A RIDDLE SOLVED.
"MR. JOHN, we want to have a little bit of quiet talk with you—Jabez
and me. There is a something that we have been turning over together,
and we feel it is only right we should mention it to you."
It was Betsy Harwood who spoke, and she said this very soon after I
received such an important addition to my salary.
From the time of my going to live with the Harwoods, I had been
accustomed to speak to them quite unreservedly about my private
concerns. They were so trustworthy and staunch, so deeply interested in
my well-being, that I could not have had more sympathetic confidants.
They might talk of their own concerns or gossip about those of the
neighbourhood, but of my affairs or doings, never.
When I first told them of my improved position, they were radiant with
delight, and proud beyond expression that I should be so trusted and
recompensed whilst still so young.
They believed that I was now on the high-road to fortune, to the
recovery of Lint Hall, to everything that was most desirable, and they
rejoiced accordingly.
Soon afterwards, I noticed that my old friends were unusually silent
and seemed to be in trouble, and I wondered if their low spirits could
be connected with their former lodger.
When Betsy opened her mind, I was greatly relieved to find that she and
Jabez were only worrying themselves about me and my worldly position.
"You have been very good to Jabez and me, Mr. John," said she. "As
you've prospered, we've prospered. When you first came, you gave us
the same money a week as that other young railway gentleman did, and
we were quite content. Then you went up to four shillings, and lately
nothing would serve but we must have six, and you paying extra for
washing. You have helped us in more ways beside. Mr. John, you are
giving too much for what you get, seeing the place we live in. Why, if
you had the whole cottage to yourself, it wouldn't be worth it, and it
goes against our consciences to take it."
"Why, Betsy, I could never be half so comfortable anywhere else as I am
here. If I went to lodge in a larger house, I should have to pay much
more than I can induce you to take. Who would ever care for me as you
have done?" I asked.
"I won't give in to anybody in the way of wanting to make you
comfortable, Mr. John," said Betsy. "It's not that."
"What is it, then?"
"Well, people have been talking as if a gentleman like you ought to
lodge somewhere more suitable to your—your forefathers," said Jabez,
after a struggle for a word. "I was going to say family, but there is
none to speak of left," he continued. "Remarks have been made that a
nice sitting-room, with a bow-window facing the road, would be nearer
the thing than our parlour with a latticed one, and no better look-out
than our bit of garden. It seems to me that a many people are beginning
to take a deal of interest in you, Mr. John."
"Then I can truly say 'Thank you for nothing' to all those who are
beginning to concern themselves about my surroundings. What would have
become of me when I was left fatherless and homeless, if you had not
taken me in? You were the best of friends to me when I was very poor
and could afford to pay so little. How could I enjoy my prosperity if I
were not allowed, in some degree, to share it with you? I would gladly
do more if you would let me."
The look of proud satisfaction on Betsy's face as she turned towards
Jabez was pleasant to see.
"Just hear how Mr. John do talk," she said, "making out as if we had
not all along been paid for our work. We have only done what was our
bounden duty to do. But there are plenty saying that a poor place
like ours is not becoming to young Mr. Simpson, as was brought up so
different, and that for your own sake, you ought to move to different
'partments at once."
"I have no doubt those who now take so much interest in my concerns,
are the very ones who turned their heads in the opposite direction when
I was first left to shift for myself. I will have none of them. I am
thankful that poverty has taught me the difference between true and
fair-weather friends, and that I am not likely to mistake the one for
the other. If you two tell me that you wish to be rid of me, I will go,
but I will take a notice to quit only from my landlady herself," and I
looked at Betsy.
"We can never want you to leave for our sakes, Mr. John," said Betsy.
"Your being here means good and brightness and comfort to us in every
way. But, however hard it would be to part with you, we could do that
if it would be better for you to leave us."
The kindly creature's voice trembled, but she bravely added, "I mean
what I say, Mr. John."
"So do I, Betsy, and therefore we will consider the matter settled
until you give me notice to go."
It was not quite settled, though, for one whose friendship I could
not doubt, was a little dissatisfied about my lodgings. This was Mr.
Burford.
"The cottage was all very well whilst you were a boy and strict economy
a matter of necessity, unless you would have deigned to accept help
from an outsider," he said. "But you are certain to be invited out
more now you are grown up, and you can hardly receive friends in the
house-place at old Harwood's."
"My duties at the station will furnish me a sufficient excuse for
declining invitations if I should receive any," I replied. "Thus far,
the cottage house-place has sufficed to accommodate the friends who
have sought me at home."
"That may be, Jack, but recent events have proved that you are not
destitute of friends. If I am not mistaken, some of those who were so
ready to speak a good word for you at the board meeting a little while
ago, will try to show you more direct personal kindness before long."
