but we can never be anything more to one another. I have solemnly
resolved in God's sight that I will never marry a drunkard, and I
never will. I was witness to your ill-usage of your poor horse the
other day, when you were intoxicated; I cannot forget it; my mind is
made up, I cannot alter it, and my dear mother entirely approves of my
decision. I thank you for your offer, and pray that you may have
grace given you to forsake the sin which has made it impossible that
there can ever be more than a feeling of sincere interest and
kindliness towards yourself, from yours truly,--
"Mary Franklin."
Mark Rothwell tore the letter, when he had glanced through it, into
bits, dashed them on the ground, and, with loud imprecations, stamped on
them. There was a fire in his heart, a mad desire for revenge; he was,
what drunkards must be, essentially selfish. Wounded vanity,
disappointed affection, bitter jealousy, were the fuel to that fire. He
had no thought now of remonstrance with Mary: he had no _wish_ to
remonstrate: his one great burning desire was to be revenged. He rushed
home, but found little to cheer him there. For months past a cloud had
hung over "The Firs," which had become denser and darker every day. And
now it was come abroad that Mr Rothwell was bankrupt. It was too true:
the reckless expenditure of Mark, and the incautious good nature of Mr
Rothwell, which had led him, under the influence of free living, to
engage in disastrous speculations, had brought ruin on the miserable
family. A few more weeks and "The Firs" was untenanted.
But, in the midst of all this darkness, there shone forth a ray of
heavenly light.
It was near midnight of the day when the sale of Mr Rothwell's effects
had taken place at "The Firs." A candle twinkled still in the cottage
of Mrs Forbes, for there was work to be sent home early on the morrow,
and neither lateness nor weariness might suspend their anxious toil.
Lame Sally and her mother had been talking over, what was in everyone's
mouth and thoughts, the sad downfall of the Rothwells. They saw God's
hand in it, but they did not rejoice; they had found their Saviour true
to His word, and enjoyed a peace in casting their care on Him which they
knew all the wealth of the world could not have given them. Only one
thing they still prayed for which the Lord had not yet granted: Jim,
poor Jim! But what was that? A footstep: how their hearts beat! Could
it be the old familiar tread? Yes; Jim, but no longer drunken,
gambling, prodigal Jim, was next moment at his mother's feet, and a
minute after with his arms round his sister's neck. And there was
weeping, but not for sorrow, in that cottage, and there was joy before
the angels of heaven over a repentant sinner. Jim was come back. A
mother's and sister's prayers had reached him and drawn him home. He
was sober now: he was a pledged abstainer: he had brought his pay in his
hand and love in his heart; and that night, while the shadows lay thick
around the deserted mansion of "The Firs," and not even the wail of
sorrow broke the stillness, there was light and music and peace in that
humble cottage; the light of love, the music of thanksgiving, and "the
peace of God which passeth understanding."
CHAPTER TEN.
DESPERATE DOINGS.
It is not to be supposed that Mary Franklin could mourn very deeply the
departure of Mark Rothwell. Recent events had worn out the old
impressions of tenderness. All that was bright and attractive in Mark
had melted away before the scorching, withering flame of alcohol. She
had heard his cruel taunts to her preserver on the evening of her
rescue; she had seen him shamefully intoxicated when ill-using his poor
horse. Could she cherish love or tenderness for such a being as this?
Impossible! She was thankful to forget him. O misery! Why do so many
of the good and noble frown upon those who would keep the intoxicating
cup altogether out of the hands of the young? What do the young lose by
never tasting it? Not health, not cheerfulness, not self-respect, not
self-control. No! And what do they gain by tasting? Too often, habits
of ruinous self-indulgence; too often a thirst which grows with years;
too often a withered manhood or womanhood, and a decrepit and
dishonoured old age.
October was drawing to its close: nothing had been heard of the
Rothwells, and their old dwelling was now occupied by another tenant.
John Randolph's visits to "The Shrubbery" began to be more frequent, and
were certainly not unacceptable. Gratitude to him for her rescue
forbade Mary's repelling him; and, indeed, the more she and her mother
came to know him, the more they learnt to value his manly and Christian
character. They began likewise to perceive that he was more than he
seemed to be. Mr Tankardew had given them to understand latterly that
he was their equal both in birth and fortune. A mystery there was about
him, it was true; but the veil was now getting so thin that they could
both see pretty distinctly through it, but were content to wait for the
proper time of its withdrawal. And so it was felt by all that, in time,
John Randolph and Mary Franklin would be drawn together by a closer bond
than that of esteem and respect, but no one as yet gave outspoken
expression to this conviction.
