A COTTAGE MYSTERY.
DURING the weeks which followed Miss Flint's return, I saw little
either of herself or her visitor, but I heard of the gaieties in my old
home.
Sometimes one of the new carriages would whirl past me, and its
owner would be accompanied by both or one of the Burford girls.
Herbert Kenningham usually occupied another place. He stayed on until
September, and his presence filled me with unrest.
There was gossip enough at Oakhill, and everybody said there would be
a wedding by-and-by, yet no person seemed able to decide which of the
Miss Burfords would be a principal actor in it.
I never doubted that Nelly must be the attraction. Despite Rose's
charms, I never imagined that she would inspire a second thought where
Nelly came.
Sometimes I noticed the more luxurious of Miss Flint's carriages
proceeding gently country-wards, and then I had no occasion to raise my
head in order to ascertain who occupied it, for I was sure that Cousin
Dorothy, Mrs. Burford, and Magnus were going for a drive together.
Needless to say, I received no gracious greeting from any of them. Nor
did I seek it.
Once, and only once, did I meet Rose and Nelly Burford face to
face when in company with young Kenningham. He was walking between
the girls, but it seemed to me that he had no eyes save for Nelly.
I thought her face had never looked so fair, for it was full of
animation, and she was speaking with evident earnestness, whilst Mr.
Kenningham listened as if completely absorbed by the subject, whatever
it might be.
Rose was the first to see me, and, somewhat to my annoyance, she gave
a little shrug of the shoulders and glanced, first at me, then with an
amused look in the direction of the other two, as if bidding me note
the good understanding between them.
For a long time before, Rose had not even deigned to notice me, and
though now there seemed more of mockery than friendliness in a little
movement of the head which accompanied her look, I lifted my hat in
return without appearing to notice her manner.
This movement on my part attracted Nelly's notice. In a moment, she
left the others and advanced towards me with outstretched hand and a
beaming face.
"How are you, Jack? I am so glad to see you," she said, and her looks
proved this.
"And I to see you, Nelly," I replied as I clasped the kind hand in mine.
"I have only a moment now, but I hope we shall meet again before long.
We are so near and yet so far," she added ruefully.
I echoed the wish with all my heart, and had just time to ask after
Magnus and hear that he was improving in health, but very slowly, when
Mrs. Burford came out of a shop and towards us.
Nelly looked neither ashamed nor afraid of being seen in friendly
converse with me, but again extended her hand as she said, "Good-bye,
Jack."
I could hardly believe that my eyes told the truth when I saw Mrs.
Burford give me a slight bow of recognition, to which I could only
respond, in spite of all that had passed.
She was Nelly's mother, and Nelly was looking on approvingly. I could
have forgiven anything for her sweet sake and rather than bring a look
of pain to her face.
This interview again stirred contending feelings.
I could only be glad at the thought of the dear girl's kindness, but
Mrs. Burford's slight civility filled me with anxiety. What could it
mean? Was it possible that she no longer objected to my seeing Nelly
and exchanging friendly greetings with her; and if so, what had brought
about such a change?
I could find but one reply to my own questions. It must be because she
was satisfied that Nelly's dearest affections had been won by another,
and therefore she need no longer grudge me a shake of my darling's hand
and a few kindly words.
"My darling!" Yes, Nelly had been nearest and dearest to me from the
time I could remember anything. All the circumstances of my life and
hers—even the means used to induce forgetfulness—had only made childish
memories more precious and intensified my feelings of affection. I had
no kindred to love me or to love. I had so many quiet hours to devote
to memories of the past and day-dreams of future happiness to be mine,
when I had climbed to a higher place in the social ladder.
"Come what may, I pray that she may be happy!" I said from my very
heart; and I tried to drive away every selfish feeling and think only
of her.
I had felt that her unembarrassed manner was simply suggestive of
sisterly regard. I was angry with myself for expecting more, yet
disappointed at the same time.
I have told how Jabez and Betsy Harwood were accustomed to haunt their
old home after we removed to Rose Cottage, and of the manner in which
Mr. Burford sanctioned the old man's efforts to keep its surroundings
in order. Jabez's reasoning on the subject touched me deeply, without
convincing me that it was good for him to be so often in a place with
which many painful associations were connected.
Betsy and he might argue that they had spent most of their lives there,
and loved every bit that formed the old roof-tree. I sympathised, but
at the same time wished that the cottage had been pulled down and every
trace of it removed.
Yet the place had its fascination for me also, and I often caught
myself going a little out of my way in order to pass it. I did this
on the night after my meeting with Nelly Burford. I was just in the
mood for dwelling upon the time when we were first parted and I found
humble, faithful friends in the old couple, whilst those who might have
been kind stood aloof.
