WATCHINGS AND PERPLEXITIES.

WHEN I left the house, I had no intention of going to the old cottage, but I was drawn towards it by a species of fascination. The night was moonless, dark, and cloudy. I wanted to find out more about the man who was in hiding, and I was convinced that, knowing every bush as I did, I should be able to watch the place without being discovered.

There were no visible signs of life or habitation about the dwelling, and I thought it not unlikely that the man might be keeping tryst with Sarah at the Hall, during Jane Cartwright's absence. Perhaps I should see him, or, I might better say, discern him, if he returned soon; for, though I had become accustomed to the darkness, anything like distinct sight was out of the question.

An old thorn-tree, beneath whose bent trunk and boughs, nearly touching the ground, I had often sat, now afforded me a capital hiding-place, and there I waited for whatever might happen.

This tree was in the part of the garden next the lane, and after standing some little time, I heard stealthy footsteps on the other side of the hedge, which ceased as the pedestrian came abreast of the window by which the burglar had entered my old room and succeeded in carrying off my money.

To my intense astonishment, the new-comer swung back the window-frame quite noiselessly, climbed into the room, and closed it after him. It had evidently been made to open again to its full size, and was doubtless intended to afford the means of escape to the present occupant if discovered.

It was well-known that, after the robbery, the window had been securely fastened into its framework, so that only the single pane would open, as was supposed to be the case before the burglary revealed the secret.

No doubt this man, who was in hiding, had made the alteration, and probably in the night-time.

My adventure was not quite over. I was on the point of leaving my place of concealment, when a slight click of the garden-gate warned me that some one was approaching. It was poor Betsy. She gave a light tap at the window which fronted the garden. In a moment, the lattice was opened and a hand extended for something, I could not tell what.

There was not a sound in the lane or on the road; passers-by there were none, for the few people who lived in that neighbourhood were working-folk, who went to rest early, and there was no other cottage within a hundred yards or thereabouts. This fact probably emboldened the man to speak roughly to my poor old landlady, and to raise his voice sufficiently for me to catch part of what he said.

From what I did hear, I concluded that he was demanding a considerable sum of money from the weeping woman, and threatening her with certain consequences if it were not forthcoming.

I could hear Betsy say, "It would take every penny we have saved, and more—all that we have scraped to keep us from the workhouse, when we cannot do a hand-stroke for ourselves."

"No fear of the workhouse for you. Your fine friends will take care of that. Why, you are living like gentlefolks in your old days, and this place, that had served you when you were young, isn't good enough. Not but what it has come in handy for me."

"I wish it had been pulled down, stick and stone," said Betsy; "then you could not have been here."

"Then don't you see I should have come to Rose Cottage; for I had an eye to business at Oakhill, though I don't suppose your gentleman lodger would have wanted another call. Hows'-ever, it's not too late, and when I make up my mind, I'm not easy to turn."

The poor old woman moaned in her distress, and for a few moments I heard no sound except her half-smothered sobs.

"You couldn't—you couldn't be so wicked as to try to rob him again? Besides, he takes care not to keep money by him now. I would rather my last penny went than he should suffer again."

"Then you've only got to buy him off with your spare cash, and keep your only son's neck out of danger at the same time. A nice affectionate mother you are, to care more for your money than for him. You will have to choose between the two, for I am getting desperate. How long do you think I shall stay here, cooped up all the day through, and only stealing out, like a bat or an owl, when it is dark? I had enough of that life whilst I was serving my time in one of Her Majesty's retreats, I can tell you. Do you think it is very nice to have my victuals anyhow, and mostly cold? I was just famished to-night, and dursn't buy a morsel, for fear anybody should remember my face after all these years. If it hadn't been for that girl at the Hall, I should have broken into somebody's pantry and helped myself, but she brought me some nicer bits than you do. It was like a picnic, eating them under the trees;" and the speaker gave a low laugh.

"Why do you entice that silly girl to come and meet you? If she brings you food, she brings what is not hers to give, and may get into trouble through it. You have always had plenty to eat, and good food too, though you may have waited for it sometimes. Leave the girl alone, I say. You have done harm enough in your life. Have you no shame?—Do you never feel sorry?"

