necessary to push the sash up from outside, so placing the lamp on the
porch-seat, she walked a few steps along the path which led by the front
of the cottage, and proceeded to shut up the casement with a bang. The
stranger had just time to withdraw his hands from the sill, and to start
back into the darkness of the room.
"Look out there!" he growled low to himself, "I don't want to leave the
tip of one of my fingers in exchange for what I've taken. Now," he
added, "the question is--how shall I get out of this hole? My knowledge
of old Mother Sheppard's diggings in the past ought to serve me in good
stead to-night. If I can only manage to slip into the dark passage that
leads to the kitchen, I know there's a capital hidey-hole under the
stairs, where I've lain in ambush as a boy, and into which I expect I
could squeeze again at a pinch."
Sure enough, before Madelaine had re-entered the house and reached the
sitting-room with her lamp, the intruder had gained the coveted refuge,
and was crouching down unseen within the recess. Here he remained,
cramped and silent, until the last sounds had died away in the house,
and the uneasy watcher had laid herself down to rest. Not till then did
he creep forth from his shelter and make his way to the kitchen, into
which he walked as one intimate with the place.
"Mother Sheppard generally had a shakedown in the room at the side," he
soliloquized. "If she's as deaf as she used to be, there's not much fear
of disturbing her, even if I dance a hornpipe on the table. Anyway,
there's no doubt she's a good sleeper, judging by the noise she makes
over it. Sounds more like a concert of tin whistles and drums, than one
old woman snoring!"
The burglar peeped in at the half-open door, and by the light which came
from the still flickering fire in the kitchen, he made out the humble
couch whereon Mrs. Sheppard lay.
"Wonder if she keeps her hoard under her pillow," he continued. "They
say these skinflints usually do. Anyhow it's worth a search, and I'll
hope for a bit of good fortune this time."
He went up to the bed and gently inserted his hand beneath the bolster,
on which reposed the aged head with its close-fitting nightcap and neat
grey hair.
"Nothing there!" he said. "Perhaps it's under the mattress. I'll have
one more try, and then I'll go."
If a flash-light had been turned at that moment suddenly upon the scene,
it would have disclosed the evil look of triumph which just then rested
on the man's face. With a sardonic grin he withdrew his arm, clutching
in his hand a leather bag, tied tightly up with knotted string.
Returning to the kitchen, he quietly let himself out by the back door,
after having feasted royally upon goodly slices of the bread and ham
which he found so conveniently ready to his use in the old dame's
cupboard.
"Now, where are those two nice fat ducks I collared so cleverly before I
went round to the front?" he said. "One of them nearly gave me away
when I cotched it round the neck. I thought some one would be sure to
hear its parting quack. I'll be off with them and the rest of the swag
to Westmarket, before the sun is up, and amuse myself there for a few
days, before coming back here to pay my respects to the old man. No one
saw me to-night, and if I turn up like a good innocent prodigal son in a
week's time, not a soul will connect me with this neat little job."
It would indeed be difficult to decide which of the three inhabitants of
the cottage was most distressed when the morning revealed to them their
loss.
Poor old Mrs. Sheppard sat rocking herself to and fro in her chair by
the kitchen fire, her hands over her face, and the tears streaming down
her shrivelled cheeks. "It's all my little savin's as have gone," she
moaned, "every mortal halfpenny as I've worked so hard to put by.
There's naught to keep me out of the workhouse now--not even enough to
bury me, if so be as I die of a broken heart to-night."
"I don't believe I should mourn the theft of all the money I have in the
house as I do that of the watch," said Madelaine, as for the twentieth
time she hunted in every likely and unlikely place in hopes that she
might absently have laid it down somewhere the night before. "That
which my dear husband always wore, and which was sent to me after he was
dead! It may be silly of me, but the face of that watch seemed to me as
the face of a friend. It comforted me when I looked at it, and made me
feel nearer my lost one than anything else."
As for Robin, he was inconsolable. To think that his beloved Lily and
Snowball should have been carried off! His two special pets who were so
tame they would follow him all round the garden and eat out of his hand!
It was too dreadful to think that their pretty sleek necks had been
wrung, and that they would be plucked and eaten like any common barndoor
fowl. Such a possibility had never before entered his head. To him they
were only the beautiful creatures which the good God had created for his
special joy. It is to be feared that the disappearance of the
missionary-box sank into comparative insignificance beside this larger
grief.