Things were thus hanging in no unpleasing suspense, when, in the
twilight of an October evening, two men of rather suspicious appearance
might have been seen climbing the paling _fence_ at the back of "The
Shrubbery." Scarcely had one of them reached the top, when a third
person approached, at first hastily; then he suddenly checked himself,
and cautiously crept along, so as to keep himself out of the sight of
the two others who were climbing into the grounds. This third person
was John Randolph, who had lately left "The Shrubbery," and had come
round by the road at the back, to call, by Mrs Franklin's request, on a
poor sick cottager in the village. The road in this part was lonely,
and the trespassers evidently imagined themselves unobserved. The first
who scaled the palings was a stoutish, middle-aged man: but who was the
other? Randolph's heart beat violently with a terrible suspicion. Did
he know this second figure? He could not be quite sure, for he was
afraid to approach too near; but he was almost convinced that he had
seen him before. When fairly over the fence, both men crept along as
quietly as possible under the shelter of a large bank of evergreens. He
who had climbed over last led the way, and was plainly well acquainted
with the grounds; he was a much younger man than his companion, and
seemed scarcely sober, yet without having lost self-possession and the
knowledge of what he was doing. John waited till they were fairly out
of hearing, and then himself rapidly and noiselessly followed them
towards the house under cover of the laurels. It was now getting very
dusk, but he could manage to track them till they had reached some
outhouses, along the wall of which they crawled, crouching down. And
now they had arrived at the rear of the house, and stood in shadow
opposite a back passage window. Randolph crept silently up and squeezed
himself behind a huge water-butt, where he was perfectly concealed, and
could overhear part of the conversation now hurriedly held between the
two burglars, if such they were.
"You're sure the man does not sleep in the house?" asked the elder man.
"Sure," replied the second, in a husky whisper. John Randolph felt
pretty certain that he knew the voice, but he hardly dared think it.
"Where's the plate chest?"
"Don't know: most likely in the pantry."
John was now confident that he knew the speaker.
"Hush!" whispered the elder man, fiercely, "this passage window 'll do:
it won't take much to prise it open: you'll look after the women."
"Trust _me_ for that," muttered the other; and Randolph thought he heard
a click, as of the cocking of a pistol.
"Hush, you fool!" growled the older burglar, with an oath: then there
was a few moments' silence, and the two crept back. They sat down under
the shelter of some large shrubs, with their backs to John, who could
only just make them out from his hiding-place, for it was now getting
quite dark. A little while, and they rose, and passed very near their
unsuspected watcher, who could just catch the words "Two o'clock," as
they made their way back to the fence. A few moments more, and they
were clear of the grounds.
John Randolph's mind was made up in a moment what to do. Having
cautiously followed the two men into the road, and ascertained that they
were not lurking anywhere about "The Shrubbery," he hurried off at once
to Hopeworth, and communicated what he had seen and heard to the police.
He was very anxious that no unnecessary alarm should be given to Mrs
Franklin or Mary, and that they should be kept, if possible, in
ignorance of the whole matter till the danger was over; so he resolved
to accompany the constables, who, with the superintendent, were
preparing to encounter the housebreakers. It was presumed, from what he
had overheard, that an attempt was to be made on "The Shrubbery" that
very night, and that the two men seen by John Randolph were only part of
a larger gang. Help was therefore procured, and about one o'clock a
party of a dozen, including John, all disguised in labourers' clothes,
had noiselessly scaled the fence in different parts by two and two, and,
recognising one another by a password previously agreed upon, were soon
clustered together under some dense shrubs not far from the passage
window before mentioned. It was a tranquil morning, but very cloudy.
All was deep stillness in the house. Little did Mrs Franklin and her
daughter think, as they read together before parting for the night those
comforting words, "The angel of the Lord encampeth round about them that
fear Him, and delivereth them," that such foes and such protectors were
so close at hand. But they laid them down in perfect peace, and their
heavenly Father's loving power was as a wall of fire about them.
Patiently did the watchers listen from their hiding-place to every
sound. Two o'clock, at last, rang out clear from the great timepiece on
the stairs; they could hear it distinctly outside. What was that sound?
Only the distant barking of a fox. But now there are other sounds.
One, two, three, at length six men in all have crept to the part of the
yard opposite the back door. All paused and looked carefully round:
everything seemed safe.