The latter part of the day had been gloomy, and darkness had come on
early. A drizzling rain was falling, but in spite of this, I determined
to take a brisk walk after leaving the office, and on my homeward way
I came up the lane at the side of the old cottage. I stood for an
instant facing the window of what was my room when I lodged there, and
naturally my thoughts went back to the night of the robbery.
As I stood, the rain began to fall in a perfect downpour, and I
remained under the shelter of a large horse-chestnut, which protected
me from a drenching whilst it lasted.
All at once, I was amazed to notice a little flash of light in that
room, and I was almost certain that it showed me a man's figure within.
The light had probably been caused by the striking of a match, and
quickly vanished.
I crossed the road, taking care first to creep along below the trees
to some little distance, and cautiously approached the cottage. After
waiting for a few moments, I became convinced that there were at least
two persons in the old building. One of these, a female, came out, and
the door was closed behind her and locked by some one within.
There were two ways leading from the old place to Rose Cottage. I took
the longer, but walked rapidly. I felt that I should have my suspicions
verified when I reached home and found Jabez alone.
I had been in the house three or four minutes, and had lingered beside
the old man, taking off my wet boots and coat, when Betsy entered.
I had never before noticed Jabez show an anxiety to get rid of me, but
he told me more than once, that I should find a bit of fire in my room,
on account of the night being damp and chilly for early September.
"Damp enough," I answered, "but not cold. I felt it rather close than
otherwise, but it was very thoughtful of Betsy to light a fire. I hope
she is not out on such a night."
Jabez's face went pale, and his voice quavered as he answered—
"Betsy is out. She's gone to see a person that wanted her, that isn't
altogether well. I wish she were safe back," and the old man sighed
wearily.
"I do not wonder at anybody who is ill or in trouble wanting to see
Betsy's kind face beside them," I replied. "But it is getting almost
time for Betsy to consider herself as well as other people. This is no
night for her to be out. Can I fetch her from any place?"
Jabez looked terrified at the suggestion, and began—
"There isn't the least occasion to trouble. She will come as soon as
she can."
Before the sentence was ended Betsy entered, and I again saw on her
face the same expression that came there when I described the listener
at the railway station, after the robbery took place.
"You are both wet and weary, Betsy," said I. "You are so kind to others
that you forget self altogether."
"I am getting old, Mr. John, and no mistake about it. I have been
thinking I could do as much and as well as I used to do twenty years
since, and I am finding out that I am all those years older."
She was making an effort to untie the strings of her bonnet as she
spoke, but her hands shook so much that she dropped them on her lap,
and added—
"I must rest a little before I do anything."
Jabez seemed completely scared at Betsy's condition, and murmured
something about her having caught cold.
I noticed that she shivered from time to time, though I did not think
this was the effect of cold, for the night was murky and the air close
and warm.
"Let me help you," I said, and I succeeded in removing her bonnet and
shawl.
She could scarcely put on her cap, her hands still trembled so much;
and Jabez was no less agitated.
"You must have some of your own brew to-night, Betsy, and get quickly
to bed. Where can I find some?" I asked.
My old landlady was famous for elderberry wine of her own making. It
was highly spiced, and regarded as a sovereign remedy for a cold,
if promptly administered. Many a time had she given it to me when I
came in cold and weary; and I determined to attribute her symptoms to
exposure to the rain, and insisted that hot elder wine was the right
thing for her to take.
Jabez eagerly adopted the suggestion, and seemed quite relieved that
nothing else was said about his wife's unusual condition.
Betsy took some of the hot wine, and by degrees the colour came back
to her cheeks, and she gave me a wan smile along with her thanks and
regret for having caused so much trouble.
Feeling that my absence would be a relief, I left the old couple
together and went to my own room, after advising Betsy to go to bed as
soon as possible.
As may be imagined, I was extremely concerned at what I had witnessed.
I could only come to the conclusion that the some one hiding in the
old cottage was the worthless son of the Harwoods; and that his being
in the neighbourhood boded good to no one, least of all to his unhappy
parents. That they were suffering acutely I could not doubt, and not
merely on account of the past, but of what might be the outcome of his
return to Oakhill.
I felt sure that Betsy had gone to the old cottage under cover of the
darkness, to carry necessaries to her son. What a wretched errand it
would be for her! She, who was so upright and true in word and deed,
would be miserable at the need for concealment, and fancy that every
footstep meant danger, every movement of her own was calculated to
arouse suspicion.
No one would have suspected Betsy. Her going to the empty cottage to
open and close windows and sweep it occasionally was thought nothing of
Jabez's love for digging and tidying in the garden had become so much a
matter of course that it was not noticed.
It was only the consciousness of carrying a miserable secret that made
them cowards, ever in dread of discovery, poor souls! I grieved for
them, but hesitated as to the course I should take.
After much thought, I resolved not to give them the slightest hint
of what I had seen, but to keep on the alert, and find it out, if
possible, whether their worthless son was indeed hiding in the cottage,
and with what object.