It was vain to recount their woes to the stolid village policeman who
came pompously to enquire and make elaborate notes of all.
"He's been a clever fellow, that!" was the verdict. "But whoever he is,
he's got clear away, and left no clue either. It's a mystery, m'am, and
a mystery it will remain for ever."
"It's a pity I've just come a few days too late," said Benjamin Green,
old Timothy's son, as he sat taking a glass at the "Bull Inn," the
Saturday after the burglary. "Hopeless stick-in-the-muds you are in
this out-of-the-way place. If you want to be wakened up it's to America
you should go, where I've been all these years. Away there, they'd have
hunted the scapegrace out in no time, aye, and strung him up on the
nearest tree too, for daring to rob widows and children in that
heartless manner. If only I'd been here in time, I bet you I'd have
found him for you! It's just my luck only to have arrived to-day."
"Have you been up to see your old father yet, Green?" asked one of the
men.
"No," answered Ben. "I thought I'd fortify myself here before setting
out for the affecting interview. It's not every day that a long-lost
son returns home, and I always feel the better for a dram."
"What be you a-going to do with him, now you've come back?" continued
his questioner. "Be you going to leave him to tumble over the crag along
with the house, or be you going to make him move, and take Squire
Field's offer before it be too late?"
"What offer is that?" asked Ben. "I haven't heard of it before."
"Mean to say you've been half an hour in the place, and nobody's told
you how the squire says he'll give old Timothy one hundred pounds for
the bit of ground he owns on the top of the cliff? Which sum he'll pay
in solid gold the day the old man quits the house. They say he's wild
to pull down the whole place seeing as how it spoils the view from his
grand windows."
Ben whistled.
"I've not been up to see my father yet, but I warrant you, he'll not
stay much longer in yonder cottage if that's the way the wind blows.
One hundred pounds in solid gold! What can the old chap be dreaming of?
Why on earth didn't he move the same hour as the offer came?"
"Says he'll never budge till he's carried out feet foremost," replied
another of the company.
"There's no use argufying with him. He's wonderful firm."
"It's not argument I'll use," answered Ben. "It's common sense first,
and then force, if need be. You tell me the house may fall on to the
beach any day now, and if that happens Mr. Field may cancel his bid for
the land. Of course one might draw him again by threatening to build
another house a little further back, but that's a risk. If the offer is
in writing it would be safer to hold him to it now, so long as the walls
are there. Catch me losing a hundred pounds for the sake of an old
man's fads. I'll go up to-night, and we'll soon see who's got the
strongest will!"
It was a strangely assorted pair that sat opposite each other in the
little cottage on the cliff that evening.
Ben's countenance was dark with passion, and his eyes were fixed with a
vicious scowl upon his father's frail shrinking form.
"You say you'll not move," he shouted. "You dare tell me that, and a
hundred pounds at stake."
"I dare," was the answer, and the quavering voice seemed to take on a
new strength as he said the words. "Never will I sleep under any roof
but this. Here was I born, and here will I die, and no man has a right
to say me nay. Many a time have I prayed for thee, Ben, and longed to
see thee again, my only child, but for such a home-coming as this did I
never reckon. It had been better that you had never returned at all. Go
now, and leave your old father to die in peace, alone with God."
For a moment, even Ben's rough spirit was checked as he heard the quiet
decision come from the pale thin lips.
The old man looked up with calm and reproachful eyes into his son's
face. "I'm in the Hand of the Almighty," he added. "I'm not afraid."
As he spoke, a sudden sound like the report of a gun made the two men
look round, and Ben involuntarily took a few steps in the direction of
the door.
"Why, it's a great crack just come in the ceiling beyond the passage,"
he exclaimed. "The next thing will be that the wall itself will be
down. If you don't think it worth while saving your own neck, I
certainly shan't risk mine a minute longer. But you needn't flatter
yourself that the last word has been said. If the house is still
standing to-morrow morning I'll be up by sunrise to carry you out
bodily, with or without leave, it matters not to me, and I'll see to it
that the money's paid--cash down--before that same sun has set."
