You’ll not be hard on the kids, sir, for just a spree carried a little too far.”

“I certainly shall not be hard on the children, whom you seem to have tempted,” was the answer as they moved along; and as the younger Horner turned towards a little shop near the end of the steps to restore the goods, he asked—“Were you supplied from hence?”

“Yes,” said Horner, who was perhaps hardly sober enough for caution. “Mother Butterfly is a jolly old soul.”

Looking up. Clement saw no licence to sell spirituous liquors under the name of Sarah Schnetterling, tobacconist. The window had the placard ‘Ici on parle Francais’, and was adorned in a tasteful manner with ornamental pipes, fishing-rods and flies, jars of sweets, sheets of foreign stamps, pictorial advertisements of innocuous beverages. A woman with black grizzling hair, fashionably dressed, flashing dark eyes, long gold ear-rings, gold beads and gaudy attire, came out to reclaim her property. A word or two passed about payment, during which Clement had a strange thrill of puzzled recollection. The bottles bore the labels of raspberry vinegar and lemonade, but he had seen too much not to say—

“You drive a dangerous trade.”

“Ah, sir, young people will be gourmands,” she said, with a foreign accent. “Ah, that poor young gentleman is very ill. Will he not come in and lie down to recover?”

“No, thank you,” said Clement. “A carriage is coming to take him home.”

Something about the fat in the fire was passing between the cadets, and the younger of them began to repeat that he had come for his brother’s birthday, and that he feared they had brought the youngsters into a scrape by carrying the joke too far.

“I have nothing to say to you, sir,” said the Vicar of St. Matthew’s, looking very majestic, “except that it is time you were returning to your ship. As to you,” turning to Edward Harewood, “I can only say that if you are aware of the peculiar circumstances of Adrian Vanderkist, your conduct can only be called fiendish.”

Fergus and Adrian came running up with tidings that the cab was waiting. Edward Harewood stood sullen, but the other lad said—

“Unlucky. We are sorry to have got the little fellows into trouble.”

He held out his hand, and Clement did not refuse it, as he did that of his own nephew. Still, there was a certain satisfaction at his heart as he beheld the clear, honest young faces of the other two boys, and he bade Adrian run home and wait for him, saying to Fergus—

“You seem to have been a good friend to my little nephew. Thank you.”

Fergus coloured up, speechless between pleasure at the warm tone of commendation and the obligations of school-boy honour, nor, with young Campbell on their hands, was there space for questions. That youth subsided into a heavy doze in the cab, and so continued till the arrival at No. 7, Devereux Buildings, where a capable-looking maid-servant opened the door, and he was deposited into her hands, the Vicar leaving his card with his present address, but feeling equal to nothing more, and hardly able to speak.

He drove home, finding his nephew in the doorway. Signing to the maid to pay the driver, and to the boy to follow him, he reached his study, and sank into his easy-chair, Adrian opening frightened eyes and saying—

“I’ll call Sibby.”

“No—that bottle—drop to there,” signing to the mark on the glass with his nail.

After a pause, while he held fast the boy, so to speak, with his eyes, he said—

“Thank you, dear lad.”

“Uncle Clement,” said Adrian then, “we weren’t doing anything. Merrifield thought his old bit of auralia, or whatever he calls it, was there.”

“I saw—I saw, my boy. To find you—as you were, made me most thankful. You must have resisted. Tell me, were you of this party, or did you come on them by accident?”

“Horner asked me,” said Adrian, twisting from one leg to another.

Clement saw the crisis was come which he had long expected, and rejoiced at the form it had taken, though he knew he should suffer from pursuing the subject.

“Adrian,” he said, “I am much pleased with you. I don’t want to get you into a row, but I should be much obliged if you would tell me how all this happened.”

“It wouldn’t,” returned Adrian, “but for that Ted and the other chap.”

“Do you mean that there would have been none of this—drinking—but for them? Don’t be afraid to tell me all. Was the stuff all got from that Mrs. Schnetter—?”

“Mother Butterfly’s? Oh yes. She keeps bottles of grog with those labels, and it is such a lark for her to be even with the gangers that our fellows generally get some after cricket, or for a tuck-out.”

“Not Fergus Merrifield?”

“Oh no; he’s captain, you know, but he is two years younger than Campbell and Horner, and they can’t bear him, and when he made a jaw about it—he can jaw awfully, you know—and he is stuck up, and Horner major swore he would make him know his bearings—”

“I wonder he was there at all.”

“Well, Horner asked him, and he can’t get those fossils that were lost out of his head, and he thought they might be washed up. He said too, he knew they would be up to something if he wasn’t there.”

“Oh!” said Clement, with an odd recollection, “but I suppose he did not know about these cadets?”

