A RIDDLE SOLVED.

"MR. JOHN, we want to have a little bit of quiet talk with you—Jabez and me. There is a something that we have been turning over together, and we feel it is only right we should mention it to you."

It was Betsy Harwood who spoke, and she said this very soon after I received such an important addition to my salary.

From the time of my going to live with the Harwoods, I had been accustomed to speak to them quite unreservedly about my private concerns. They were so trustworthy and staunch, so deeply interested in my well-being, that I could not have had more sympathetic confidants. They might talk of their own concerns or gossip about those of the neighbourhood, but of my affairs or doings, never.

When I first told them of my improved position, they were radiant with delight, and proud beyond expression that I should be so trusted and recompensed whilst still so young.

They believed that I was now on the high-road to fortune, to the recovery of Lint Hall, to everything that was most desirable, and they rejoiced accordingly.

Soon afterwards, I noticed that my old friends were unusually silent and seemed to be in trouble, and I wondered if their low spirits could be connected with their former lodger.

When Betsy opened her mind, I was greatly relieved to find that she and Jabez were only worrying themselves about me and my worldly position.

"You have been very good to Jabez and me, Mr. John," said she. "As you've prospered, we've prospered. When you first came, you gave us the same money a week as that other young railway gentleman did, and we were quite content. Then you went up to four shillings, and lately nothing would serve but we must have six, and you paying extra for washing. You have helped us in more ways beside. Mr. John, you are giving too much for what you get, seeing the place we live in. Why, if you had the whole cottage to yourself, it wouldn't be worth it, and it goes against our consciences to take it."

"Why, Betsy, I could never be half so comfortable anywhere else as I am here. If I went to lodge in a larger house, I should have to pay much more than I can induce you to take. Who would ever care for me as you have done?" I asked.

"I won't give in to anybody in the way of wanting to make you comfortable, Mr. John," said Betsy. "It's not that."

"What is it, then?"

"Well, people have been talking as if a gentleman like you ought to lodge somewhere more suitable to your—your forefathers," said Jabez, after a struggle for a word. "I was going to say family, but there is none to speak of left," he continued. "Remarks have been made that a nice sitting-room, with a bow-window facing the road, would be nearer the thing than our parlour with a latticed one, and no better look-out than our bit of garden. It seems to me that a many people are beginning to take a deal of interest in you, Mr. John."

"Then I can truly say 'Thank you for nothing' to all those who are beginning to concern themselves about my surroundings. What would have become of me when I was left fatherless and homeless, if you had not taken me in? You were the best of friends to me when I was very poor and could afford to pay so little. How could I enjoy my prosperity if I were not allowed, in some degree, to share it with you? I would gladly do more if you would let me."

The look of proud satisfaction on Betsy's face as she turned towards Jabez was pleasant to see.

"Just hear how Mr. John do talk," she said, "making out as if we had not all along been paid for our work. We have only done what was our bounden duty to do. But there are plenty saying that a poor place like ours is not becoming to young Mr. Simpson, as was brought up so different, and that for your own sake, you ought to move to different 'partments at once."

"I have no doubt those who now take so much interest in my concerns, are the very ones who turned their heads in the opposite direction when I was first left to shift for myself. I will have none of them. I am thankful that poverty has taught me the difference between true and fair-weather friends, and that I am not likely to mistake the one for the other. If you two tell me that you wish to be rid of me, I will go, but I will take a notice to quit only from my landlady herself," and I looked at Betsy.

"We can never want you to leave for our sakes, Mr. John," said Betsy. "Your being here means good and brightness and comfort to us in every way. But, however hard it would be to part with you, we could do that if it would be better for you to leave us."

The kindly creature's voice trembled, but she bravely added, "I mean what I say, Mr. John."

"So do I, Betsy, and therefore we will consider the matter settled until you give me notice to go."

It was not quite settled, though, for one whose friendship I could not doubt, was a little dissatisfied about my lodgings. This was Mr. Burford.

"The cottage was all very well whilst you were a boy and strict economy a matter of necessity, unless you would have deigned to accept help from an outsider," he said. "But you are certain to be invited out more now you are grown up, and you can hardly receive friends in the house-place at old Harwood's."

"My duties at the station will furnish me a sufficient excuse for declining invitations if I should receive any," I replied. "Thus far, the cottage house-place has sufficed to accommodate the friends who have sought me at home."

"That may be, Jack, but recent events have proved that you are not destitute of friends. If I am not mistaken, some of those who were so ready to speak a good word for you at the board meeting a little while ago, will try to show you more direct personal kindness before long."

