But he
thought it better not to say anything lest he should keep awake a desire
which he hoped would die naturally. One day it was arranged that Harold should go over to Carstone to see the
solicitor who had wound up his father's business. He was to stay the
night and ride back next day. Stephen, on hearing of the arrangement, so
contrived matters that Master Everard, the son of a banker who had
recently purchased an estate in the neighbourhood, was asked to come to
play with her on the day when Harold left. It was holiday time at Eton,
and he was at home. Stephen did not mention to Harold the fact of his
coming; it was only from a chance allusion of Mrs. Jarrold before he went
that he inferred it. He did not think the matter of sufficient
importance to wonder why Stephen, who generally told him everything, had
not mentioned this. During their play, Stephen, after pledging him to secrecy, told Leonard
of her intention of visiting the crypt, and asked him to help her in it. This was an adventure, and as such commended itself to the schoolboy
heart. He entered at once into the scheme con amore; and the two
discussed ways and means. Leonard's only regret was that he was
associated with a little girl in such a project. It was something of a
blow to his personal vanity, which was a large item in his moral
equipment, that such a project should have been initiated by the girl and
not by himself. He was to get possession of the key and in the forenoon
of the next day he was to be waiting in the churchyard, when Stephen
would join him as soon as she could evade her nurse. She was now more
than eleven, and had less need of being watched than in her earlier
years. It was possible, with strategy, to get away undiscovered for an
hour. * * * * *

At Carstone Harold got though what he had to do that same afternoon and
arranged to start early in the morning for Normanstand. After an early
breakfast he set out on his thirty-mile journey at eight o'clock. Littlejohn, his horse, was in excellent form, notwithstanding his long
journey of the day before, and with his nose pointed for home, put his
best foot foremost. Harold felt in great spirits. The long ride the day
before had braced him physically, though there were on his journey times
of great sadness when the thought of his father came back to him and the
sense of loss was renewed with each thought of his old home. But youth
is naturally buoyant. His visit to the church, the first thing on his
arrival at Carstone, and his kneeling before the stone made sacred to his
father's memory, though it entailed a silent gush of tears, did him good,
and even seemed to place his sorrow farther away. When he came again in
the morning before leaving Carstone there were no tears. There was only
a holy memory which seemed to sanctify loss; and his father seemed nearer
to him than ever. As he drew near Normanstand he looked forward eagerly to seeing Stephen,
and the sight of the old church lying far below him as he came down the
steep road over Alt Hill, which was the short-cut from Norcester, set his
mind working. His visit to the tomb of his own father made him think of
the day when he kept Stephen from entering the crypt. The keenest thought is not always conscious. It was without definite
intention that when he came to the bridle-path Harold turned his horse's
head and rode down to the churchyard. As he pushed open the door of the
church he half expected to see Stephen; and there was a vague possibility
that Leonard Everard might be with her. The church was cool and dim. Coming from the hot glare the August
sunshine it seemed, at the first glance, dark. He looked around, and a
sense of relief came over him. The place was empty. But even as he stood, there came a sound which made his heart grow cold. A cry, muffled, far away and full of anguish; a sobbing cry, which
suddenly ceased. It was the voice of Stephen. He instinctively knew where it came from;
the crypt. Only for the experience he had had of her desire to enter the
place, he would never have suspected that it was so close to him. He ran
towards the corner where commenced the steps leading downward. As he
reached the spot a figure came rushing up the steps. A boy in Eton
jacket and wide collar, careless, pale, and agitated. It was Leonard
Everard. Harold seized him as he came. 'Where is Stephen?' he cried in a quick, low voice. 'In the vault below there. She dropped her light and then took mine, and
she dropped it too. Let me go! Let me go!' He struggled to get away;
but Harold held him tight. 'Where are the matches?' 'In my pocket. Let me go! Let me go!' 'Give me them--this instant!' He was examining the frightened boy's
waistcoat pockets as he spoke. When he had got the matches he let the
boy go, and ran down the steps and through the open door into the crypt,
calling out as he came:

'Stephen! Stephen dear, where are you? It is I--Harold!' There was no
response; his heart seemed to grow cold and his knees to weaken. The
match spluttered and flashed, and in the momentary glare he saw across
the vault, which was not a large place, a white mass on the ground. He
had to go carefully, lest the match should be blown out by the wind of
his passage; but on coming close he saw that it was Stephen lying
senseless in front of a great coffin which rested on a built-out pile of
masonry. Then the match went out. In the flare of the next one he lit
he saw a piece of candle lying on top of the coffin. He seized and lit
it. He was able to think coolly despite his agitation, and knew that
light was the first necessity. The bruised wick was slow to catch; he
had to light another match, his last one, before it flamed. The couple
of seconds that the light went down till the grease melted and the flame
leaped again seemed of considerable length. When the lit candle was
placed steadily on top of the coffin, and a light, dim, though strong
enough to see with, spread around, he stooped and lifted Stephen in his
arms. She was quite senseless, and so limp that a great fear came upon
him that she might be dead. He did not waste time, but carried her
across the vault where the door to the church steps stood out sharp
against the darkness, and bore her up into the church. Holding her in
one arm, with the other hand he dragged some long cushions from one of
the pews and spread them on the floor; on these he laid her. His heart
was smitten with love and pity as he looked. She was so helpless; so
pitifully helpless! Her arms and legs were doubled up as though broken,
disjointed; the white frock was smeared with patches of thick dust. Instinctively he stooped and pulled the frock down and straightened out
the arms and feet. He knelt beside her, and felt if her heart was still
beating, a great fear over him, a sick apprehension. A gush of thankful
prayer came from his heart. Thank God! she was alive; he could feel her
heart beat, though faintly underneath his hand.