A SKELETON IN THE CUPBOARD.
I NEVER saw two persons so changed in a short time, as were Betsy and
Jabez Harwood by the events of the last few hours. Both looked years
older for the excitement they had passed through, and taking this in
connection with Betsy's emotion at the mention of the strange man's
appearance, I could not help feeling that there was more in it than
appeared on the surface, or than they wished to have made public.
I was naturally curious to know more, but I had no time for any
quiet talk until after the cottage was locked up for the night, and
inquisitive or sympathetic neighbours finally got rid of.
As a rule, visitors to the Harwoods dropped in for a chat at times when
I was absent, and during my evening hours only persons called whose
presence I could welcome. I fancy there must have been an understanding
between the old couple and their neighbours, in order to secure greater
home-likeness and quiet for me. If so, it was quite in accordance with
the thoughtful kindness I always experienced from them.
On that evening, they seemed rather to dread the hour when they and
I would be left alone together, whilst I was no less anxious for its
arrival; not merely to gratify the natural curiosity roused by Betsy's
terror at my description of the stranger man, but in the hope that, if
there was any hidden trouble, I might be of use to them.
As we three sat there by the hearth, neither Betsy nor Jabez seemed
able to speak of what had happened. Each cast imploring looks at the
other, as if begging to be relieved from some painful duty.
I broke the silence by saying, "It seems very strange that the burglar
should have come straight to my room window and unfastened it so
easily, by removing the laths from the sides. I have used the place
for over three years, and never noticed that the whole window hung on
hinges. One might think the man knew beforehand, too."
I looked from face to face, and noticed the expression of pain and fear
deepening on both, whilst Betsy clasped her trembling hands tightly
together in a vain effort to stay their motion.
"There's the shutters at the other windows, Mr. John," said old Jabez.
"True, but how could any one tell that there were hinges below those
laths? It is that which so puzzles me. Has Betsy told you about that
man who was listening at the station, and what he was like?"
The old man's face worked and his lips moved, but he could not utter a
word. He only bent his head in assent.
I saw that the question had touched some unhealed wound, and I
determined, if possible, to know what had inflicted it. I turned to
Betsy and said—
"I have kept my promise. No one but you two has any idea that I saw the
face of that stranger, and could pick him out from a thousand others. I
would not cause you, my good, true friends, any trouble for the world,
but I feel there is something under all this which you know and I do
not. Also that it is a cause of sorrow and anxiety to you both. Will
you not trust me, and let me help you if I can? I am but young—"
"But you've got an old head on your shoulders and a true heart beating
inside of you, Mr. John. I'll tell you partly what is grieving Betsy
and me. We did know of that window, and we ought to have told you. But,
dear heart! who could have thought that a thief would try to get in and
rob you?"
"Never mind the money; I shall get over that," said I cheerily. "I
could not bear for you to make a trouble of it."
"But we do trouble, and we mean you to get over it," said Jabez. "We
have saved a bit against a rainy day, and we shall pay you that fifteen
pound out of it."
"You pay!" I exclaimed in utter amazement. "I will not take a farthing!
I never heard anything so kind and generous, and at the same time so
ridiculous, as your proposal. Even if I had any claim upon you, I would
not take it. But I have none, and I should be wicked, indeed worse than
the burglar, if I could rob you of your savings."
"You have a claim in this way, Mr. John. We knew about that window, and
we never told you. If we had, you would have wanted it made safe, and
might not have lost your money."
"I should never have dreamed of danger; and I am sure the thief would
not have come here at all but for Gibbs and me talking with the office
window open, and giving him the clue he wanted. I suppose my window was
made to open entirely at first, and altered afterwards."
"It was not, Mr. John. There was only the pane that would open to begin
with. The change was made after, and unknown to us, by—by—"
Jabez looked helplessly at Betsy, who continued the sentence in a
quavering voice, very unlike her usual one—
"By a man that lived here at the time. He slept in the parlour, like
you do, but he wasn't of your sort. He was wild in his ways, and often
up to no good. He was very clever, though; could turn his hand to
almost anything—joinering among the rest—and he contrived that window
so that he might get out and in at nights unknown to us, and when we
thought he was fast asleep in his bed. He was a great trial to us."
Betsy's voice now failed her, and the tears streamed down her cheeks.
"Did you send him away when you found him out?" I asked. "Surely you
were not bound to keep such a man, and be made miserable by him!"
"He had to leave at last, through other people," said Jabez. "He got
himself into sad trouble, and he—was—took away from Oakhill."
The old man gasped out these last words in such manifest distress that
I could not bear to ask any more questions.
"I think I understand now," I replied. "You had got to care for your
lodger, through his being under your roof. You would try to do him good
and lead him into better ways, and you could not bear to drive him from
your house, because you were afraid he would go from bad to worse. Am I
not right?"