"I hope I am not ungrateful," said I, "but I would rather be allowed to show my sense of these gentlemen's goodwill towards me, by the way in which I fulfil my duties than in any other. I have been let alone so long, that I ask for nothing but to go on in the old way. As to leaving the Harwoods, I simply cannot; and were I ungrateful and foolish enough to do so, I should be the sufferer, and deserve to be."

"There is a good deal of truth in what you say, my boy, and I know how you are cared for at present; still, a change might be effected without parting you and the Harwoods," said Mr. Burford. "The cottage is part of the Lint Hall property, which you are to buy back, you know, and it is one of the poorest dwellings on the estate. There is a really nice little house at liberty just now, with a bit of garden front and back, quite as much ground as Jabez has at present. If the old people could be persuaded to move into it, for your sake, both they and you would be infinitely more comfortable. The rent will be very low, only a couple of pounds more than that of the cottage."

"You mean the one where old Mrs. Henderson lived—'Rose Cottage,' she called it," I replied.

"Yes, and well she might, for it is a very bower of roses. The front is covered with them, and though the dwelling is so small, it is quite pretty. There are a good sitting-room, a front and a back kitchen, and three bedrooms, with many little conveniences which the Harwood cottage lacks."

"It would be a very suitable place to remove to, if Betsy and Jabez were not so wedded to the old spot, but it would cost them a great wrench to leave it now."

"It would be the best possible thing for them both, considering what miserable associations are connected with that cottage. Removal would help to deaden the memory of their past sorrows. And if they were once out of it, the old dwelling should be levelled with the ground as rapidly as it could be done," said Mr. Burford.

I was quite in the dark as to his meaning, and I think my face showed this, for he continued—

"I suppose you do not remember the circumstances? But how could you? They happened either before or just after you were born. Did the old people never speak of their son to you?"

I had most carefully kept my word to Betsy, and never alluded to that one conversation which had stirred her and Jabez so painfully. Now Mr. Burford named the lost son, I could only answer that he had been incidentally mentioned on a single occasion, but never afterwards.

"They said they had lost him, and I could see that, though so many years had passed, the wound was as fresh as ever," I replied.

"Did they tell you he was dead?" asked Mr. Burford, with a curious expression on his face.

"No; I suppose I took that for granted. Is he not?"

"I may as well tell you the story, Jack, for I see you are in the dark as to the real state of affairs. The Harwoods had only this one lad, a sharp, clever fellow, of whom they made an idol almost. From the time he could speak and walk, they let him have too much of his own way, and the more they yielded, the more he exacted in after-days. Unfortunately, his cleverness was misapplied from the first, and he became the ringleader in every piece of mischief perpetrated by the lads of the neighbourhood. George—that was his name—delighted in being talked about; and though at first he was, I believe, more actuated by a spirit of reckless fun than by anything worse, he unfortunately made acquaintance with another youth who was vicious as well as daring. This lad's name was Michael Perry, or 'Black Mike,' as he was generally called on account of his dark hair and swarthy skin. Most people thought he came of gipsy parentage, but nothing was known of him except that he was a waif from the roadside, the child of a poor woman who had sunk down there, worn-out with wandering and pinched with cold, and who was carried to the workhouse to die. She was never able to give any account of herself, so Mike was left to be brought up by the parish, and in time apprenticed to the blacksmith, whose forge is about two hundred yards from the station. You know it, Jack."

I assented, and Mr. Burford continued.

"Mike was sharp enough, and became very clever at his craft, as well as in other ways. He turned scraps of metal to account in a fashion little suspected by those who praised his deftness at his work. The master, who admired the neatly turned horseshoes which his apprentice had asked leave to make after working-hours, little dreamed that, besides these, Mike was amusing himself by making skeleton-keys of many sizes, and other implements to be unlawfully used whenever an opportunity should offer.

"For a long time, however, Mike was rather a favourite than otherwise. He had plenty of fun, and during his workhouse sojourn, he had come across many queer characters and picked up strange stories of adventure, which he retailed for the amusement of young and old. He never lacked listeners, for in a country town, the forge is a favourite lounging-place, and there were always idlers ready to be entertained.

"Probably the men could detect and would laugh in their sleeves at Mike's embellishments; for, of course, the more willing people were to listen, the more the lad drew on his imagination to make his stories exciting and attractive.

"With the boys it was different, and over these Black Mike's tales exercised a most unfortunate influence, turning as they did upon daring robberies and the hair-breadth escapes of those who had committed them.

