WATCHINGS AND PERPLEXITIES.
WHEN I left the house, I had no intention of going to the old cottage,
but I was drawn towards it by a species of fascination. The night was
moonless, dark, and cloudy. I wanted to find out more about the man who
was in hiding, and I was convinced that, knowing every bush as I did, I
should be able to watch the place without being discovered.
There were no visible signs of life or habitation about the dwelling,
and I thought it not unlikely that the man might be keeping tryst with
Sarah at the Hall, during Jane Cartwright's absence. Perhaps I should
see him, or, I might better say, discern him, if he returned soon; for,
though I had become accustomed to the darkness, anything like distinct
sight was out of the question.
An old thorn-tree, beneath whose bent trunk and boughs, nearly touching
the ground, I had often sat, now afforded me a capital hiding-place,
and there I waited for whatever might happen.
This tree was in the part of the garden next the lane, and after
standing some little time, I heard stealthy footsteps on the other side
of the hedge, which ceased as the pedestrian came abreast of the window
by which the burglar had entered my old room and succeeded in carrying
off my money.
To my intense astonishment, the new-comer swung back the window-frame
quite noiselessly, climbed into the room, and closed it after him.
It had evidently been made to open again to its full size, and was
doubtless intended to afford the means of escape to the present
occupant if discovered.
It was well-known that, after the robbery, the window had been securely
fastened into its framework, so that only the single pane would open,
as was supposed to be the case before the burglary revealed the secret.
No doubt this man, who was in hiding, had made the alteration, and
probably in the night-time.
My adventure was not quite over. I was on the point of leaving my
place of concealment, when a slight click of the garden-gate warned me
that some one was approaching. It was poor Betsy. She gave a light tap
at the window which fronted the garden. In a moment, the lattice was
opened and a hand extended for something, I could not tell what.
There was not a sound in the lane or on the road; passers-by there
were none, for the few people who lived in that neighbourhood were
working-folk, who went to rest early, and there was no other cottage
within a hundred yards or thereabouts. This fact probably emboldened
the man to speak roughly to my poor old landlady, and to raise his
voice sufficiently for me to catch part of what he said.
From what I did hear, I concluded that he was demanding a considerable
sum of money from the weeping woman, and threatening her with certain
consequences if it were not forthcoming.
I could hear Betsy say, "It would take every penny we have saved, and
more—all that we have scraped to keep us from the workhouse, when we
cannot do a hand-stroke for ourselves."
"No fear of the workhouse for you. Your fine friends will take care of
that. Why, you are living like gentlefolks in your old days, and this
place, that had served you when you were young, isn't good enough. Not
but what it has come in handy for me."
"I wish it had been pulled down, stick and stone," said Betsy; "then
you could not have been here."
"Then don't you see I should have come to Rose Cottage; for I had an
eye to business at Oakhill, though I don't suppose your gentleman
lodger would have wanted another call. Hows'-ever, it's not too late,
and when I make up my mind, I'm not easy to turn."
The poor old woman moaned in her distress, and for a few moments I
heard no sound except her half-smothered sobs.
"You couldn't—you couldn't be so wicked as to try to rob him again?
Besides, he takes care not to keep money by him now. I would rather my
last penny went than he should suffer again."
"Then you've only got to buy him off with your spare cash, and
keep your only son's neck out of danger at the same time. A nice
affectionate mother you are, to care more for your money than for him.
You will have to choose between the two, for I am getting desperate.
How long do you think I shall stay here, cooped up all the day through,
and only stealing out, like a bat or an owl, when it is dark? I
had enough of that life whilst I was serving my time in one of Her
Majesty's retreats, I can tell you. Do you think it is very nice to
have my victuals anyhow, and mostly cold? I was just famished to-night,
and dursn't buy a morsel, for fear anybody should remember my face
after all these years. If it hadn't been for that girl at the Hall, I
should have broken into somebody's pantry and helped myself, but she
brought me some nicer bits than you do. It was like a picnic, eating
them under the trees;" and the speaker gave a low laugh.
"Why do you entice that silly girl to come and meet you? If she brings
you food, she brings what is not hers to give, and may get into trouble
through it. You have always had plenty to eat, and good food too,
though you may have waited for it sometimes. Leave the girl alone, I
say. You have done harm enough in your life. Have you no shame?—Do you
never feel sorry?"
"Not I. Who feels sorry for me? Nobody cares enough for me to do that,
and nobody need be ashamed on my account. As to the girl—it's the one
bit of amusement I have to go meeting her and hearing the news. The old
maid at the Hall will be none the poorer for the few bites I have had
at her expense."
The wretch muttered something else which I did not hear. It seemed,
however, to amuse him immensely, for he gave a chuckling laugh, whilst
Betsy appeared to be excited to greater terror and distress by his
words.