"Not I. Who feels sorry for me? Nobody cares enough for me to do that, and nobody need be ashamed on my account. As to the girl—it's the one bit of amusement I have to go meeting her and hearing the news. The old maid at the Hall will be none the poorer for the few bites I have had at her expense."

The wretch muttered something else which I did not hear. It seemed, however, to amuse him immensely, for he gave a chuckling laugh, whilst Betsy appeared to be excited to greater terror and distress by his words.

"I will not listen to such talk!" she said. "If I were not sure that you cannot mean what you say, I would warn—"

not sure that you cannot mean what you say, I would warn—"]

It was well that Betsy stood outside the window and that the man was within, for he aimed a blow at the old woman, which, happily, did not reach her. She waited for no more, but turned and rushed out of the garden as fast as her trembling feet would carry her.

The man muttered something, but he made no attempt to follow. Then he shut the window and fastened it inside, replacing the loosened bars. I waited until I thought it would be safe to leave my hiding-place, and then stole softly away. I reached home after Betsy, and found Jabez standing in the doorway at the back of Rose Cottage.

"It's a very dull night, Mr. John," he said. "I was just looking out for you. You'll excuse Betsy; she's got a bit of a headache, and is gone straight to bed, without waiting till you came in."

"Say good-night to her for me, and tell her I hope she will be better in the morning," I replied, and passed on to my own room.

"Poor soul!" I thought. "She has heart-ache which a night's rest would not cure if she could have it. But I fear there is little hope of quiet sleep either for Betsy or Jabez to-night."

I knew that the old man had waited at the door for my coming in order that I might not see his own face, and that he might make an excuse for his wife's unusual absence.

I too lay down with little expectation of rest. My mind was too full of what I had witnessed, and of fear as to what would be the outcome of that wretched man's presence at Oakhill.

No doubt he had come with the intention of extorting money from his parents, and would not rest satisfied until he had robbed them of the savings of their lives. It was plain that the punishment inflicted for that former offence had wrought no improvement; it must have had rather a hardening effect, for, according to Mr. Burford, George Harwood had been considered, as a youth, rather weak than wicked—one who could not resist the temptations of evil companions, but most unlikely to be ringleader in any deed of darkness, and, in spite of all, retaining a strong affection for his parents.

Mr. Burford's picture bore no resemblance to the hardened ruffian who kept these poor old folk in constant terror and felt no compunction for the past, or hesitation about causing them further suffering. Knowing them as I did, I felt that the very fact of their son's presence would make them miserable. They would shrink with horror from the revelation of such a character as his had developed into, and yet their hearts would yearn after the one only creature who had a right to call them by the sacred names of father and mother.

"Oh that Mr. Burford were home!" thought I. "If I could but speak to him, this dreadful weight of responsibility would be lifted from my shoulders. I have no other friend to whom I can go."

The thought had scarcely crossed my mind when it was followed by a remorseful one. Had I not the Best of Friends, ever present, ever willing to hear and answer, ay, and to make my way plain before me?

I said to myself, "He knows;" and then I told Him all, and humbly asked that my good old friends might be relieved from their present trouble, and I guided as to the best mode of helping them.

I felt happier after this, and I was further comforted by the thought that Mr. Burford would be home on the morrow and I could take counsel with him.

When the morrow came, I was doomed to further disappointment. I knew that Mr. Burford was not expected until the evening, and the day passed sufficiently slowly in the meanwhile. I had some hope of seeing him on his arrival at the station, for I knew whence he was coming, and I was on the platform as each train came in; but I vainly looked for the well-known face.

He would not go to the office after his return—of that I felt assured, but I thought his principal clerk would go to the house to see him there. Acting on this belief, I wrote a few lines to Mr. Burford, and addressed it to the office. It was marked "Private and Urgent," and would only be opened by the lawyer himself. In it I stated that I wished to see him on a matter of great importance, and begged him to grant me an immediate interview in case I failed to see him at the station.

Mr. Burford knew me too well to suppose that I should write in such terms unless there was a needs-be for so doing, and I confidently expected to see him before I slept. However, as no message came and I could ill endure the suspense, I called at the house of Mr. Gordon, Mr. Burford's chief clerk, to inquire if he had come home.

