FORTUNE SMILES—AN ADVENTURE WITH BURGLARS.
IF misfortunes seldom come singly, it is equally true that Fortune's
gifts often arrive in pairs, or close on the heels of each other.
On the day after old Mr. Burford's funeral, a most astounding piece
of news reached me—news which I hardly dared to believe, it seemed so
utterly incredible. The loss of means and the clouding over of my early
prospects did not unhinge me more than this did, in spite of the fact
that good news is said never to harm the recipient.
I longed to tell mine, but to whom must I speak, seeing that I wished
to confine the intelligence to a single friend, and to pledge that one
to absolute secrecy? Betsy and Jabez had enough to think of already;
and, besides, it would have been so hard for them to carry such a
weighty burden, and be compelled to bear it alone.
There was only Mr. Burford; and yet how could I trouble him on the
day after his father's funeral, and when he must be overweighted with
business that had accumulated during his absence? However, I remembered
his words spoken that day at the station: "I would never defer any
business that was of real consequence to you, Jack."
He would know how unwilling I should be to trouble him at such a time,
so I sent a line to the office, and begged him to see me for a few
minutes, adding that the matter was indeed urgent, or I would not ask
him. I had a prompt reply, bidding me come to him at a time when I
should have an hour free.
"What is it, my boy?" he asked, after a shake of the hand.
For answer I placed in his hand a letter I had that morning received
from a firm of solicitors in London.
Mr. Burford read the contents with no less surprise than I had done,
then said, "My dear Jack, how wonderful this is! I could not have
believed it; though, as I told you, such things have been brought about
by a superstitious fear, when conscience had long lost its power. I
congratulate you with all my heart." And again, he grasped my hand with
a friend's warmth, whilst his face expressed the genuineness of his
pleasure.
"Do you think it is true?" I asked.
"True! Of course it is. I have had dealings with this firm
often enough. This is the signature of 'Deedes & Willes.' I had
correspondence with them on your father's behalf, in that very affair
with Harcourt Whinney which lost him so many thousands. That letter has
preyed on the man's mind, and driven him to make restitution, almost
at the last, for your bequest is contained in a codicil executed only
a few days before he died. I ran over a newspaper notice of his will,
in which it said the personalty was valued at £1,600,000. What fortunes
men do leave now-a-days! It seems a trifle to be a millionaire. You
perhaps read the paragraph in which we were told who was to have the
bulk of the property, and that there were many legacies. Hoping against
hope, I searched for your name without success, and put down the paper
disgusted. There is no mistake about this," said Mr. Burford, laying
his hand on the letter. "Shall I act for you, and write to Messrs.
Deedes & Willes?"
"If you please, Mr. Burford. That is what I wanted to ask. And just
another favour. Do not mention this affair to any human being."
"Not to one at my house, or to Miss Flint, that she may be ready with
her felicitations?"
"Not to Miss Flint. Not even to Nelly; and you know I would rather tell
her, the faithful friend of storm and sunshine, than any other. You
will keep my secret?"
"I will, Jack. I will hug it closely and rejoice over it."
I was sure the promise would be kept. Then I asked one more question,
on a subject which had not puzzled me as a boy, but which perplexed me
now.
"I cannot understand how my father could have so large a sum to spare
at a time when he had been borrowing money to meet the calls on his own
speculative ventures."
"He had borrowed from me, but at a very moderate interest. That
twenty-five thousand had been settled on your mother, in case she
should be the longer liver of the two. It was well invested when
her death took place, and your father did not wish to disturb it,
especially as I could accommodate him with the sums he wanted. Later
on the principal was repaid, and, beguiled by Mr. Harcourt Whinney,
he lent it, as you know, with the idea of improving his income. The
result of all your father's money transactions may be summed up in one
word—ruin."
It seemed very strange to think that, after a lapse of years, I should
be made comparatively rich by the man who had helped to bring the ruin
about, for under Mr. Harcourt Whinney's will I was a legatee to the
extent of £30,000, a sum identical with that left to Mr. Burford's
children by their grandfather. No wonder I found it hard to realise
my good fortune! Its truth was, however, soon confirmed by further
correspondence between the lawyers.