"I will not listen to such talk!" she said. "If I were not sure that
you cannot mean what you say, I would warn—"
[Illustration: "I will not listen to such talk!" she said. "If I were
not sure that you cannot mean what you say, I would warn—"]
It was well that Betsy stood outside the window and that the man was
within, for he aimed a blow at the old woman, which, happily, did not
reach her. She waited for no more, but turned and rushed out of the
garden as fast as her trembling feet would carry her.
The man muttered something, but he made no attempt to follow. Then he
shut the window and fastened it inside, replacing the loosened bars. I
waited until I thought it would be safe to leave my hiding-place, and
then stole softly away. I reached home after Betsy, and found Jabez
standing in the doorway at the back of Rose Cottage.
"It's a very dull night, Mr. John," he said. "I was just looking out
for you. You'll excuse Betsy; she's got a bit of a headache, and is
gone straight to bed, without waiting till you came in."
"Say good-night to her for me, and tell her I hope she will be better
in the morning," I replied, and passed on to my own room.
"Poor soul!" I thought. "She has heart-ache which a night's rest would
not cure if she could have it. But I fear there is little hope of quiet
sleep either for Betsy or Jabez to-night."
I knew that the old man had waited at the door for my coming in order
that I might not see his own face, and that he might make an excuse for
his wife's unusual absence.
I too lay down with little expectation of rest. My mind was too full of
what I had witnessed, and of fear as to what would be the outcome of
that wretched man's presence at Oakhill.
No doubt he had come with the intention of extorting money from his
parents, and would not rest satisfied until he had robbed them of the
savings of their lives. It was plain that the punishment inflicted for
that former offence had wrought no improvement; it must have had rather
a hardening effect, for, according to Mr. Burford, George Harwood had
been considered, as a youth, rather weak than wicked—one who could not
resist the temptations of evil companions, but most unlikely to be
ringleader in any deed of darkness, and, in spite of all, retaining a
strong affection for his parents.
Mr. Burford's picture bore no resemblance to the hardened ruffian who
kept these poor old folk in constant terror and felt no compunction for
the past, or hesitation about causing them further suffering. Knowing
them as I did, I felt that the very fact of their son's presence would
make them miserable. They would shrink with horror from the revelation
of such a character as his had developed into, and yet their hearts
would yearn after the one only creature who had a right to call them by
the sacred names of father and mother.
"Oh that Mr. Burford were home!" thought I. "If I could but speak to
him, this dreadful weight of responsibility would be lifted from my
shoulders. I have no other friend to whom I can go."
The thought had scarcely crossed my mind when it was followed by a
remorseful one. Had I not the Best of Friends, ever present, ever
willing to hear and answer, ay, and to make my way plain before me?
I said to myself, "He knows;" and then I told Him all, and humbly asked
that my good old friends might be relieved from their present trouble,
and I guided as to the best mode of helping them.
I felt happier after this, and I was further comforted by the thought
that Mr. Burford would be home on the morrow and I could take counsel
with him.
When the morrow came, I was doomed to further disappointment. I knew
that Mr. Burford was not expected until the evening, and the day passed
sufficiently slowly in the meanwhile. I had some hope of seeing him
on his arrival at the station, for I knew whence he was coming, and I
was on the platform as each train came in; but I vainly looked for the
well-known face.
He would not go to the office after his return—of that I felt assured,
but I thought his principal clerk would go to the house to see him
there. Acting on this belief, I wrote a few lines to Mr. Burford,
and addressed it to the office. It was marked "Private and Urgent,"
and would only be opened by the lawyer himself. In it I stated that
I wished to see him on a matter of great importance, and begged him
to grant me an immediate interview in case I failed to see him at the
station.
Mr. Burford knew me too well to suppose that I should write in such
terms unless there was a needs-be for so doing, and I confidently
expected to see him before I slept. However, as no message came and I
could ill endure the suspense, I called at the house of Mr. Gordon, Mr.
Burford's chief clerk, to inquire if he had come home.
"I am sorry to say he has not," was the reply; "and it is most
unfortunate in all ways. He is wanted by two important clients, whose
business is of a nature to require Mr. Burford's personal supervision;
and there are several other clients, for whom I could act equally well,
who insist on waiting for his return. Can I do anything for you?" asked
he. "If it be a legal matter, I have no doubt I could be of some use."
Mr. Gordon was a qualified lawyer, and stood high in the esteem of his
employer, but Oakhill folk, as a rule, were stubbornly attached to Mr.
Burford, and persisted in going to what they called the fountain-head.
"If it had been a legal matter, I should have consulted you at once," I
said, "but it is one which involves the private affairs of others, and
of which I am at liberty to speak only to Mr. Burford. I wish I were
not bound to silence, as it would be a great relief to open my mind to
some one else and take counsel from a wiser head than my own."