With an oath, Ben hastily quitted the house and went back to console
himself in the hospitable parlour of "The Bull," where he aired his
grievances before an admiring and sympathizing group, only too glad to
drink at his expense to the success of his desires.
*CHAPTER VI*
*That Terrible Eye*
The sun rose on Sunday morning in a cloudless sky, and as the day wore
on, continued to pour down his golden beams upon the earth.
The bells of the little church rang out their invitation to the
villagers to come and worship in the house of prayer, and from far and
near quiet groups of country folk wended their way through leafy lanes
and ripening cornfields to hold their tryst with God. Robin and his
mother were there betimes, and old Mrs. Sheppard took her seat as usual
in the foremost pew, her shawl pinned across her stooping shoulders and
her old-fashioned bonnet tied with large black ribbon bows under her
chin.
Service ended, the little knots of worshippers scattered once more in
pleasant anticipation of the Sunday dinner awaiting them at their
journey's end, and the hot afternoon wore on to its close, its silence
broken only by the low murmur of the tide upon the beach.
The sun was now nearing the end of his giant's race across the sky, but
old Timothy still sat peaceful and unmolested in his cottage upon the
cliff, untroubled by the angry threats hurled at him by his son the
night before.
The truth was that Ben was in no state that Sabbath morning either to
carry out his designs against his father or to think again of the
tempting bait held out by Mr. Field. His time in the "Bull Inn" the
preceding evening had been only too zealously employed, and all that
long summer day he lay a useless and helpless log in an upstairs chamber
of the little hostelry, sleeping off the effects of his night's
excesses.
Another inhabitant there was of that seaside village to whom this day
had been a blank. For Julius, the lonely child of Farncourt, Sunday
brought no pleasant memories. The Sabbath bells meant nothing to him,
for Mr. Field had long since given up church-going, and his little son
connected the day only with the dreary fact that even the gardeners and
grooms would be away during all the long and cheerless hours.
On this particular afternoon he felt more than usually dull. The
glimpse he had got of Robin and his happy home interests made him long
to share again in the latter's pursuits. Neither his rabbits nor his
dog seemed altogether satisfying after having once tasted the joy of a
congenial friend.
"I'll go down to the Cottage," he said to himself, "and see how Peter is
getting on in his new hutch. I know father's gone off in the motor to
call at the earl's, and he can't be back for an hour at least, so I'm
pretty safe not to be caught."
There was no one in the garden as he walked up the little path, but just
as he reached the door of the house Robin rushed out with a paint-box in
his hand.
"Hullo, Julius, is that you?" he said, coming suddenly to a stand.
"Hullo, Robin," was the reply. "How's Peter?"
Without more ado the two boys made their way to the rabbit's dwelling,
and stood for a few moments wrapt in contemplation of their joint
handiwork.
"I mustn't keep mother waiting any longer," said Robin at last. "I'm
going to paint a text while she reads to me. We're sitting in the
summer-house, as it's so hot in the sun."
"What do you mean by painting a text?" asked Julius. "I thought texts
were in the Bible."
"You _are_ funny, Julius," replied Robin. "Of course they're in the
Bible, but these are printed on cards in nice big letters with borders
and flowers. I'm allowed to paint them on Sunday, and they're really
jolly to do."
It was not long before Julius was introduced to the series of large
outline texts which Robin displayed with pride and the eager energy
which characterized his every action.
"If you like," he said, "perhaps mother will let you paint one with her
colours. She's lent me her paint-box as it's so much better than mine."
"I've got a far finer one than that," remarked Julius, "with ever so
many more paints in it."
Robin looked up in surprise at the unmannerly comment, but his mother
signed to him to pass it by, and spread out the texts for the boys to
choose.
"I find there are two exactly alike," she said, "suppose you each take
one, and we'll see who gets on the better."
Robin read out the words as she held them up for him to see.
"The eyes of the LORD are in every place, beholding the evil and the
good."
"That's my favourite verse," he added. "Let's paint that."
"I don't think that's at all a nice one," said Julius. "I don't want
God's eyes to be always looking down at me, seeing everything I do."
"It just depends on how you feel about God," said Mrs. Power, "whether
you look upon Him as your enemy or as your friend. You remind me of two
little stories I once heard. I'll tell them to you and then you'll
understand what I mean.