Mr. Burford had said, "It will seem strange for you to act the
station-master at Oakhill, with the knowledge of coming wealth
uppermost in your mind."
It was strange, but I resolved to keep duty uppermost, and to be as
faithful as ever in the discharge of it until I should resign my trust.
I should keep my secret, and wait until—well, I could not yet fix a
date for revealing it, and I rejoiced that my name had not appeared in
print as one of Mr. Whinney's legatees.
I met Nelly Burford walking alone early in the following week, and had
the hardest work possible to keep from telling my secret after all. And
no wonder. Nothing made any change in Nelly's manner towards myself,
and I thought she looked lovelier than ever in her deep mourning and in
spite of her paleness.
"You have been grieving, Nelly," I said. "I have been so sorry for you,
and for all. You will feel the loss of your grandfather very deeply, I
know."
"Yes, Jack. No one would believe what a sad blank the death of an old
man has caused amongst us. When I looked at his empty chair, I quite
broke down. Not that I grieve for him, only for the loss of him."
I understood her meaning. I felt the same myself. Then she continued—
"You never guessed who sent you the little piano, did you, Jack?"
"No. I have puzzled my brains many a time, but always in vain."
"I may tell you now. It was Grandfather Burford. He wanted to give you
pleasure, Jack, but not to be thanked for his gift. He was very fond of
you. And, Jack, just hear me out. He has left me a great deal of money,
not to be mine for over a year, but mine when I am of age. I think, if
I could have had the whole sum placed in my hands, I should have liked
to run and offer it to you, just like old times."
"When you came with your five pounds—your grandfather's gift, too—to
say, 'Take it Jack.' Nelly, what can I say to you except that you are
the dearest and most faithful of friends, and that I am more proud,
glad, thankful, than words can tell for all your goodness?"
"Yes, Jack, always your friend, though one who is ever wanting to do
something to prove it, yet never able to serve you. I hope I may be one
day. If you need anything I can do or give, you will come to me first,
will you not?"
With hope once more springing in my heart, and the thought of my
secret, I promised.
"Trust me, Nelly; I will come to you first of all."
She gave me back the same bright smile and little, quick movement of
the head that was characteristic of her childish days, and seemed
abundantly content. I asked after Magnus, and then inquired if the
family would be going away before the winter.
"Not all of us. My mother will go to Devonshire with Magnus for about
a fortnight. They will stay with dear friends, and have all the quiet,
restful surroundings that are best for my brother. Rose and I will be
mostly at Lint Hall with your cousin. Oh Jack! If you could only have
your old home again! I should dearly love to buy it back for you!"
"I shall feel as if you had made me a present of it, Nelly, because you
would do it if you could. But I shall never own it again. Without the
broad acres that once went with it, the house would be of little use."
I had forgotten for the moment that Mr. Burford owned them, but I was
reminded of this by seeing the flush which rose to the girl's very
forehead.
"I feel so sorry my father owns the land," she said.
"And I am very glad, for it is in worthy hands, those of my best
friend—next to yourself."
"Mother is not nearly so set against you as she was. Magnus's illness
and dear grandfather's death have had a softening effect on her, and
she has several times named you with something of the old goodwill. I
should not be afraid if she were to come in sight just now, Jack." And
Nelly lifted her head as if ready to face the whole world and still
keep her place by my side.
To think I should have to shorten such a meeting in order to return to
Oakhill Station! Yet I had to say that I was due there and must leave
her.
"Thank you for telling me who gave the piano," I said. "I have always
valued it greatly, and it has been such a source of pleasure, such a
companion to me! I can never value it enough now I know whence it came."
Afterwards, I found out that old Mr. Burford sent the piano at Nelly's
instigation; though it did not strike me at the time that I owed his
kind act to her kind thought.
The week which followed this meeting was a very busy one. I saw Mrs.
