Chapter XVI: Under a Cloud

THE clay works adjoining Beaworthy extended over many acres of ground, and were a source of great wealth to their owner—Mr. Marsh—who, however, was seen there only occasionally, for he employed an outdoor manager in whom he had implicit confidence. One hot July afternoon he arrived unexpectedly upon the scene of operations, driving in his dog-cart with his little son by his side, and called a man off his work to come and hold the horse.

"I can do that, father," said Edgar eagerly; "Darkie is very quiet, I can manage him all right."

"I daresay you can," Mr. Marsh admitted, for the horse, though spirited, was free from vice, "but I should not be satisfied to leave you in charge alone. I may keep you waiting some time, and if so Darkie will probably grow fidgety."

So the man—a thin, pale-faced man he was—took up his position at the horse's head, and stroked the creature's sleek neck. Darkie was a strong, brown cob, with a mealy nose and a satin-smooth coat. Edgar, who, at his mother's suggestion, was taking a half-holiday from school, thought his father might have trusted him alone with Darkie. The boy was not looking well, and he seemed in very poor spirits. For some minutes after Mr. Marsh had left him he did not speak; but at last he turned his attention to his companion, and inquired his name.

"Caleb Glubb, sir," was the response.

"Why, you are the man who had that bad accident back in the spring, then!" Edgar exclaimed, interested at once. "I've heard all about you from my cousins, and I know where you live. Are you quite well now?"

"Yes, thank you, sir, though not so strong as I was before my accident, perhaps. I was in hospital a long while, and after I came out I wasn't fit for work for weeks. Sickness does pull one down and no mistake. Ah, your cousins were very good to my poor wife in her trouble! There are not many children so kind as they are, but Sarah—that's my wife—says they're brought up to be feeling-hearted."

"What could they do for her?" asked Edgar. "Did they give her money?"

"They did, sir." The man's pale countenance brightened into a smile, and his voice bespoke his gratitude. "Would you believe that they actually saved their pocket-money and gave it to Sarah? Yes, that's what they did, and we're not likely to forget it."

"Was it much?" questioned Edgar; "but no, they get very little money to spend."

"That's what touched me so deeply," said the man. "They'd been rich folks it would have been different. Sarah took the money because they wished it, and—bless their dear hearts!—she said it made them so happy to think they'd been able to help her."

Edgar was silent for many minutes, whilst he reflected that he had never helped anyone in his life. He could not but admire the generous spirit which had prompted his cousins to assist the family in distress, though he would have understood it better if they had had more money to spare. Although he had a plentiful supply of pocket-money, he always spent it on himself; no one had ever had cause to bless him as this man had blessed Polly and Roger who had so little to give.

"I heard about the postal orders which your wife received every week," he said by-and-by. "Did you ever find out who sent them?"

"Never, sir. They came regularly every Saturday morning until I was well enough to earn full wages again, and then they stopped. I'd give a great deal to know who our unknown friend is, but we can't even make a guess as to who it can possibly be. As Sarah says, whoever it is doesn't wish to be thanked, that's certain. I shall never forget the first time Sarah told me she'd had a postal order for a pound sent her! It seemed like a miracle; and when, the next week, the same amount of money came again, and the week after, and so on, I knew God had raised up a friend for us who didn't mean to see my wife and children go short."

By-and-by Edgar grew tired of his position in the dog-cart, and got down. He wandered about watching the men at work in the various pits. In some they were cutting the clay out in squares; in others they were engaged in propping up the sides of the shafts with wooden stays; and from several water was being pumped up. It was a busy scene and one of considerable interest to Edgar, who visited the clay works but seldom, as he had received strict injunctions never to go there alone. Presently he turned his attention to a couple of men who were busily employed in sawing a tree into planks in a saw pit. It was most trying work for a hot summer's day, and when they stopped to indulge in drinks of cold tea from a keg, their faces were covered with perspiration, and they appeared quite done up. One of them good-naturedly offered Edgar a drink, but he declined it, and moved on. The clay which was being raised from one of the shafts was nearly as black as coal, and beside this shaft stood Mr. Marsh in conversation with the manager of the works. He turned to his little son, remarking that he supposed he had grown tired of waiting for him.

