A MYSTERY CLEARED UP—COUSINS AT LAST.
COUSIN DOROTHY was nothing if not eccentric, and she had been true to
her character in planning to keep her plate in safety. No one except
Jane Cartwright and herself knew that it was deposited nightly, not
in the strong-room, but in a large cupboard occupying a recess in her
bedroom. There was no keyhole visible, as it was concealed by a carved
moulding running round the door, a small piece of which was movable.
We left Nelly with Miss Flint and went in search of the servants.
Three were asleep, having remained unconscious of what was going on,
but these were locked into their rooms. The fourth was Sarah, the girl
whom I had believed to be encouraging George Harwood's visits during
the time he lay in hiding at the old cottage. I felt utterly bewildered
when I saw George himself approach Sarah and release her from bonds as
painful as those which had confined Miss Flint. There was no sign of
recognition between the two, and as soon as the girl's tongue was set
free, she began to denounce another individual, weeping bitterly the
while, and complaining of having been deceived by a wretch that she had
been "ever so good to."
She was ready enough to speak against the man who, after she had
admitted him and his comrade, had treated her with scant ceremony. It
seemed that, as Miss Flint had taken Sarah's part when Jane Cartwright
found fault with her, the girl had stipulated that the mistress should
not be hurt in any way. In her indignation at seeing her seized and
bound, she uttered a succession of screams, which were speedily
silenced by a course of treatment of a similar character.
What followed may be imagined. The police were communicated with,
the two young Cartwrights brought from the lodge to the Hall, and a
cottager's wife and son left there to bear Jane and her ailing daughter
company. As to Sarah, the traitress who expected to accompany the
thieves and their booty, and to become the wife of the one who had made
a tool of her, Cousin Dorothy merely said, "Go to your bed, simpleton,
but first thank God you have not seen murder committed, as well as
robbery attempted, this night."
"Oh ma'am, forgive me!" cried the girl. "I never wanted them to hurt
anybody, and least of all you."
"I know that well enough. You only thought it was very nice to stand
chattering under the trees, like the magpie you are, with a stranger of
whom you knew nothing, and that it was right to feed your vagabond, not
with crumbs, but tit-bits from your mistress's larder. You thought it
made you a great person to tell of our visitors and our plate, and how
many men were in the house, with a great many other particulars. Oh!
You did. You need not deny it. And you thought you should get a husband
through it."
"He asked me, or I shouldn't have told," sobbed the girl. "And he said
he only wanted to bring a gentleman in at night to see a picture that's
in the library, and was worth a mint of money. He said it couldn't be
seen proper only by candlelight, and there would be no harm done. He
wouldn't ask me, but you had said it should never be set eyes on by
mortal man, and it would be money in his pocket, because the gentleman
was safe to pay well. He declared if you waked up and caught them, you
shouldn't be hurt, for they would run away straight and trouble nobody."
"That will do; you can go back to bed," said Cousin Dorothy, with the
utmost calmness.
"We will lock her into her room, if you like," said I.
"No, thank you; she has had enough of her admirer's delicate
attentions, and will not run after him," replied Miss Flint. "Go,
Sarah;" and the girl withdrew.
Turning to Nelly, Miss Flint said, "Nelly, child, I shall have to own
John Simpson as a kinsman after all. Not merely on account of this
night's work, but because I have kept an eye on him all along, and
decided that he is worthy to be called 'Cousin Jack.' I doubt whether
he will appreciate the compliment, or call me Cousin Dorothy."
"I always called you so," I said, "when I could; but of late it has not
been possible."
"Do you know, Cousin Jack, that I have said I will never leave you a
penny, and that I shall keep my word?"
"Cousin Dorothy, I have heard as much, and I am glad you have confirmed
the report, for now no one can misunderstand my motives in wishing to
have you for a friend as well as a kinswoman."
She held out her hand, and I clasped it gently, for the delicate wrist
bore the mark of the cruel cord. Then she looked in my face, and
positively there were tears trembling in her eyes.
"Cousin Jack, you are very like your mother, and I loved her," said
Cousin Dorothy, in a voice very unlike her ordinary one.
Her disengaged arm went round my neck, and she kissed me as a mother
might kiss her boy.
I could not tell how this act touched me. She had loved my mother, I
always knew that; and as I returned her kiss, I felt happier than I had
ever done since the death of my father. Of neglect I had experienced
enough, of open enmity none, except, as I believed, from Cousin
Dorothy; and now she was to be numbered amongst my friends.
As to Nelly, she was in an ecstasy of happiness, and bestowed a little
shower of caresses upon Miss Flint. Then she declared there had never
been anything so fortunate as this attempted robbery, and she should
be grateful to the burglars, only she could not forgive them for their
treatment of Miss Flint. She said little to me, but her looks were
eloquent enough.
This conversation did not take place until Cousin Dorothy and Nelly had
spent some time in their rooms. The injured wrists had been bathed, and
needed additions made to their scanty garments.