"Well," said one who appeared to be a leader, "it does not seem as if we
need be over particular: there's neither dog nor man about, and the
women won't _do_ much. Where's the crowbar?"
"Here."
Just at this moment a bright ray of light flashed out along the passage,
and a female figure could be seen crossing the landing. The
housebreakers shrunk back.
"It will not do," said the leader, half aloud; "they've got scent of us
somehow: pr'aps they've some men inside to help them, we'd better be
off."
"Fools! Cowards!" exclaimed a younger man, in a fierce whisper, as the
others began to slink away; "are you afraid of a parcel of women? But
I'll not be baffled: she's there:" and he raised a pistol, and pointed
it towards the figure which had descended close to the passage window
with the light in her hand, and was trying to peer into the darkness
outside. His companion pulled down his arm with a savage imprecation.
All was still for a few minutes, and the female retired to the landing
and then disappeared. The burglars hesitated, when, just at the moment
of their indecision, one of the police imitated the low growling of a
dog close at hand. Instantly the whole gang took to their heels,
closely followed by the constables. No shout had been raised, no word
had been spoken, for John Randolph had been most anxious that the
thieves should be captured without alarming the ladies. And now in the
darkness, pursuers and pursued were scattered in different directions.
John sprang after the young man who had raised the pistol, and succeeded
in grappling with him before he could mount the fence. The clouds were
now dispersed, and there was light enough for one to recognise another.
Randolph could not doubt; the intended murderer was Mark Rothwell.
Fiercely did the two young men strive together, and at last both fell,
Mark undermost; and, relaxing his hold, John was rising to his feet,
when the other drew a pistol, but before he could fire his adversary had
turned it aside; it went off, wounding the unhappy young man who held
it. Randolph drew back in dismay, hearing the injured man's involuntary
groan, but in another instant Mark had drawn a second pistol and fired.
The ball grazed the other's forehead, and he staggered back stupefied.
When he recovered himself Mark had disappeared, and never from that
night was heard of or seen in Hopeworth or its neighbourhood. Near the
part of the fence where the scuffle took place were afterwards found
marks of a horse's hoofs, and traces of blood. The miserable young man
contrived to get clear away: the rest of the gang were all captured by
the police.
The day after this adventure old Mr Tankardew and John Randolph paid a
visit together to "The Shrubbery." Of course the wildest tales were in
circulation, the central point in most being the murder of Mrs Franklin
and her daughter. "I trust," said the old man to Mary and her mother,
"that you have suffered nothing but a little fright. All's well that
ends well, and I'm thankful that my young friend here was able to be of
some service; you see, God can take care of His own."
"It has been so, indeed," replied Mrs Franklin; "Mary could not sleep,
she cannot tell why; she felt restless and uneasy, and just about two
o'clock she was crossing to my room, when she thought she heard some
unusual sounds in the yard. She looked out of the passage window, but
could see nothing; then she heard a sort of scuffle, and, after that,
all was still; and, though we were rather alarmed, we heard nothing
more. But this morning has brought us strange tidings, and I find that
we are again indebted to our kind young friend here for help in time of
need, and that, too, I fear, at his own imminent risk."
"Don't mention this," said the young man; "it has been a privilege to me
to have been able to render this assistance. I am only too thankful
that I was put in the way of discovering what might have otherwise been
a very serious business. But we must see that you are better protected
for the future."
"True, true, John," interrupted Mr Tankardew, smiling; "I see I must
put in a word. My dear child, Miss Franklin seems more willing than
able to speak just now. Yes; let me make a clean breast of it. Let me
introduce our young friend in a new character, John Randolph Tankardew,
my only son, my only surviving child." His voice trembled, and then he
added, "He has twice been the protector of my dear adopted daughter, let
me join their hands together as a pledge that he may shortly obtain a
better title to be her protector while life shall last."
And so, placing the half-shrinking hand of Mary in the young man's
stronger grasp, he held them together with a fervent blessing.
"And now," he added, as they sat in a loving group, too full of tearful
peace to wish to break the charmed silence by hasty words, "now let me
tell my story, and unravel the little tangle which has made me a mystery
to my neighbours, and a burden to my friends. But all that is past;
there are brighter days before us now."
CHAPTER ELEVEN.
MR. TANKARDEW'S STORY BEGUN.
"You must know, dear friends," began the old man sadly, "that I'm a
wiser man now than I was once. Not that there's much wisdom to boast of
now; only I have learnt by experience, and he is a sharp schoolmaster.