"There was once a prisoner who had been sentenced to solitary
confinement in a gaol. He was condemned to live for months in a cell
with no window except a tiny grated one so high up in the wall that he
could not see out of it. It was bad enough to be obliged to endure this,
but there was something else which made it much worse. In the door of
the cell a little round hole had been made, and behind it a jailor was
always stationed so that he could look in through the hole and watch the
prisoner."
"How horrid!" exclaimed Robin. "I wonder how he could bear it."
"The thought of that eye always upon him and taking note of everything
that he did, nearly drove the poor captive mad," continued his mother.
"Sometimes he would dash up suddenly to the little aperture and thrust
his face close to it, if by this means he could perhaps startle the
jailor and make him withdraw if only for a moment from the unceasing
watch. 'That terrible eye,' he would call it, when he was at length
released, and could recount his experiences to his friends."
"I'm sure God's eye is terrible," said Julius. "It makes me frightened
when I think of it."
"Listen to the second story then," answered Mrs. Power, "and you'll see
the other side.
"My mother used to tell me that when she was quite a little girl she was
dreadfully afraid of two things--a brindled cow that had been known to
run at a child, and the butcher's large black dog. My grandfather's
cottage was at the side of the road, and there was a straight piece that
led from its door to a small shop just at the entrance of the village.
You could see the entire length from the corner of the garden, and it
would not take you more than five minutes to run the whole way between
the two houses. One day my mother was sent to fetch some groceries which
had been ordered at the store, and as the sister who usually went with
her was ill, she had to go alone. Now this was very alarming to her, as
the brindled cow's field lay beside the road, and she had never been
quite so far by herself before. 'Don't be silly, Lizzie,' said her
father, who was smoking in the porch. 'You're getting too big a girl to
be frightened at nothing. I'll watch as you go along and see that no
harm comes to you.' So off she started with her pennies in her hand,
and a very anxious little heart beating beneath her white pinafore. To
her dismay, just when she had got about half-way, the head of the
brindled cow appeared above the hedge, and a moment later the creature
had forced its way through and was standing in the lane. The child
turned, and would have fled homewards, but there, trotting leisurely
towards her in the middle of the path, whom should she see but none
other than her second enemy, the butcher's dog."
"What did she do?" asked Robin breathlessly. "Did she climb up a tree
and get safe?"
"There was no tree to climb," replied Mrs. Power. "The only thing she
could do was to crouch down, crying and trembling on the ground, and try
to hide herself under the brambles by the road-side. Her one thought
was, 'I'm so glad father's looking, for he'll be sure to come and help.'
Sure enough before either the brindled cow or the dog had reached the
spot where she lay, her father's hearty voice was calling to her not to
fear, and the next moment she was safe in his strong arms, clinging to
him with all her tiny might."
"What a good thing he kept his promise and didn't forget to watch!"
exclaimed Julius. "Supposing he'd been looking the other way when the
cow got out!"
"There's my lesson," said Mrs. Power, smiling. "To know that her
father's eye was following her all the time was the greatest comfort she
had. It is just the same with us in regard to God. If we look on Him
as our kind, loving Father and Friend, ready to help and to save, it
will only give us joy to think of His watchful eye upon us, noticing
everything that happens to us. It will make us more careful than ever
not to displease Him, but all the same it will cause us to feel very
safe and happy. It is a perfectly different case to that of the poor
prisoner living in constant dread of the terrible eye of his jailor."
"I think I'll paint the verse after all," remarked Julius after a pause,
in which the boys had been silently considering the matter.
"I'd like to feel God was my Friend," he said to himself as he walked
home. "But all the same there's a heap of things I wouldn't like Him to
see."
Mr. Field drove up in the motor as Julius arrived at the door. A glance
at his face showed the boy that his father had not returned in the best
of tempers. His eyebrows were drawn together in a nervous frown, and
his voice, as he gave some orders to the chauffeur, was harsh and
imperious.
"Did you see the earl?" asked Julius.
"No, I didn't," was the abrupt reply. "Don't come bothering me with
questions, Julius. I haven't time to listen to your chatter just now."