"You are, mostly, Mr. John. We were fond of him—very—and we did what we
could to save him. But it was all no use—no use."
"No use," echoed Betsy, and a great sob followed.
"I suppose he did something that got him into prison at last?"
"Poor lad! He did, and for a many years."
"Is the time out now?" I inquired.
"It was for life," whispered Jabez. "We know nothing about
him—nothing," he repeated earnestly. "I suppose he might have sent a
letter now and then, according to rules, but he never did. We couldn't
have told whether he was living or dead, till—"
Betsy gave an exclamation of alarm, and this sealed Jabez's lips once
more.
[Illustration: "It was for life," whispered Jabez. "We knew nothing
about him—nothing."]
"You may trust me, dear friends; indeed you may," I said. "I will
finish the story for you. From my description of the scarred face that
I saw at the station, and the missing fingers on its owner's hand, you
now know that your old lodger has been set at liberty, on ticket of
leave, most likely. You feel sure, as I do, that he took advantage of
his old knowledge of the window, and robbed me by means of it. You are
grieved, not only on that account, but because the action proves that
punishment and the lapse of years have not greatly improved your old
lodger."
"That's the worst of it all," said Betsy.
"Well, you cannot take blame to yourselves for my loss, because you
believed that the only person who knew the secret of the window, was
safe under lock and key. Now, you must cheer up. If I had not been
so foolish as to keep so much money here, I could not have had it
stolen. If I had not had this money, search would have been made for
the railway cash, and though I do not believe the man would have found
it, worse than robbery might have happened to me, or to you. You have
trusted me with an old secret and an old sorrow. I can understand how
terrible it would be for you to think your roof had harboured such a
character. I do not think he will come to Oakhill again; and I promise
you that what we three know, shall never be made known by me to any one
else."
"May God bless you, Mr. John!" said husband and wife in answer.
That was all. But I knew that my promise had lifted a load from their
minds, and I was glad I had made it. From that time I carefully avoided
any allusion to this painful subject, but I noticed ever after that
the old folks were nervous and easily startled by the slightest sound.
A rattling of the casement, a footstep after dark, would make them
uneasy. And they were most careful in seeing to the fastenings, though
I used laughingly to assure them that, in my apartment, no robber would
again find what would repay a visit.
The side window no more swung on hinges. Only the one pane could be
opened, and inside were strong iron bars that could not be removed
without noise and a great deal of trouble.
The thief made good his escape. I had to grin and abide by my loss. A
steel chain replaced that which had been my mother's, and at the end of
it hung no little coin as of old. But "Work, Wait, Win" was still my
motto, and there was no fear of its fading from my memory.
Often afterwards, when I thought of this sensational episode, which
broke the humdrum character of my daily life, I wondered at the silence
of others with regard to the story of the Harwoods' former lodger.
All the circumstances must have been known to the older inhabitants
of the place, and yet, neither the Cartwrights nor any other of the
neighbours, had ever named the ne'er-do-weel in my presence.
I had sat many a time and heard Betsy, Jabez, and their friends talk
over little incidents that happened many years before, and they would
laugh or sigh together over occurrences that seemed hardly worth
remembering at all, but the interest in which remained unabated after
the lapse of many a winter.
It was strange that the dissolute doings of the former lodger, which
must have extended over a considerable period and which ended so
miserably, were never alluded to. It could not be because these things
were forgotten; I was sure of that.
People round about Oakhill led very monotonous lives. One day was
very like another to simple folk who tilled the ground and troubled
themselves little about the outside world, or any changes save those
of the weather. But they had good memories, and never forgot any
circumstance which made a break in the monotony.
I at length concluded that the silence in this case arose from sympathy
with my old friends.
They were lonely. They had lost their only son; and, no doubt, the
stranger who lived under their roof for a time, had filled a void in
the lives of the bereaved parents.
Did I not know what kindly hearts beat under the fustian waistcoat of
Jabez, and the homely print gown of Betsy?
When the lodger got into trouble by his wicked ways, these dear folk
would have another shock to endure, their tender hearts would receive
another wound.
Doubtless there would be no lack of sympathy at the time. Afterwards,
and partly on account of the disgrace attendant on their lodger's
departure, those who cared most for the Harwoods would feel that time
and silence would prove better healers than words, however well meant.
In the end, I had little cause to regret the loss of my money. The
whole story came to the ears of the directors, probably through Mr.
Burford, senior, who would hear it from his son.
I got even more credit than I deserved for the manner in which I had
saved my employers' property at the risk of my own, and many kind
things were said of me.
I had evidently more than one friend at court. Reference was made to
the steady, conscientious manner in which I had done my duties from the
first.
