OLD TREES UPROOTED.
IT will be easy to imagine what thoughts occupied my mind when Mr.
Burford uttered the sentence which closed my last chapter. Now I
understood all that had so puzzled me in connection with Jabez and
Betsy. I no longer wondered at the extraordinary emotion they had shown
at the bare mention of their lost son's name, still less at the greater
trouble caused by the recent robbery at the cottage.
How deeply I felt for them! I almost wished that I had never described
to Betsy the scarred face of the stranger whom I caught lurking at the
booking-office window.
The fiction of the lodger had now become a terrible fact, and I knew
that he was identical with the son who had brought such sorrow into his
parents' hearts, such shame on the good name inherited from them. Poor
Betsy! Poor Jabez! Who could give them any solid comfort?
Yet, while these thoughts were flashing through my mind, I had
sufficient self-command to keep me from betraying my new knowledge to
Mr. Burford.
It was a fortunate circumstance that our conversation, which took place
in his private office, was interrupted by the entrance of his clerk,
who handed him a written message.
"I shall have to send you away, Jack," he said. "There is some one
waiting who is waxing impatient, and I must give him a turn. Do not
apologise for staying so long. I am very glad to have had this talk,
which has been really a business one as well as confidential. Good-bye.
You will talk over the subject of removing with the old couple, and I
trust they will decide in favour of it."
I said I hoped so too, though I hardly dare count on it; then I
hastened back to my duties. Mr. Burford had pounced upon me as I was
returning to the station after dinner, and insisted on my going into
his office for a few minutes' talk. I had a little time to spare, and
as it was one of our quietest days, there was the less occasion to
hurry; besides which, Gibbs had become better able to do his share
of the work and more trustworthy than of old. My assistant must have
thought me very silent and preoccupied during the remainder of that
day, for my thoughts were dwelling so much on what I had heard that I
could find room for little else.
First and foremost came a feeling of the deepest sympathy with Jabez
and Betsy when I realised what they must have already gone through, and
the state of constant apprehension in which they must be living from
day to day. I could not for a moment doubt the identity of their son
with the thief who had stolen my property, and I was sure that the idea
of my suffering at his hands, would greatly increase the weight which
rested upon them. Neither could I rid myself of a feeling of fear on
their account. Who could tell from what quarter the next blow would
come, or what tidings might reach them of his evil-doing?
Like many others, both young and old, I thought that, if I had only
been able to overrule events, these kindly people should never have
known this continued sorrow and shame.
How much better would it have been if George had died in infancy, had
never recovered from the effects of his accident, or that he had been
kept under prison restraint for life, rather than let loose to resume a
career of crime and keep his parents in constant terror! We are always
wanting our way rather than God's way—wanting to show ourselves wiser
than the All-wise. We learn to measure our own littleness and folly
when, step by step, His mode of working is made plain to us as time
passes on.
As soon as I could, I spoke to the Harwoods about removing to Rose
Cottage. I described its conveniences, which would be just enough to
meet what my friends considered I ought now to require; of the trifling
difference in rent, which I would gladly meet; and of its pretty
appearance.
"You know all about the outside as well as I do," I said. "The garden
has been nicely kept, too, and would be a delight to Jabez, for it gets
so much sun."
"It looks fit for gentlefolks to live in," said Jabez, "not for
such-like as us, Betsy."
"And if only you and me were to be thought of, this place, that has
served us so long, would last till the finish. But it is gentlefolks
that have to be thought of—Mr. John, who is a real gentleman, look at
him which way you like, and his friends that want him to be housed
accordin'," replied Betsy, with unusual loftiness of manner assumed on
my behalf. "I told him he ought to leave us, for I felt this was no
place for him to live in now."
"And I said then what I repeat now, that I shall not leave you and
your husband. If we can go to Rose Cottage together, well and good;
if not, we stay together. You must decide nothing in a hurry. We have
three days to make up our minds, for Mr. Burford will hold over the
cottage for us so long, even if he should have an offer for it in the
meanwhile. It is not likely to be long unlet. We will not say another
word about the matter now. Besides, I promised to play some of your old
favourite tunes to-night, and the music is ready."
I turned to my piano, and played and sang some of the ditties which
always delighted Jabez and Betsy.
My voice had developed into a powerful baritone, and though I had
received no instruction in singing, I was not likely to offend the ears
of my audience, who were not disposed to be critical. So I sang "Near
Woodstock Town," "Barbara Allan," and others of a similar kind.