The truth was that Mr. Field's visit to Lanthorne Abbey had not turned
out so successful as he had expected it to be. The interview with Judge
Simmons had given him the opportunity to call which he had so long and
vainly sought, and it was under pretext of seeing him once more that he
had set off that day.
"I'll be certain to find them all in on Sunday afternoon," he meditated,
as he made his plans, "and as I know the judge is leaving to-morrow
early, it will only look neighbourly if I run over to give him a few
more tips about that mine before he goes."
It was therefore a great disappointment to him to find that the earl was
not at home, it being his invariable custom to walk over to tea with his
mother every week, at the Dower House about two miles away, where she
had resided ever since his father's death. The countess too was absent,
so he was told, when he enquired for her.
Only Judge Simmons was in, and his manner towards his visitor was
chilling, to say the least of it. Mr. Field could not get rid of the
impression that the American was trying to read him like some
enigmatical book, of which the title-page had given him a distaste. It
was with feelings of relief that he once more found himself leaning back
in his car, and speeding swiftly down the long avenue.
"Queer fellow, that judge," he mused. "I was rather an idiot to run my
head against him unnecessarily. I'd sooner have his room than his
company any day."
It was not till Julius came to say good-night that his father deigned to
take notice of him again.
"Well, what have you been doing with yourself, my boy?" he said. "I've
hardly set eyes on you since morning. Been up to any mischief, eh?"
"I wish I had," answered Julius, "but I've no such luck. It's awfully
dull, father, playing all alone."
"Nonsense!" said Mr. Field. "You've got everything and more than any
sensible fellow can wish. I hope you've not been dangling after that
strange lad that I warned you against, Julius?" he added sharply, eyeing
the doleful face before him.
"No," was the answer. "I haven't seen him again."
"Good boy," said his father. "Keep yourself to yourself till you find
someone worthy of you. That's sound advice. Go to bed and sleep upon
it."
As Julius lay that night restlessly tossing to and fro, did the angels
gaze in pity upon the poor ignorant child?
"I know God saw, and God heard," he murmured to himself. "I believe
He's looking down at me now. I want to shut out His eye, but I can't.
I know He can see even in the dark."
He covered his head with the bedclothes, but to his excited imagination
the eye seemed to pierce right down into his very heart.
"I'll ask Mrs. Power how I can make God my Friend, so that I won't mind
Him watching me," he said at length. "I liked the story of the little
girl."
Dwelling again in thought upon the simple incident with its happy
ending, the weary boy finally dropped off to sleep.
Robin had knelt that evening as usual at his mother's knee, but when he
had finished his prayer, a dreamy look stole into his face, as if he was
thinking of some great and solemn thing. Madelaine waited quietly,
wondering what new revelation had come to her little son.
"Mother," he said earnestly, "I'm so glad God can see _everything_, not
only the good things, but the bad too. I'm really _glad_ he sees the
bad."
"Why is that, Robin?" enquired Madelaine.
"Because then I'm sure that He won't leave one single sin behind when I
ask Him to 'Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow,'" replied the boy.
"I can't recollect them all, but if He has seen everything He will know
when the very last one is blotted out."
"The blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth us from all sin, little Robin,"
said his mother. "You can trust Him to complete His gracious work, for
He is able to save to the uttermost them that come unto God by Him."
*CHAPTER VII*
*The Mysterious Packets*
It was not till Tuesday evening that Benjamin Green was in a fit
condition to visit his father again. He found the old man in bed, very
feeble and shaky, but determined as ever that no power on earth should
prevail on him to leave the homely roof which had sheltered him for so
long.
"I daren't exactly carry him off as he is," thought Ben, after he had
tried every form of persuasion and threat which occurred to him. "If he
died on my hands upon the way I'd get into a pretty row, I suppose,
taking him out of his house against his will. They'd say I did it only
for the money. It's a pity I ever let on that I wanted it so much."
He leant back in his chair with his hands thrust into his pockets, and
allowed his eyes to wander round the room. They lit upon his father's
desk, carefully laid out as the centre ornament on the top of the high
chest of drawers at the foot of the bed.
"I wonder what he's got in there," the rascally son said to himself.
"I'll make a point of having a good hunt through it before long."
"Father," he added aloud, "did Mr. Field put his offer in writing when
he promised you a hundred pounds for the cottage and the land?"