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Updated: May 15, 2025
But in a small village like Wrayburn there are not many ways of getting money, at any rate for a boy. There were no manufactories, as in some large villages, and money was a scarce commodity. Herbert had, however, one source of income.
"I would rather make a fortune for myself than inherit one from another," said Herbert, sturdily. "I respect your independence, my boy," said the lawyer, who felt favorably disposed toward our hero. "Still, a legacy isn't to be despised. Now tell me when you want to take your trunk." "I want to ask your advice about that," said Herbert. "I walked over from Wrayburn.
'Are the lads of the village and the ladies such scandal-mongers? he asked, as he took her hand and drew it through his arm. She submitted to walk slowly on, with downcast eyes. He put her hand to his lips, and she quietly drew it away. 'Will you walk beside me, Mr Wrayburn, and not touch me? For, his arm was already stealing round her waist.
He thought of it and thought of it, until he resolved to steal up the stairs, if the gatekeeper would let him through, and listen. So, the haggard head suspended in the air flitted across the road, like the spectre of one of the many heads erst hoisted upon neighbouring Temple Bar, and stopped before the watchman. The watchman looked at it, and asked: 'Who for? 'Mr Wrayburn. 'It's very late.
If I can't, then I suppose we must give up the house." Certainly the prospect seemed far from cheerful. It was with very little confidence in his ultimate success that Herbert set out on his borrowing expedition. The number of those who could be called capitalists in a small village like Wrayburn was very small, and it happened very remarkably that all of them were short of funds.
It was a cruel look, in its cold disdain of him, as a creature of no worth. The schoolmaster looked at him, and that, too, was a cruel look, though of the different kind, that it had a raging jealousy and fiery wrath in it. Very remarkably, neither Eugene Wrayburn nor Bradley Headstone looked at all at the boy.
That will let you out." "Don't you come another step closeter, Dad Wrayburn!" the foreman shouted. "I'll let you know who is boss here." Wrayburn did not raise his voice. The drawl in it was just as pronounced, but every man present read in it a warning. "This old sawed-off shotgun of mine spatters like hell, Joe. It always did shoot all over the United States an' Texas."
"There!" she said, "I can't bear to look at you. Go upstairs and get me my bonnet and shawl. Make yourself useful in some way, bad boy, and let me have your room instead of your company, for one half minute." Obeying her, he shambled out, and Mr. Wrayburn, pitying, saw the tears exude between the little creature's fingers, as she kept her hand before her eyes.
"Jump in, my boy," said Cameron, kindly. "Thank you, sir," said the boy, gratefully. James was not a little mortified at the snubbing he had received, but he did not venture to expostulate. Cameron was fond of boating, but did not care to be indebted to James for the loan of his boat. "I'll have a boat sent on to me," he secretly determined, "and when I leave Wrayburn I'll give it to Herbert."
This invitation Cameron accepted. About half-past four o'clock one afternoon a tall, dark-complexioned man, wearing a white hat, inscribed his name in the register of the Wrayburn hotel. "Can you tell here Mr. Leech lives?" he inquired of the landlord. "He lives about a quarter of a mile from here. I can send some one with you to show you the house." Just then Herbert came downstairs from Mr.
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