Meanwhile, George Harwood was partaking of a hearty supper in the
kitchen. Afterwards, Miss Flint spoke to him, and thanked him, with
much dignity, for his timely help.
"I hope I shall be able to repay your services with something better
than a present-gift of money. You may trust me. I knew you, George
Harwood, the moment I saw you."
George murmured something about "not gen'lly needing to be introdoosed
twice," and pointed with his maimed hand to his scarred cheek as a
proof of his words.
"It would never do for me to be after any tricks hereabouts," he added,
"for I should be found out directly."
"Have you any idea who were the men that got into the house?" asked
Cousin Dorothy, looking at George.
The man moved about uneasily, but did not answer.
"You have done one good act, do not be ashamed of it, George. Try to
do more and better. I knew you as a lad, and I never believed you
thoroughly bad at the worst of times, for you were the son of a praying
father and mother. You have had a hand in wrong-doing more than once,
but you committed one great robbery single-handed, and it was the worst
of all."
"Never, ma'am, never," replied George. "I have done wrong enough,
and been one amongst others, but I can say truly I neither planned a
robbery nor carried one out by myself."
"What do you say to having robbed your father and mother of a son's
affection, help, and presence through all these long years? Have you
not done this, and robbed them of peace and hope and rest, and the
pride they once had in their only child? Have you not made them ashamed
and afraid to name your name, or let it be known that their son was
worse than dead?"
"Oh ma'am, don't, don't!" said George. "I'll go away now and never show
my face at Oakhill again, though I was coming to see the old folks and
find out if there was a chance of staying with them, and trying to make
up for what is past. I'm hungering for a look at father and mother,
though you mightn't think it. I've never seen them since I was tried
and sent away for what I did not do, though I deserved what I got for
other things."
"If you wish to stay in this place, you shall. But mind, you may have
to bear a good deal for their sakes. People will not believe in you.
You must be ready to bear suspicion and cold looks and doubts of your
honesty. But if you are in earnest, I will stand by you and find you
work. My cousin here will assist for your parents' sake."
"Gladly," I answered.
I could say no more, for I was in a state of utter bewilderment. Had
I not seen George Harwood at the station, on the very night the old
cottage was entered by the window and my property taken? Had not I, and
his parents too, concluded that George was the culprit? And had I not,
for the sake of Jabez and Betsy, kept silence on the subject from all
but Mr. Burford?
Then, again, I had been certain that Sarah's lover and the man in
hiding at the old cottage were identical, and George Harwood was the
individual. I had been intensely indignant at his conduct to Betsy—his
mother, as I believed—and here was George declaring that he had never
seen her face through all these years. I began to doubt him, to feel
that it would be dangerous to leave him unwatched, and to question if
he were not in league with the thieves, in spite of appearances. Either
he was telling wilful falsehoods, or I had been under a mistake from
the first.
After a brief cogitation, I decided to ask George to go with me to Rose
Cottage. I meant to steal quietly in, and, instead of going to bed, to
remain with him in my sitting-room through the night.
George owned to Miss Flint that he had his suspicions about one of her
visitors, but he would tell me all he knew and guessed on the road to
Rose Cottage.
"We shall see you to-morrow, Cousin Jack. No, by the way, it is
to-morrow already—I mean morning; and real to-morrow will be Sunday,
when you can come to dinner after service. I shall have no company."
Perhaps Nelly noted a disappointed look on my face, for she said, "I
shall be here, Jack."
"You are not 'company,' child. You are a mere nobody. Good-night,
Jack;" and she whispered, "Give the old cousin a corner of your heart,
though she has helped to show the metal you are made of. You are your
mother's son."
I kissed her for answer. I held my darling's little hand in mine for a
moment, and then went away along the dark road with George Harwood. I
would not hear his tale on the way, for fear of our voices attracting
attention, but advised him to wait a while.
There was a light in Rose Cottage as we approached, and I bade George
stay outside till I knew the reason of it. I found Betsy up and looking
pale and frightened. This she explained by saying that she had awakened
and could not help coming down to see if I were in. Finding I was
not, she was too uneasy to sleep, so stayed in the kitchen. Jabez was
asleep, she said.
Then I began my story, and told of the stranger who had rendered such
timely aid, and of Miss Flint's gratitude to him and conduct towards
myself.
How glad she was on my account! How sympathetic! Yet there was some
hidden trouble, which her joy on my behalf could not hide.
"I want to tell you more about the strange man," I said. "He is one
who, as a lad, was led astray by an evil companion, and went on from
folly to crime. He was caught, tried, imprisoned for a long term of
years. He was the only son of parents very like you and Jabez, and in
spite of all his wrong-doing, he could not forget them, their teaching,
above all their love, of which he knew himself to be unworthy. Now he
has forsaken his evil ways, he wants to work honestly for his bread; he
longs above all things to see his parents and be forgiven. But he is
afraid to go home. If you were the mother, Betsy, what would you do?"
"Oh, Mr. John, I would hold out both arms to welcome him;" and the
tears which streamed down her cheeks told what the dear woman felt as
she spoke.