Burford and Magnus set out for the south, and I knew that the girls
were backwards and forwards between Lint Hall and their own home, one
sleeping under each roof in turn.
I had become comparatively easy in my mind on Jabez and Betsy's
account, for the latter paid no stealthy visits to the old cottage, and
both were fairly cheerful and looking well again, all things considered.
Jane Cartwright found more time to visit her cronies, and had much to
say as to the way in which her old lady was wrapped up in Rose and
Nelly.
"I had used not to care for Miss Rose," she said, "but Miss Flint has
done her good by her plain talk. She thinks less of herself and more
of other folks now, and before her grandfather died, she kept us alive
at the Hall. It is Miss Ellen's turn to stay the night. Whatever the
mistress would do without these young people I don't know."
I heard little of Jane's gossip, for I had to return to the station
after the usual time. A large annual fair was being held at our
county town, and during the week, there were daily excursion trains
from Oakhill. Some of these did not return until a late hour, and the
passenger traffic was thrown a good deal out of order by them. The last
of these was timed to reach our station at midnight, but I hardly hoped
that it would be punctual. Of course, my duties would not be over until
the last train had passed through the station, so I begged the old
people to go to bed, as I could let myself in without disturbing them.
As it happened, most of the Oakhill people returned by an earlier
train, and only six came by the last, which arrived half-an-hour late.
I found afterwards that Cartwright and one of his sons ought to have
been in it, but, by some mischance, had missed it.
Five of the passengers were known to me, and nearly all said
"Good-night" in passing out. The sixth emerged with difficulty from a
crowded carriage, and wore his hat much slouched over his face, and a
muffler, which helped still further to conceal it, not wholly, however,
for by the light of a lamp I thought I saw a portion of the scar so
conspicuous under ordinary circumstances on the face of George Harwood.
The man noticed that I was observing him, and thrusting his ticket into
the collector's hands, he hurried out of sight as quickly as possible.
I wished to follow, and I lost no time in doing it, but I had to see
that all was right before I left the spot, and this was not done in
a moment. When free, I hastened onward, not to my present home, but
towards the old cottage, feeling convinced that this man would turn
his steps in that direction. My mind was terribly disturbed and full
of forebodings as I went up the lane, treading softly and listening
for the lightest sound. But I heard none, and after spending some time
watching and waiting, I decided to go home.
At one part of my way, the road skirted an outlying corner of the Lint
Hall gardens, and as I approached it, I heard a feeble cry for help.
Distance made it faint, but it was distinctly a cry of distress, and
the voice was that of a woman. I even fancied that it was Nelly's, and
at once all my old fears in connection with George Harwood and his
object in hanging about the neighbourhood, returned with redoubled
force.
There was no gate near, but I scrambled over the fence, and as I knew
every inch of the ground, I took the nearest road to the house. I heard
one or two more cries, but they were extremely faint.
I hastened on at a break-neck pace, and with a great dread in my heart
that I should be too late, or, single-handed, be unable to render help
if it were needed. At this moment, I ran almost into the arms of a man
who was hurrying towards the Hall from an opposite direction.
"There's something wrong up there," said he. "I guessed there might be,
and that made me turn towards the Hall. Did you hear screams?"
"Yes; they brought me here."
"Then if help is wanted, I'm your man. I know you, sir, and what you
have been to my poor old father and mother. I've taken the wrong road
many a time, but I'm on the right track now."
Sure enough, the speaker was the man with the scarred face—George
Harwood. The words were jerked out as he hastened on beside me.
I had little breath for words. I only managed to say—
"I hope you mean this. I stand alone."
"Beggin' your pardon, sir, you don't, and that you'll see. Trust me,
sir, for the sake o' the old folks. I don't mean to finish an ill life
by breaking their hearts, though I've done enough in that line."
This man's words were the strangest possible contradiction to his
recent conduct, and I found it hard to reconcile the two. However, I
had no choice but to trust him, and on we went.
