THE BURGLARY AT THE HALL.
Night had come upon the old hall, and the fresh spring wind, trying to
whistle a tune for the young leaves to dance to, was the only thing
that disturbed the perfect calm which had fallen upon the spot.
Up in his library at the hall the squire sat among his books and
papers.
Beside him lay a packet of faded yellow letters—the letters his wife
had written him during their happy married life There were not many of
them, for they were seldom apart, and the opportunity for
correspondence had rarely arisen.
He had found them to-night in a box to which he had gone for something
else, and he had read them over.
All of them mentioned George. They had been written mostly when George
was a little lad, one year that the squire had gone abroad for six
weeks by himself. As the old man read the words of tender love and
devotion, he thanked God that this fond heart, at least, had ceased to
beat ere its idol could grow up to break it.
Then he wondered if things would have been different had she lived.
Perhaps he had been too severe and expected too much.
He read the lines traced by the hand long cold in the grave, and a
strange sense of uneasiness came over him.
It seemed as though the spirit of the dead woman was pleading with him
for her boy.
The hereafter was a mystery. If the eyes of the saints look down upon
earth, what would the mother in heaven think of the father who robbed
his son of his inheritance and left him a beggar?
The old man was low and desponding, and his mind was none too vigorous
now. Strange fancies came to him at times. He wrestled with the devil
in spirit, and endeavoured to ascribe every trifling incident to the
direct interposition of Providence.
He had been proud of his son, he said to himself, and made an earthly
idol of him The worship had certainly been as cold and formal as some
other worships which look down with considerable contempt on enthusiasm
in religion, but he persuaded himself it had been there. So he was
punished for his idolatry by the shattering of his idol. In olden times
he would have worn a shirt of hair and washed the feet of beggars for
his sins; now he strove to put himself right by mortifying not the
flesh but the spirit—by trampling out his natural affections, and
misinterpreting the will of heaven.
He read the letters of his dead wife, which spoke of George again and
again. Once he cast them aside with a shudder. It was another wile of
the Evil One to lure him into leniency for the transgressor. But
gradually his heart softened as memory carried him back to the happiest
days of his life, when his sweet Ruth tossed the laughing child upon
her knee and held him up for his father’s kiss.
It was not long ago—it was to-day. He could see them. The gloomy room
faded away, and it was the pleasant summer time. There with
fresh-plucked roses in her hand, sat his wife, and George—little
George—was clapping his baby hands with delight as ‘pretty mamma’
twined the beautiful buds in her hair.
He started up, and held his hands towards the vision, but it faded in
an instant, and he was once more alone—a miserable, weak old man,
wifeless and childless.
‘No, no!’ he cried, burying his facc in his hands. ‘My heart relents; I
cannot do it. She would rise from her grave. Ruth—my poor Ruth—for your
dear sake I will forgive him all!’
For a few minutes the old man, a prey to violent emotion, the tears
streaming down his face, struggled with himself. The old love he had
trampled beneath the heel of supposed duty was beating at his heart and
striving to enter. The wall of faith was weak to-night—it gave way, and
love marched in a conqueror.
With feverish hands he seized the pen, and, taking a sheet of paper,
began to write.
His pen moved on rapidly—he wrote as though he feared a hand would
seize his wrist and stop him.
Love had conquered. Squire Heritage wrote that night how, being of
sound mind, he did revoke the will made in favour of Ruth Adrian, and
give and bequeath all his property to his beloved son George.
Then he rang the bell. He would have his signature witnessed at once,
lock it up and put it away, lest he might repent at the last moment. He
summoned the old butler and one of the servants, who came up wondering
at their presence being required.
If the master had asked them to stand on their heads they could not
have been more surprised than when the squire bade them watch him write
his name on a piece of paper, and then write theirs underneath it. The
butler felt as if he was committing a midnight crime; but he obeyed, so
did the other servant.
Then the squire dismissed them wondering, and, folding up the paper,
placed it among the letters of his dead wife. It seemed to him that it
was an answer to them, and should be with them.
He put them back into the box he had taken them from. It was a small
deed-box, and contained all Mrs. Heritage’s jewellery.
Her wedding-ring he wore himself; but her diamonds, all her bracelets
and trinkets, he had refused to part with. He had gathered them
together, and put them in this box with her letters, and a few of the
little treasures that had been dear to her in life. There was a small
locket with a curl from baby George’s head; there was the hair he cut
with trembling fingers as he stooped to kiss the marble brow of his
lost one for the last time.
When he had placed the letters and the paper in the box, he drew out
the jewel-cases and opened them. He had not looked at them for years.
To-night he was living in the past. He opened case after case, and
gazed lovingly at the gleaming jewels within. But as the diamonds
sparkled in the gaslight, and the rubies and the emeralds shot forth
their coloured rays, as though eager to escape from the long darkness
in which they had been imprisoned, the old squire thought not of their
value and beauty, but of the loving bosom the necklace once lay upon,
of the gentle wrists the bracelets once clasped.
As he laid them back in the box and closed it with a sigh, he fancied
he heard a sound in the passage outside.
He hurried to see what it was.
The library door was slightly ajar and the gas was lit.
As he turned he heard, or fancied he heard, a rustle, as though some
one who had been peering into the room had moved away.
There was no one about belonging to the house, he knew. The servants
had gone to the servants’ hall, and they never came near him except
when he rang.
It was about nine o’clock, and they would be all at supper down below.
Who was watching him?—who was spying on his movements?
He walked rapidly towards the door.
At the same moment he heard a noise behind him, and felt the wind
blowing in from an open window.
He turned at the sound, and would have shouted for help, but a hand was
thrust over his mouth and a cloth was thrown over his head.
A tall, burly man, with a crape mask on, had him in his grasp.
‘It can’t be helped; he’d have raised a hullabaloo in a minute,’ cried
the man. ‘Quick with the stuff, while I hold him!’
Some one, who never spoke, and whom the squire could not see, was
moving about the room.
‘Now out with the gas and bolt!’ cried the man who held the squire.
At the same time he gave the squire a violent push, that sent him
full-length on the floor.
There was a noise at the window, a thud on the lawn below, and then all
was still.
The force with which the squire had been hurled to the ground had only
partially stunned him. In a few minutes he came round and dragged
himself up. He was trembling and exhausted, and the place was quite
dark.
He rushed to the door and called for help. Presently the terrified
servants came running up.
When the lights were procured, the squire gasped out his story.
A glance round the room showed that the burglars had left by the
window.
They had not left empty-handed.
When the squire looked towards the place where he had left the
deed-box, with his late wife’s letters, jewels, and valuables, it was
gone.