I opened the cottage door. I signalled to the man who was waiting
there. I took his hand in mine and drew him inside. I saw Betsy's arms
extended, and as she clasped them round him, I heard her say, "George,
my own lad!" as he cried, "Mother, mother!"
That was all, for I went quietly into my own room and closed the door
behind me. It was no scene for a third person to share in. I leave
others to picture it, as I do. Also, the after meeting with old Jabez.
When the old folks asked me to join them, George cleared up the mystery
which had so puzzled me of late. I give his story in as few words as
possible:—
"You know that Black Mike and I were sentenced together? We had agreed
to continue our partnership after our time was up, but my mind changed
whilst I was in prison. I resolved to come home to you and bear
anything, so as not to leave you any more.
"Mike was angry, and managed to meet me again near Oakhill Station.
He did his best to persuade me to join him, saying I should find that
everybody would despise me and refuse me work, and he knew better than
to be seen hanging about the old place. I thought this likely enough,
but I tried for work. You'll remember, sir, I asked you for it, near
the office door. I believe you thought I was listening for no good end,
but I was only wanting to know if you would soon be out, that I might
speak to you. Mike was listening too, but he was off too quick for you
to see him.
"You spoke pretty sharp in answer to me, and I felt sure you would know
me again. I lost heart, and turned away with an expression I was a bit
sorry for after. I started off, late as it was, turning my back upon
Oakhill, and from that time to this I have gone from place to place
working at anything I could do, and have lived honestly any way, though
I have not had much more than bare bread. Lately I began hankering
after the old place, and I thought if father or mother should die
without saying, 'I forgive you, George,' the sooner my life came to an
end the better. Here I am, and I am glad I made up my mind and stuck to
it."
I had always blamed this man for the cottage robbery, but I now became
convinced that he did not even know of it. I therefore told him the
particulars, and he at once exclaimed, "That was Mike's doing, I'll be
bound. He knew how the window opened, for it was his own contriving,
and while outside the office, he heard as much as I did of the talk
about the gentleman having taken the safe-key away by mistake."
"Oh George! I blamed you for that. I am sorry I could have had such a
thought," said Betsy.
"So am I, mother. Bad as I have been, I would not have touched a thing
in the old home for the world. Never mind; it is no worse than I
deserved."
"But, George—you've been in more trouble since, haven't you?"
"Who said it? Has Mike been here with his lies?"
I understood all when I heard this question. It was Mike who had come
to poor Betsy and Jabez, and by pretending that he possessed some power
over George, compelled them to connive at his hiding-place, minister to
his wants, and bribe him to depart.
It was Mike who had made sham love to Sarah, and planned to rob Lint
Hall. I strongly suspected that the wretch had come to Betsy after his
escape from the Hall, and terrified her in some way. My conjectures
proved wholly correct.
The last trick was the most daring of all. Mike did not know of George
Harwood's arrival at Oakhill, and could not have seen him as he dashed
past us both, at the door of the strong-room. He had therefore made his
way to Rose Cottage, roused Betsy by throwing stones at her window,
and terrified her by declaring that her son and he had been surprised
in the act of breaking into Lint Hall. He knew not what had become of
George, but he should take up his abode in the old cottage, and look to
Betsy to supply his wants until the hunt for him was over.
I let the three know both what I had suspected and seen whilst the
wretched man was hiding there before, and how I had believed that it
was George himself whom the parents were helping to conceal. When I
spoke of Mike's attempt to strike poor Betsy, George's anger knew no
bounds. He ground his teeth and muttered threats of vengeance.
"We shall catch him now in spite of the charm he carries, though he
always says luck will never fail him unless he loses it."
"What is the charm?" I asked.
"A sixpence with three words on it, cut very neatly and plain to read.
I dare say he stole it."
"And the words were 'Work, Wait, Win.'" said I.
"Right you are, sir. How did you know them?"
"I have reason to do. That sixpence was hanging to my watch-chain, and
stolen with it from the old cottage. It was given to me by the young
lady you saw at the Hall last night, when we were much younger—boy and
girl friends."
"How things do come round, to be sure! That beats all," remarked
George. "Well, sir, I hope you may get it back. The young lady is
Lawyer Burford's daughter, I believe. He did his best for me, and he
did more than speak for me when I was tried. He would not believe I was
guilty, and he was right."
I am sure that Jabez, Betsy, and I felt self-condemned when we thought
how ready we had been to attribute crimes to George which he had never
committed—how slow to give him credit for any improvement or wish to
lead a better life. No doubt they were even more glad than I to think
that it was not too late to encourage his good resolutions and help him
to redeem his character.
It was decided amongst us that it would be well for Betsy to visit the
old cottage and carry food to its inmate the same as before; also,
that she should make apparently anxious inquiries as to her son's
whereabouts. This would throw him off his guard, and we felt that
it would be quite in accordance with his daring character to remain
contentedly where he was, until an opportunity offered for him to leave
the cottage.