Being younger and lighter, I could get over the ground more quickly,
and I hastened forward, until, on approaching the shrubbery near the
house, I thought I saw something white emerging from the trees. Surely
it was a female figure in a white garment, and I called softly—
"Who is there?"
It was Nelly, and she knew my voice, and ran towards me.
"Jack, there are thieves in the house—two, I think. Cartwright and his
son should have been back from the fair, but have not come. Jane went
down to the lodge to her daughter, who is ill. The men did not see me,
for they were too busy securing Miss Flint, and there are only the
maids in the house beside."
"Where were you going, Nelly?"
"To the lodge, to rouse the men there, but I thought some one might be
outside and see me in my white dressing-gown; so I was creeping amongst
the bushes. Jack, you must not go into the Hall alone; and yet—poor
Miss Flint! I am frightened for her."
I have often thought of Nelly as she looked in her white wrapper,
with her pale face, her little bare feet just thrust into slippers—so
fearful for others, so forgetful of self.
"I have a helper, Nelly," I said, for George Harwood came up out of
breath at the moment.
"That's right," he gasped out. "You're trusting me. I'll not fail you."
We kept Nelly from going to the lodge, for I knew that no harm should
reach her that I could ward off at the risk of my life, and I knew not
what accomplice might be watching outside the house. We stole softly in
at the side-door, left open by Nelly. All was dark, but she and I knew
our ground, and George Harwood followed, as we crept cautiously towards
the strong-room, in which stood some large safes specially constructed
to hold the plate. There was no window, except a small skylight in the
roof, and the men had already forced the door, and were busy at one of
the safes, which, so far, resisted their attempts to open it.
The same thought evidently crossed all our minds at the instant, for
we extended our hands with a view of shutting the outer door on the
men, whose backs were towards us and it. The noise made by their tools,
though not great, had sufficed to keep them from hearing our approach,
which was as stealthy as possible.
We failed in our attempt. The door stuck a little, and made a grating
sound at the instant the thieves paused in their work. They closed
their lantern and made a dash for the door, so suddenly that I was
driven aside; and though both George Harwood and I tried to stop them,
they eluded our grasp, and got clear away, across the hall and out of
doors.
We followed as fast as we could, but when I was about to pass out of
the house, I bethought myself that, if Harwood were minded, he could
draw back as I left it, and I might find myself and Nelly on different
sides of the door, so I paused on the threshold.
"Right, sir," said he. "There can be no more harm done if we bar them
out. If we followed, we might not come off scot-free, and there's more
to be done—we must find the women folk."
I would have sought Miss Flint first, even if Nelly had not led the way
to her room. Poor Cousin Dorothy! She was in evil case—tied firmly hand
and foot, and gagged so that she could not utter a sound.
As quickly and carefully as possible, I removed the gag from her mouth,
and cut or loosed the bands which tied her. Her pretty hands were
swollen, and the nails livid with the tightness of the cords; and Nelly
fairly cried as she held them in her own, tenderly stroking them and
condoling with her friend.
Miss Flint had been said to look an "object" in her travelling attire.
She certainly looked a woeful one at this moment, and her conduct
was worthy of her reputation for eccentricity. No sooner was she set
free than she burst into a fit of hearty laughter. Nelly and I were
frightened, thinking that she was either hysterical or crazy.
There was, however, such a genuine ring in the laugh that we took
heart, and felt inclined to join in her mirth.
"What are you staring at, John Simpson?" asked Cousin Dorothy. "Do you
think I have taken leave of my senses? Not I. Those laugh who win, and
whilst I have been fastened here like a trussed fowl, I have had a
joke to comfort me. Those foolish would-be thieves were working away
like the fellow we see in the advertisement of somebody's safes. I
could hear them as I sat. And all the while everything of importance
was in reach of my hand, if I could have stretched it. Other people
may collect their valuables and put them into a safe if they like—then
thieves know where to look for them, not so Dorothy Flint."
Again she laughed heartily, and this time the rest of us joined her
without fear or compunction.