"Yes," Edgar assented, "so I have been having a look around. What dirty looking clay, father! Is it any good?"

"It is, indeed," Mr. Marsh answered, exchanging an amused glance with the manager. "In fact, it is of far greater value than the white clay, and we hope there is a big vein of it."

"I thought it was poor stuff," Edgar said, much surprised.

"On the contrary," his father assured him. "This dark clay will burn whitest of all and make the best quality china."

"Fancy that!" the little boy exclaimed, approaching nearer the edge of the shaft and peering down.

"Don't go too close," advised the manager hastily. "One false step and you'd have a dreadful fall—be killed, perhaps."

"I'll be careful," Edgar answered as he stood leaning forward, looking into the black depths below.

His father caught him by the arm and pulled him sharply back with a stern rebuke for his foolhardiness.

"There was no chance of my falling," Edgar declared, rather disconcerted. "I never get giddy."

"You cannot be certain you would not," Mr. Marsh said somewhat sternly. "You had better keep by my side, and then I shall know you are safe. I see you are not to be trusted by yourself."

"Very well, father," his son agreed. "I won't go away."

Subsequent to a little further conversation with the manager, Mr. Marsh retraced his footsteps to the dog-cart and Edgar followed him. They took their seats in the vehicle; and Caleb Glubb, after putting the reins into his master's hand, touched his cap and returned to his work, whilst Darkie started homewards at a good rate.

"Do you know who that man is?" Edgar inquired as soon as they were in the high road and passing the long rows of labour-men's cottages. "He lives there in that little house with the flowers in the garden."

"Does he?" Mr. Marsh said carelessly. "He is the poor fellow who met with a serious accident in the spring. But how did you come to know of him? I suppose you've been talking to him, eh?"

Edgar explained all he had heard concerning Caleb Glubb and his family from his cousins, winding up by repeating his conversation with the man that afternoon. Mr. Marsh listened at first with little interest; but he grew more alert towards the conclusion of his son's tale.

"I believe your cousins are good-natured children," he said when Edgar had ceased speaking. "Polly is a nice little girl, open as the day; and Roger—by the way, you have not seen much of him these last few weeks, have you?"

"No, father."

"How is that?"

"He—he avoids me," Edgar admitted, not explaining that that was his fault.

"Avoids you, eh? Why?"

"I don't know."

"I thought you were going to be friends." There was a decidedly troubled expression on Mr. Marsh's face, and he was so taken up with his own thoughts that he did not notice how guilty Edgar was looking.

By this time they had reached the town, and, shortly after passing the Grammar School, they overtook Roger himself on his way home. The little boy lifted his cap to his uncle, whilst a smile lit up his face; and Mr. Marsh asked himself if the owner of such a bright, frank countenance could possibly have robbed him of the missing coin. It seemed incredible, and yet his suspicion of his nephew was very strong.

"Roger is generally liked at school, is he not?" he asked. "He holds a good character, eh?"

"Oh yes," Edgar responded earnestly. "All the masters like him, and so do the boys."

"I hope he deserves their good opinion."

"I am sure he does, father."

Edgar was not sorry when the drive was at an end, for the doubtful way in which his father had spoken of his cousin had made him utterly miserable. He sometimes felt that he never would be happy again, for the sight of Roger was a constant reproach to him; and they might have been such good friends. He knew how true-hearted Roger was, and that he would scorn to act in any way that was not strictly honourable. What would his feelings be if he ever found out his uncle's suspicions of him? But he was not in the least likely to find it out. Edgar tried to obtain consolation in that thought, and then another would occur to his troubled mind. Supposing Roger discovered that the Calais Noble was lost, would he tell that his cousin had exhibited it at school? No, he had promised he would not, and he could be trusted to keep his word, at all costs.

Poor Edgar! He tried to think his guilty secret was safe with himself; but he was always in terror, lest by some unforeseen means it should be found out. The summer term, which should have passed so pleasantly, was completely spoilt for him; he had no heart to play cricket, but moped about the grounds at home on the weekly holiday, whilst it puzzled his mother why he did not care to join his school-fellows in their various pursuits. Why should her boy be different to others, she wondered? She was not unsociable herself, and she could not understand why Edgar should prefer to keep himself to himself. She had hoped he would have made friends at school.