Then after supper we had hymns set to old-fashioned tunes, and the
voices of the old people were joined with mine in the singing.
As I look back, I always feel thankful that I was kept from being
carried away by my unexpectedly prosperous position, and I think
my humble surroundings helped towards this, seeing they were only
fitted for persons of the simplest tastes and habits. I could find
happiness in giving pleasure to those who knew no greater joy than in
contributing to my comfort, and I was quite in earnest when I told Mr.
Burford that I should rejoice to be still allowed to live after the
same quiet fashion in the future as I had done in the past.
The Harwoods said nothing until Monday came, when I must give an answer
about the cottage.
Then Jabez said—
"We've thought things over, Betsy and me, and we've made up our minds
to flit with you, Mr. John."
"Yes," said Betsy, "you've only to say the time and we'll be ready for
moving. We have come to think it will be a good thing for us to have a
change as well as you; and if so be that in time you should think of
getting married, we can just flit back here, and that would be a change
again."
Betsy tried to look jocose, but I could guess from the quavering voice
that it would cost her no light effort to leave the home of all her
married life, though there might be sorrowful memories attached to it.
I knew, too, that she and her husband had come to their decision purely
for my sake, and but that I was convinced they would also benefit by
it, I would not have accepted the sacrifice.
I professed to take Betsy's allusion as an excellent joke, but said—
"If you think Rose Cottage will suffice for me when I am married, you
make a great mistake. I shall want a much larger house to bring a wife
to, and a much larger income to maintain a home with. No, when you and
I go to Rose Cottage, it will be for you to find in it a life-long
resting-place. If I am spared to work on, and have no one else but
yourselves, I shall always feel that I have at least two dear friends
to work for, when they are no longer able to do anything towards
earning a livelihood."
"We had rather expected to end our days in a deal bigger house than
Rose Cottage, Mr. John," said Jabez, "seeing we have nobody to look to,
and the bit we have saved up couldn't last long if we had to live on
it. But, dear heart, you haven't altered a bit. When you were a little
boy, you used to talk about pulling this cottage down and building a
better for us. Now, to think we shall actually go to another house
together. It seems past believing, to say nothing of your promising to
look to us when we are real old."
"As if we would let you keep us, Mr. John," said Betsy. "Nay, nay. If
the time comes when we can do nothing and we have nothing, let the
parish as we have paid rates to all these years give us a shelter in
their big house. We should be entitled to that much."
"Whisht, lass!" cried Jabez. "You are too proud. I'd sooner, any day,
be beholden to Mr. John than to the parish. He means what he says, and
them words of his will come into my mind many a time as the days go
over our old heads. I shall say to myself, 'If I am taken away, and my
old woman is left, she will always have a friend whilst Mr. John lives
and has health.'"
"It wasn't that I felt proud," replied Betsy, "leastways not too proud
to be beholden to Mr. John. Only I could not bear to think of robbing
him, when he has lost so much already. I am proud that he cares so much
about us, and I shall be happier for remembering his kind words this
day."
"Mr. Burford will be very glad when I tell him what we have all decided
upon," said I. "The next thing will be to see about a little furniture
for the sitting-room."
"You must let us do that. You would not let us give you back the money
you lost through—"
"Not remembering to have that window properly fastened up," interposed
Jabez, with a warning glance at Betsy. "The fifteen pounds will make
the sitting-room quite nice, and it is our own business to furnish it
for our lodger, Mr. John. You have the piano towards it. Dear, how we
shall miss your playing and singing!"
"You shall miss nothing. As to the furniture, I must choose my own, and
show you what a pretty place I will make of that sitting-room, and at
no great cost either."
Of course I had my way, and I was very busy for some weeks afterwards,
not only in planning my own surroundings, but in making some little
additions to the old people's furniture, which did not look sufficient
when distributed over more space. They were continually deprecating any
expenditure on their behalf, and falling into ecstasies of admiration
over the results of it when I had carried my point.
Betsy looked more than dubious when, after she had scrubbed the floors
to the most perfect whiteness of which they were capable, I prepared to
stain them round in imitation of oak before covering the centre with a
square of carpet.