"I hope I am not ungrateful," said I, "but I would rather be allowed to
show my sense of these gentlemen's goodwill towards me, by the way in
which I fulfil my duties than in any other. I have been let alone so
long, that I ask for nothing but to go on in the old way. As to leaving
the Harwoods, I simply cannot; and were I ungrateful and foolish enough
to do so, I should be the sufferer, and deserve to be."
"There is a good deal of truth in what you say, my boy, and I know how
you are cared for at present; still, a change might be effected without
parting you and the Harwoods," said Mr. Burford. "The cottage is part
of the Lint Hall property, which you are to buy back, you know, and it
is one of the poorest dwellings on the estate. There is a really nice
little house at liberty just now, with a bit of garden front and back,
quite as much ground as Jabez has at present. If the old people could
be persuaded to move into it, for your sake, both they and you would be
infinitely more comfortable. The rent will be very low, only a couple
of pounds more than that of the cottage."
"You mean the one where old Mrs. Henderson lived—'Rose Cottage,' she
called it," I replied.
"Yes, and well she might, for it is a very bower of roses. The front
is covered with them, and though the dwelling is so small, it is quite
pretty. There are a good sitting-room, a front and a back kitchen, and
three bedrooms, with many little conveniences which the Harwood cottage
lacks."
"It would be a very suitable place to remove to, if Betsy and Jabez
were not so wedded to the old spot, but it would cost them a great
wrench to leave it now."
"It would be the best possible thing for them both, considering what
miserable associations are connected with that cottage. Removal would
help to deaden the memory of their past sorrows. And if they were once
out of it, the old dwelling should be levelled with the ground as
rapidly as it could be done," said Mr. Burford.
I was quite in the dark as to his meaning, and I think my face showed
this, for he continued—
"I suppose you do not remember the circumstances? But how could you?
They happened either before or just after you were born. Did the old
people never speak of their son to you?"
I had most carefully kept my word to Betsy, and never alluded to that
one conversation which had stirred her and Jabez so painfully. Now
Mr. Burford named the lost son, I could only answer that he had been
incidentally mentioned on a single occasion, but never afterwards.
"They said they had lost him, and I could see that, though so many
years had passed, the wound was as fresh as ever," I replied.
"Did they tell you he was dead?" asked Mr. Burford, with a curious
expression on his face.
"No; I suppose I took that for granted. Is he not?"
"I may as well tell you the story, Jack, for I see you are in the dark
as to the real state of affairs. The Harwoods had only this one lad,
a sharp, clever fellow, of whom they made an idol almost. From the
time he could speak and walk, they let him have too much of his own
way, and the more they yielded, the more he exacted in after-days.
Unfortunately, his cleverness was misapplied from the first, and he
became the ringleader in every piece of mischief perpetrated by the
lads of the neighbourhood. George—that was his name—delighted in being
talked about; and though at first he was, I believe, more actuated by
a spirit of reckless fun than by anything worse, he unfortunately made
acquaintance with another youth who was vicious as well as daring. This
lad's name was Michael Perry, or 'Black Mike,' as he was generally
called on account of his dark hair and swarthy skin. Most people
thought he came of gipsy parentage, but nothing was known of him except
that he was a waif from the roadside, the child of a poor woman who had
sunk down there, worn-out with wandering and pinched with cold, and who
was carried to the workhouse to die. She was never able to give any
account of herself, so Mike was left to be brought up by the parish,
and in time apprenticed to the blacksmith, whose forge is about two
hundred yards from the station. You know it, Jack."
I assented, and Mr. Burford continued.
"Mike was sharp enough, and became very clever at his craft, as well as
in other ways. He turned scraps of metal to account in a fashion little
suspected by those who praised his deftness at his work. The master,
who admired the neatly turned horseshoes which his apprentice had asked
leave to make after working-hours, little dreamed that, besides these,
Mike was amusing himself by making skeleton-keys of many sizes, and
other implements to be unlawfully used whenever an opportunity should
offer.
"For a long time, however, Mike was rather a favourite than otherwise.
He had plenty of fun, and during his workhouse sojourn, he had
come across many queer characters and picked up strange stories of
adventure, which he retailed for the amusement of young and old. He
never lacked listeners, for in a country town, the forge is a favourite
lounging-place, and there were always idlers ready to be entertained.
"Probably the men could detect and would laugh in their sleeves at
Mike's embellishments; for, of course, the more willing people were to
listen, the more the lad drew on his imagination to make his stories
exciting and attractive.
"With the boys it was different, and over these Black Mike's tales
exercised a most unfortunate influence, turning as they did upon daring
robberies and the hair-breadth escapes of those who had committed them.