"Mr. Burford will be in great trouble just now. He had to go away at
a most inconvenient time, and now that his presence here is doubly
necessary, he has been prevented from returning at the appointed date
by his father's illness," said Mr. Gordon.
"Is the dear old man seriously ill?" I asked. "I hope not. I know he is
from home, for I helped him into the railway carriage a week ago, and
he was then looking wonderfully well. We had quite a pleasant talk, for
he kept me standing by the carriage-door as long as possible. He was
going to visit his only sister and her husband; both, he said, younger
than himself, but less hale for their years."
"He was wonderfully well, and might have been so still but for an
accident—a fall, I think, but I do not know particulars. I have only
heard that the injury is not a serious one, but the shock to the system
is likely to prove so."
It was of no use asking when Mr. Burford would be home, for Mr. Gordon
could add little to what he had already told me, and he kindly promised
to let me have further news as soon as possible.
I could see that his day's work was by no means done, for his table was
covered with papers. By way of apology for not asking me to stay, he
pointed to them, and said—
"I shall scarcely finish what must be done on this side midnight. I
have brought my work home, because if I remained at the office, I
should be constantly interrupted."
I had gone to Mr. Gordon's hoping to leave part of my weight of anxiety
behind me; I came away with an additional load, and little prospect
of ridding myself of any. I could not count on seeing Mr. Burford at
any particular time. I was distressed when I thought of the heavy
cloud hanging over Jabez and Betsy, and at its manifest effect on the
health and spirits of both. I was in hourly dread that they would be
terrified into giving up their little savings in order to buy their
son's departure, or that they would be heartbroken by hearing that he
had committed some new outrage.
The result of such evil-doing on themselves would be the same whether
he was detected or not, as they would guess the author, and suffer
accordingly.
I was keeping my knowledge to myself for their sakes, and all the while
I was harassed with doubts as to whether secrecy was advisable even on
their account.
On the one hand, they were living in a state of perpetual terror; on
the other, the shame which would follow the exposure of their secret
would, I feared, overwhelm them altogether. For my hand to inflict such
a blow would be too terrible; and yet it was surely wrong to screen
such a man as George Harwood.
In addition to perplexity on these accounts, I had heard of old
Mr. Burford's accident and consequent illness. He had been my
kind, unvarying friend; and though we rarely met, he never lost an
opportunity of speaking a good word for me and a kind one to me.
He had kept my hand in his up to the last moment that morning at the
station, and had whispered—
"I have been thanking God on your behalf, Jack. I was very fond of
your poor father and mother, and it makes me glad to know that the son
of my old friends is keeping on the right path. Go on and prosper, my
boy. Never be ashamed of honest work. The man is to be alike envied and
honoured who finds more sweetness in the bread he has earned, than in
the dainties offered at the tables of the rich who never knew a like
luxury. The clothes that have been paid for by the fruits of daily toil
wear well, Jack, and well become the wearer, too. What was that motto
you used to talk about—the one on the sixpence?"
"'Work, wait, win,'" I replied.
"Ay, I remember now. You lost the coin and kept the motto. Do not
forget the words; I always liked the ring of them myself, Jack. Keep on
working, and whilst working and waiting, look to Him who has led you
so far, and rest in Him. As to the last word, you may not win great
wealth or a high position, but God is sure to give you what is best,
and enough of it to satisfy you that those who trust Him can never work
or patiently wait in vain. Good-bye, my boy, and may God bless and keep
you."
The kindly face and the sound of those farewell words were very present
with me as I returned to Rose Cottage, tired and disheartened, after my
interview with Mr. Gordon.
The old couple were at home when I entered, and neither Jabez nor Betsy
left the house again. I thought they looked a little more cheerful,
and I wondered whether they had succeeded in making some bargain with
George and were rid of his haunting presence. Not that I hoped the
departure would be final, if he had been induced to go; I felt sure
that he would come again when he had spent the money extorted from
them, but I resolved that they should not be harassed repeatedly, for,
come what might, I would interfere for their protection.
"You have deserted an old friend lately, Mr. John," said Betsy,
pointing to the piano as she cleared away the supper-tray. "Now the
nights are getting long again, maybe we shall have more music."
"You shall have some to-night, if you like," I said, delighted that I
could do anything to give them pleasure.
I would not tell them of old Mr. Burford's illness, for I wished to
keep away whatever might darken the little brightness I had noticed in
both.
So I played their favourite tunes, and though Jabez did not join in
with his quavering voice, his lips repeated the words of hymns that
suited them, and I had no doubt he was back, in imagination, in the
village choir with Betsy as a listener.
"It has been like old times to-night, Mr. John," she said. "You don't
know how nice it has been. It has done us good;" and she looked and
smiled at Jabez and me in turns, with a happier expression on her face
than I had seen there for some time past.