"Say what you like," said one member of the board, who had often sat at
my father's table, "gentle blood will tell. Young Simpson comes of a
family that had borne a good name for centuries. It must be dreadfully
hard for him to look at Lint Hall and think that he ought to have been
master there, instead of giving out tickets at a country station."
"It's a pity," put in another. "He is a fine, brave lad, and I honour
him for the way he has carried himself through it all. His poor father
was as kind a hearted man as ever lived; only rogues made a tool of and
robbed him."
"Ay; and they deceived wiser heads than his," said a third, with a
significant look at the last speaker. "However, it is not for us to
judge the father who is gone, but to help, if we can, the son who is
living. He has got a capital head for business, whichever side it came
from, father or mother's."
"Maybe he has the father's share as well as his own."
"He has the fine manners of the Simpsons, and he does not think
them too good for his present place. I have seen him treat an old
market-woman, who went shoving into the station with a couple of
baskets on her arms, as politely as if she were a duchess."
"Suppose we come to business," interposed the first speaker. "Young
Simpson is doing the station-master's work, and everybody agrees that
it was never done more efficiently. He has lately acted in a manner
which proves that he places our interests before his own. He has waived
his right to occupy the house at the station, with other privileges
attached to the post, and made things pleasant for Pritchard; and yet
he receives far less salary than we gave to his predecessor, Edelston.
This hardly seems right."
"Certainly not," was the remark which followed from all sides.
"It is to our interest to make it worth the while of a trustworthy,
able young man to stay with us."
Again the rest assented, and old Mr. Burford remarked—
"I happen to know a gentleman who has been greatly struck with young
Simpson's ability, and who would gladly offer him a much better salary
to go into his office—not here, but in London."
"Then I propose that we retain his services if we can," said my special
advocate, if I may so name one where all were proving their desire to
serve me. "I propose that young Simpson's salary be at once advanced
to the same amount paid to Edelston, due allowance being made for the
house and perquisites pertaining thereto. Pritchard accepted these last
as part of an increase of salary which had been promised him, so that
we shall not be really giving more in wages than before."
I could scarcely believe my eyes when I received written news of my
good fortune. My salary had gone up at a bound, from sixty-five to a
hundred and twenty pounds a year. The tidings almost bewildered me,
and I remained for some moments under the impression that I must be
dreaming, and that I should awake to a far less pleasant reality.
When I did become convinced that there was no mistake as to the
contents of the letter and that my position would be so greatly
improved, I began to wonder whom I had to thank for such good fortune.
It was not likely that I could keep such news to myself, and as Mr.
Pritchard was the friend nearest at hand, I told it to him, and showed
my letter.
"I am delighted," he exclaimed, and the pleasure visible on his face
was as eloquent as words.
"I have had quite a guilty feeling ever since you were robbed, on
account of my carelessness in carrying off the safe-key. Now I shall
plume myself on having, though by accident, given you a push upward
on the ladder of promotion. The climbing of that is generally a slow
process. Yours might have been winged, you have risen so fast. However,
you have done your best to deserve it; and it is wonderful what a turn
things have taken for you."
Wonderful indeed! When I looked back and thought how dreadfully lonely
I had felt after my father's death, how often I had mused, bitterly
enough, on the desertion of all those who had called themselves his
friends, I could not be sufficiently thankful now. Neither could I
altogether clear myself from blame as I looked into my own heart.
Surely I must have been very hasty in my judgments, for had not some of
those friends been the authors of this great improvement in my present
prospects? I heard the particulars afterwards from Mr. Burford, and
knew that such had been the case.
He congratulated me warmly, and said—
"You have done well, Jack, very well, and put your heart into your
work. But, after all, my boy, you would never have got such a big lift
all at once, if you had not been your father's son. I think it right to
tell you this, for it would not do for you to run away with the notion
that you are a sort of phœnix amongst railway 'employés.'"
"Indeed, Mr. Burford, I do not think that," I replied. "No one could
have been more surprised at the news of my advance than I was, for I
knew I had done nothing special to merit it."
"That is right. Keep in that spirit, and you will keep the friends who,
partly for your father's sake, and, it is fair to say, because they
like and respect you, have given you such a considerable advance. You
will need to carry yourself modestly on account of your colleagues as
well."
I was very grateful to Mr. Burford for this advice, and resolved to act
upon it.
Without my asking any questions, he told me how Nelly was; that she
would come home for good in July, with various particulars of the Swiss
holiday he and his family had enjoyed in the autumn.
He said he should be like a schoolboy, counting weeks until the time
came for his daughter's return. I knew that I should count days and
hours until I should see the face of my old playfellow, but I did not
tell him so.