"Careful mothers began to watch their lads during the dinner-hour, and forbade their hurrying over the meal so that they might go and listen to Mike. There was one, however, over whom Mike had obtained a great influence, and this was George Harwood. His parents saw, but too late, that the blacksmith's apprentice was doing their boy a world of harm by filling his head with unwholesome notions. It was too late to undo the mischief, and equally so to enforce obedience when they would fain have stopped the acquaintance, for their son heard their commands, and simply went his own way as before, never dreaming of obeying them.

"You are young, Jack, but you have seen enough to know how easy is the downward course. The boyish pranks, so innocent at first, became mischievous and hurtful to others. The daring lad became the hardened youth; the spoiled child grew into the son who defied his parents and would none of their reproofs. Mischief degenerated still further and became criminal. It had seemed fun to startle people out of their beds by some practical joke, and a trifle to ease the laden trees of a portion of their fruit, when the owner was sleeping peacefully and with no thought of nightly marauders in his orchard.

"Soon these exploits were not exciting enough, and the lads went on from bad to worse.

"I should tell you that, whilst George Harwood was not so much wicked, to begin with, as led away by a daring temperament and fondness for fun, Mike Perry was as selfish and cunning as he was clever.

"So he often managed to throw the blame upon George which should have rested upon himself; and, to the intense grief of his honest parents, people began to shun the lad and warn their own children against associating with him.

"Still, George, a stalwart youth, tall for his age, and industrious by fits and starts, always found employment when he was willing to take it. He had seasons of remorse, too, when he grieved over his ill-doing, made promises of amendment, and gladdened his parents' hearts by remaining quietly at home and earning his own bread by very real work.

"It was during one of these steady intervals that he met with a terrible accident. He was going from farm to farm with a steam thrashing-machine when it happened, and he had nearly lost his life.

"I cannot describe how the mischief was done, but George was caught by the machine in some way, and when he was extricated, he was fearfully hurt. It was a wonder he lived through it; and when one thinks of all that followed, we are apt to say it would have been better had he died then. But who can tell? At any rate, he did recover, though after many months of confinement to his bed and much suffering.

"You will imagine, Jack, how Betsy would nurse him, thinking nothing of self, hardly conscious of weariness when endured for the sake of her lad."

I could well picture the dear woman's devotion, and I said so to Mr. Burford.

"Ay, Jack; and she, poor soul! ready to hope for the best, and giving full faith to his expression of regret and promises of amendment, thought that her son was given back to her—that there would be a fresh start, a putting off of the old habits, and a putting on of new and better ones. But she was doomed to disappointment, all the more bitter because she had become so hopeful.

"If only Michael Perry had been out of the way, I think the Harwoods would not have lost their son, but whilst he was so very ill, and the chances of his recovery seemed so small, it was hard to refuse any request that George made. He wished to see Mike, and the parents, thinking that his coming would matter little under the circumstances, yielded to him as usual.

"I dare say they were also touched by Mike's own conduct, for he seemed so distressed at the terrible condition of his late companion, so full of gratitude that the accident had not resulted from any of their pranks together, that the parents were led to regard his doings as leniently as they did those of their son. He deceived them, as he had done others, and not merely by regretful allusions to his past follies, but by expressing good resolutions for the future.

"He looked quite solemnly at his friend, and said to Betsy, 'If ever anybody could get a lesson, the sight of poor George might give him one. To see him, that was the strongest amongst us, lying there as helpless as a baby, struck down all in a moment, makes one think of what has to come to us all. I've got a warnin', I can tell you,' and so on.

"But I must cut my story short. George did recover, and went back to his old ways, and worse. The end of these was, that he and Mike were associated in a crime of a very serious character—burglary with violence—which had nearly cost the life of a gentleman whose house they broke into. It was certainly shortened by the shock, and they both got twenty years' penal servitude.

"George Harwood always declared that he had nothing to do with the attack on the gentleman, and I believed him, and did my best for him at the trial, for his parents' sakes, and because I was able to discern a vast difference between his character and that of his associate. Things, however, looked equally black against both, and the punishment was the same in each case."

"The term must be out by now," I said. "Is George Harwood living?"

"He and Mike were liberated on ticket of leave some years ago, but what became of them, I cannot tell. George Harwood would certainly be recognised if he were seen hereabouts, but, for the old folks' sake, I trust that, if living, he will never disturb them by his presence. I know he has not written for a long time past."

"How would he be so easily recognised?" I asked.

"By a frightful scar crossing the cheek and drawing up the lip on one side, so as to expose the teeth. Nothing could hide or obliterate this mark, which was a result of the accident I told you of," replied Mr. Burford, and his words revealed far more than he had any idea of.