“No, the big Horner sent up to Mother Butterfly’s for some more stuff, not so mild, and then Ted set upon me, and said it was all because of me that Vale Leston had to live like a boiling of teetotal frogs and toads, just to please the little baronet’s lady mamma, but I was a Dutchman all the same, and should sell them yet—I sucked it in so well, and they talked of seeing how much I could stand. Something about my governor, and here—that word in the Catechism.”

“Ah!” gasped Clement, fairly clutching his arm, “and what spared you?”

“Horner came down, and Sweetie Bob, that’s the errand-boy, and there was a bother about the money, for Bob wasn’t to leave anything without being paid, and while they were jawing about that, Merry laid hold of me and said, ‘Come and look for the aralia.’ They got to shouting and singing, and I don’t think they saw what was doing. They were nasty songs, and Merry touched me and said, ‘Let us go after the aralia.’ We got away without their missing us at first, but they ran after us when they found it out, and if you had not been there, Uncle Clem—”

“Thank God I was! Now, Adrian, first tell me, did you taste this stuff? You said you sucked it in.”

“Well, I did, a little. You know, uncle, one cannot always be made a baby. Women don’t understand, you know, and don’t know what a fool it makes a man to have them always after him, and have everything put out of his way like a precious infant, and people drinking it on the sly like Gerald, or—”

“Or me, eh, Adrian? I can tell you that I never tasted it for thirty years, and now only as a medicine. Lance, never.”

“But they did not treat you like a baby, and never let you see so much as a glass of beer.”

“Well, I am going to treat you like a man, but it is a sorrowful history that I have to tell you. You know that your mother and Aunt Wilmet are twin sisters?”

“Oh yes, though Aunt Wilmet is stout and jolly, and mother ever so much prettier and more delicate and nice.”

“Yes, from ill-health. She is never free from suffering.”

“I know. Old Dr. May said there was no help for it.”

“Do you know what caused that ill-health? My boy, they spoke of your father to-day—brutes that they were,” he could not help muttering.

“Yes, he died when I was a week old.”

“He had ruined himself when quite a young man, body, soul, and estate—and you too, beforehand, in estate, and broken your mother’s heart and health by being given up to that miserable habit from which we want to save you.”

“I thought it was only poor men that got drunk and beat their wives” (more knowledge, by the bye, than he was supposed to possess). “He did not beat her?”

“Oh no, no,” said Clement, “but he as surely destroyed all her happiness, and made you and your sisters very poor for your station in life, so that it is really hard to educate you, and you will have to work for yourself and them. And at only thirty-six years old his life was cut off.”

“Was that what D. T. meant? I heard Ted whisper something about that.”

“It was well,” thought Clement, “that he had grace enough to whisper. Yes, my poor boy, it is only too true. I was sent for to find your father dying of delirium tremens—you just born, your mother nearly dead, the desolation of your sisters unspeakable. He was only thirty-six, and that vice, together with racing, had devoured him and all the property that should have come to his children. I think he tried to repent at the very last, but there was little time, little power, only he put you and your sisters in my charge, and begged me to save you from being like him.”

“Did they mean that I was sure to be like that? Like a pointer puppy, pointing.”

“They meant it. And, Adrian, it is so far true that there is an inheritance—with some more, with some less—of our forefathers’ nature. Some have tendencies harder to repress than others. But, my dear boy, you know that we all have had a force given us wherewith to repress and conquer those tendencies, and that we can.”

“When we were baptized, God the Holy Spirit,” said Adrian, under his breath.

“You know it, you can believe now. Your uncle Lance and I prayed that the old nature might be put down, the new raised up. We pray, your mother and sisters have prayed ever since, that so it may be, that you may conquer any evil tendencies that may be in you; but, Adrian, no one can save you from the outside if you do not strive yourself. Now you see why your poor mother has been so anxious to keep all temptation out of your reach.”

“But I’m growing a man now. I can’t always go on so.”

“No, you can’t. You shall be treated as a man while you are with me. But I do very seriously advise you—nay, I entreat of you, not to begin taking any kind of liquor, for it would incite the taste to grow upon you, till it might become uncontrollable, and be your tyrant. If you have reason to think the pledge would be a protection to you, come to me, or to Uncle Bill.”

He was interrupted by Sibby coming in with his cup of tea, and—

“Now, Mr. Clement, whatever have you been after now? Up to your antics the minute Miss Cherry is out of the way. Aye, ye needn’t go to palavering me. I hear it in your breath,” and she darted at the stimulant.

“I’ve had some, Sibby, since I came in.”

“More reason you should have it now. Get off with you, Sir Adrian, don’t be worriting him. Now, drink that, sir, and don’t speak another word.”

He was glad to obey. He wanted to think, in much thankfulness for the present, and in faith and love which brought hope for the future.