There was only one person to whom I could speak on the subject, and
that was Mr. Burford. Unfortunately, he had been called from home on
very important business, and would not return for three or four days. I
ascertained this by inquiry, on the morning after my discovery that the
cottage had a hidden tenant.
I felt the weight of this secret almost more than I could bear, but
for the sake of the old couple, I resolved to watch and wait, and to
entrust it only to Mr. Burford, who was their kind friend as well as
mine.
I was never much at home during the day, but I easily noted that
there was more cooking done, without a corresponding consumption
at Rose Cottage; that the daylight visits to the old place became
less frequent, but either Betsy or Jabez was sure to slip out in the
gloaming, basket in hand, professedly on some trivial errand never
heretofore left till night.
I had not been used to play the spy or the eavesdropper, but I did
keep a close watch on their movements, without seeming to do it, and I
succeeded in appearing unconscious that anything unusual was going on.
Naturally, Jane Cartwright's visits had been few and far between since
Miss Flint took up her abode at Lint Hall, but she called the evening
before Mr. Burford was expected home. She was brimful of gossip, and
had very little time in which to tell it.
"You're not looking so well as I should like, Betsy," she said. "The
weather has been telling on you—first hot, then cold. How changeable
it has been! I should have been in before but for being so busy. Our
old lady has renewed her youth, I think; and, really, she can be
wonderfully pleasant when she has a mind. It has been a deal livelier
for everybody since she took a new turn, though I am nearly worn-out
with work."
"You have servants enough, I expect," said Betsy.
"Of a sort, but they nearly drive me out of my senses with their ways
now-a-days. They get up hours later than we used to do when you and I
were in service, and when they are up, they take twice the time to do
half the work. As to saving out of their wages, they never think of
such a thing. Every penny is spent beforehand, and more than they have
to come in, on their unbecoming finery."
Jane spent a good deal of breath in denouncing the ways of young
domestics—the finery, frizzled hair, improvidence, and sluttishness of
the whole tribe. Then she concentrated her wrath on one specimen, a
new girl whom Miss Flint had engaged, it seemed to Jane, out of sheer
contrariness and in opposition to her advice.
"Not that she is bad at her work, for she is sharper than most. But the
airs she gives herself and her giddiness make me certain she'll come
to no good. The worst of it is, she has got some stranger man running
after her. If it were one of the Oakhill lads, I would soon settle him,
but I cannot make this man out, or find where he is living."
I was present during this conversation, and at this point I noted that
meaning, frightened glances were exchanged between Jabez and Betsy, but
neither spoke. I believed they could not speak, so I interposed.
"You should get Miss Flint to settle the young man," I said. "I think
she would frighten him off the premises."
"The worst of it is, Mr. John, that she only makes fun of me when I
mention it, and asks if I never stole out at night to see my young man,
or if I think there ought to have been an end put to marrying after I
got a husband for myself. It is pure contradiction of the mistress.
If she had been the one to find out the girl's goings-on, there would
have been no peace in the place till she was bundled off, and without
an hour's warning. But because it was me, she stays, and is encouraged
into the bargain."
"Is he a young man that is after the girl?" asked Jabez.
"I've never been able to get a look at his face, but I should say he
isn't by his figure. He has more the build of a man of forty than
five-and-twenty, which would be a natural age for Sarah's young man.
But he takes care to keep out of sight, and only comes hanging round
after dark, when nobody could see enough of him to know him again. I
only got a notion of his build through coming upon the two of them
unawares. My gentleman was off like a shot, and Sarah, who did not
know that I was close by, gave a scream and ran off into the house
before I could say a word. I gave her a good talking-to afterwards, and
specially about being so foolish as to take up with a stranger. But I
might as well have held my tongue, for she first asked me how I knew he
was a stranger and not an Oakhill man, and then told me plainly that
Miss Flint was her mistress, and not me, and when she wanted my advice
she would ask for it."
I felt almost afraid to look at Jabez and Betsy whilst Jane Cartwright
was telling her story.
Betsy made no answer, but her husband managed to say that these young
things were so wilful there was no guiding them, more's the pity.
I was sure that the same thought was passing through their minds that
crossed my own, and it sorely increased my perplexity.
I was not in the habit of asking questions about Cousin Dorothy and her
guest, but, to turn the conversation, I did inquire if Mr. Kenningham
were still at the Hall.
"He is, Mr. John, but he is to leave to-morrow. I hear he is to come
back for Christmas, and then we shall see what will happen."
Jane looked most knowing, and was evidently so interested in something
to come, that she made no further allusion to Sarah's iniquities.
She left the house immediately afterwards, saying that she had
outstayed her time, and should be wanted at the Hall.
And I went for a short stroll in order to give Jabez and Betsy time to
recover from the shock which I was sure Jane's gossip would have given
them. In my own mind, I associated Sarah's lover and the man in hiding
at the old cottage, and I could not doubt that he was George Harwood.