I need not describe my sanctum, but I have ever since felt very proud
of my first essay in furnishing. If, of late, I had divided my time
almost wholly between the station and the cottage, I had not forgotten
the different surroundings to which I had once been accustomed. I had
also kept my eyes open, and noted for purchase the many cheap but
artistic trifles that add so much to the cosiness and charm of a home,
and I felt, as I looked at my new possessions, that I should not be
ashamed for any one to see my surroundings when everything was in its
place.
As I have opened my mind very freely whilst telling my story, I need
not hesitate to say that the wish uppermost in my mind was that my old
playfellow, the little wife of my childish days, might see my new home.
It was hardly likely she would have the opportunity, but still it would
be very pleasant to me if Nelly could glance round and I could read in
her sweet face that she approved of all I had done.
It was very absurd, no doubt, and especially when one considered that
she had been so long absent, and that we had never exchanged a word
with each other, or even a written line; also, that by her mother's
will, we should not meet again.
In all this time Mrs. Burford had not altered towards me. We had met
often. If this happened in the street, both she and Rose appeared
unconscious of my presence, and I was much too proud to appear aware of
theirs.
If they saw me at the station and, as occasionally happened, they had
to ask a question about times or changes, they addressed me as though I
were only known to them in my business capacity, and I replied in the
same manner.
Mrs. Burford and Rose had, however, long lost the power to pain me by
ignoring old acquaintance, but if Nelly were to follow their example,
it would be otherwise. She would soon be home, and then would come the
testing time.
I tried hard not to meet trouble half-way, and reminded myself of the
wonderful manner in which my prospects had brightened, and of Mr.
Burford's unfailing friendship through these later years.
But the joy of joys for me would be to see Nelly's sweet face, with the
old look on it, and to be sure that she was still my friend, though
we might seldom meet to exchange friendly greetings in the future. I
thought I could be contented just to know that she was happy, though
our life-paths might be widely separated.
Mr. Burford had looked into Rose Cottage and expressed his warm
approval of our arrangements. My sitting-room was finished, and such
furniture as could best be spared was already placed in the new home,
but we were to sleep for the last time in the old one, half-denuded as
it was.
I was in high spirits at the coming change, but Betsy and Jabez
evidently deeply felt leaving the scene of so many joys and sorrows.
They answered me at random when I spoke, and more than once I noticed
that Betsy turned to wipe away the tears she did not wish me to see.
I thought she had something to tell me, but it was Jabez who spoke
after an interval of silence.
"Mr. John, this old place is to come down, every stick and stone of it,
as soon as it can be cleared off after we are gone. I didn't reckon on
that; neither did Betsy."
"No," said she. "I counted on seeing other people in it, maybe young
folks with a few bits of things like we had to begin with, and not
able to pay much rent; and I thought I should give them 'good-day' as
I passed, and maybe in time get to know them, if they were strangers
at first, and be asked to go and sit a bit in what was my own house so
long. But it will be a last good-bye when we turn out to-morrow."
Betsy's sobs prevented her from saying more.
But I answered cheerfully, and tried to make light of the matter.
"You forget that I always planned to build a new cottage instead of
this when I reckoned on owning the property. Depend on it, you will be
glad afterwards that the cottage has been taken down. And, for myself,
I shall be saved from the fear that you will run away and leave me. If
this old home had been allowed to stay, you might have been hankering
after it, and then what would have become of me?"
"It will be better—a deal better—to pull it down," said Jabez
earnestly. "Mr. Burford talked it over with us this very afternoon, and
made that plain to me. I don't mean to fret after it, and Betsy will
not have time to worrit with her fine new place to look after."
I hardly know what Betsy said—something about hoping all would be for
the best, but she was so evidently distressed that I would not even
intrude upon her with words of sympathy.
If Betsy had known that Mr. Burford had withdrawn the veil which hid
the secret of her great sorrow, I think she would have felt it a
comfort to talk about it to me. For the sake of her husband, and to
avoid touching the unhealed wound or agitating him by repeating the
dread which perpetually haunted her, she kept silence. Yet silence must
have increased the trial to one so warm-hearted, so full of the milk of
human kindness, as Betsy. I should have been very glad if I could have
acted as a sort of safety-valve to relieve her overburdened heart, by
listening to and sympathising with her. However, she was too unselfish
and thoughtful to let my first home-coming to Rose Cottage be other
than bright.
When, on the following evening, I returned from the station, my duties
done for the day, both Betsy and Jabez met me with smiling faces, and
were the first to speak in praise of our improved surroundings and
conveniences as equally a boon to themselves and to me.