"Careful mothers began to watch their lads during the dinner-hour, and
forbade their hurrying over the meal so that they might go and listen
to Mike. There was one, however, over whom Mike had obtained a great
influence, and this was George Harwood. His parents saw, but too late,
that the blacksmith's apprentice was doing their boy a world of harm
by filling his head with unwholesome notions. It was too late to undo
the mischief, and equally so to enforce obedience when they would fain
have stopped the acquaintance, for their son heard their commands, and
simply went his own way as before, never dreaming of obeying them.
"You are young, Jack, but you have seen enough to know how easy is
the downward course. The boyish pranks, so innocent at first, became
mischievous and hurtful to others. The daring lad became the hardened
youth; the spoiled child grew into the son who defied his parents and
would none of their reproofs. Mischief degenerated still further and
became criminal. It had seemed fun to startle people out of their beds
by some practical joke, and a trifle to ease the laden trees of a
portion of their fruit, when the owner was sleeping peacefully and with
no thought of nightly marauders in his orchard.
"Soon these exploits were not exciting enough, and the lads went on
from bad to worse.
"I should tell you that, whilst George Harwood was not so much wicked,
to begin with, as led away by a daring temperament and fondness for
fun, Mike Perry was as selfish and cunning as he was clever.
"So he often managed to throw the blame upon George which should have
rested upon himself; and, to the intense grief of his honest parents,
people began to shun the lad and warn their own children against
associating with him.
"Still, George, a stalwart youth, tall for his age, and industrious by
fits and starts, always found employment when he was willing to take
it. He had seasons of remorse, too, when he grieved over his ill-doing,
made promises of amendment, and gladdened his parents' hearts by
remaining quietly at home and earning his own bread by very real work.
"It was during one of these steady intervals that he met with a
terrible accident. He was going from farm to farm with a steam
thrashing-machine when it happened, and he had nearly lost his life.
"I cannot describe how the mischief was done, but George was caught by
the machine in some way, and when he was extricated, he was fearfully
hurt. It was a wonder he lived through it; and when one thinks of all
that followed, we are apt to say it would have been better had he died
then. But who can tell? At any rate, he did recover, though after many
months of confinement to his bed and much suffering.
"You will imagine, Jack, how Betsy would nurse him, thinking nothing of
self, hardly conscious of weariness when endured for the sake of her
lad."
I could well picture the dear woman's devotion, and I said so to Mr.
Burford.
"Ay, Jack; and she, poor soul! ready to hope for the best, and giving
full faith to his expression of regret and promises of amendment,
thought that her son was given back to her—that there would be a fresh
start, a putting off of the old habits, and a putting on of new and
better ones. But she was doomed to disappointment, all the more bitter
because she had become so hopeful.
"If only Michael Perry had been out of the way, I think the Harwoods
would not have lost their son, but whilst he was so very ill, and the
chances of his recovery seemed so small, it was hard to refuse any
request that George made. He wished to see Mike, and the parents,
thinking that his coming would matter little under the circumstances,
yielded to him as usual.
"I dare say they were also touched by Mike's own conduct, for he seemed
so distressed at the terrible condition of his late companion, so full
of gratitude that the accident had not resulted from any of their
pranks together, that the parents were led to regard his doings as
leniently as they did those of their son. He deceived them, as he had
done others, and not merely by regretful allusions to his past follies,
but by expressing good resolutions for the future.
"He looked quite solemnly at his friend, and said to Betsy, 'If ever
anybody could get a lesson, the sight of poor George might give him
one. To see him, that was the strongest amongst us, lying there as
helpless as a baby, struck down all in a moment, makes one think of
what has to come to us all. I've got a warnin', I can tell you,' and so
on.
"But I must cut my story short. George did recover, and went back
to his old ways, and worse. The end of these was, that he and Mike
were associated in a crime of a very serious character—burglary with
violence—which had nearly cost the life of a gentleman whose house they
broke into. It was certainly shortened by the shock, and they both got
twenty years' penal servitude.
"George Harwood always declared that he had nothing to do with the
attack on the gentleman, and I believed him, and did my best for him at
the trial, for his parents' sakes, and because I was able to discern
a vast difference between his character and that of his associate.
Things, however, looked equally black against both, and the punishment
was the same in each case."
"The term must be out by now," I said. "Is George Harwood living?"
"He and Mike were liberated on ticket of leave some years ago, but
what became of them, I cannot tell. George Harwood would certainly be
recognised if he were seen hereabouts, but, for the old folks' sake, I
trust that, if living, he will never disturb them by his presence. I
know he has not written for a long time past."
"How would he be so easily recognised?" I asked.
"By a frightful scar crossing the cheek and drawing up the lip on one
side, so as to expose the teeth. Nothing could hide or obliterate this
mark, which was a result of the accident I told you of," replied Mr.
Burford, and his words revealed far more than he had any idea of.