"I am sorry to say he has not," was the reply; "and it is most unfortunate in all ways. He is wanted by two important clients, whose business is of a nature to require Mr. Burford's personal supervision; and there are several other clients, for whom I could act equally well, who insist on waiting for his return. Can I do anything for you?" asked he. "If it be a legal matter, I have no doubt I could be of some use."

Mr. Gordon was a qualified lawyer, and stood high in the esteem of his employer, but Oakhill folk, as a rule, were stubbornly attached to Mr. Burford, and persisted in going to what they called the fountain-head.

"If it had been a legal matter, I should have consulted you at once," I said, "but it is one which involves the private affairs of others, and of which I am at liberty to speak only to Mr. Burford. I wish I were not bound to silence, as it would be a great relief to open my mind to some one else and take counsel from a wiser head than my own."

"Mr. Burford will be in great trouble just now. He had to go away at a most inconvenient time, and now that his presence here is doubly necessary, he has been prevented from returning at the appointed date by his father's illness," said Mr. Gordon.

"Is the dear old man seriously ill?" I asked. "I hope not. I know he is from home, for I helped him into the railway carriage a week ago, and he was then looking wonderfully well. We had quite a pleasant talk, for he kept me standing by the carriage-door as long as possible. He was going to visit his only sister and her husband; both, he said, younger than himself, but less hale for their years."

"He was wonderfully well, and might have been so still but for an accident—a fall, I think, but I do not know particulars. I have only heard that the injury is not a serious one, but the shock to the system is likely to prove so."

It was of no use asking when Mr. Burford would be home, for Mr. Gordon could add little to what he had already told me, and he kindly promised to let me have further news as soon as possible.

I could see that his day's work was by no means done, for his table was covered with papers. By way of apology for not asking me to stay, he pointed to them, and said—

"I shall scarcely finish what must be done on this side midnight. I have brought my work home, because if I remained at the office, I should be constantly interrupted."

I had gone to Mr. Gordon's hoping to leave part of my weight of anxiety behind me; I came away with an additional load, and little prospect of ridding myself of any. I could not count on seeing Mr. Burford at any particular time. I was distressed when I thought of the heavy cloud hanging over Jabez and Betsy, and at its manifest effect on the health and spirits of both. I was in hourly dread that they would be terrified into giving up their little savings in order to buy their son's departure, or that they would be heartbroken by hearing that he had committed some new outrage.

The result of such evil-doing on themselves would be the same whether he was detected or not, as they would guess the author, and suffer accordingly.

I was keeping my knowledge to myself for their sakes, and all the while I was harassed with doubts as to whether secrecy was advisable even on their account.

On the one hand, they were living in a state of perpetual terror; on the other, the shame which would follow the exposure of their secret would, I feared, overwhelm them altogether. For my hand to inflict such a blow would be too terrible; and yet it was surely wrong to screen such a man as George Harwood.

In addition to perplexity on these accounts, I had heard of old Mr. Burford's accident and consequent illness. He had been my kind, unvarying friend; and though we rarely met, he never lost an opportunity of speaking a good word for me and a kind one to me.

He had kept my hand in his up to the last moment that morning at the station, and had whispered—

"I have been thanking God on your behalf, Jack. I was very fond of your poor father and mother, and it makes me glad to know that the son of my old friends is keeping on the right path. Go on and prosper, my boy. Never be ashamed of honest work. The man is to be alike envied and honoured who finds more sweetness in the bread he has earned, than in the dainties offered at the tables of the rich who never knew a like luxury. The clothes that have been paid for by the fruits of daily toil wear well, Jack, and well become the wearer, too. What was that motto you used to talk about—the one on the sixpence?"

"'Work, wait, win,'" I replied.

"Ay, I remember now. You lost the coin and kept the motto. Do not forget the words; I always liked the ring of them myself, Jack. Keep on working, and whilst working and waiting, look to Him who has led you so far, and rest in Him. As to the last word, you may not win great wealth or a high position, but God is sure to give you what is best, and enough of it to satisfy you that those who trust Him can never work or patiently wait in vain. Good-bye, my boy, and may God bless and keep you."

The kindly face and the sound of those farewell words were very present with me as I returned to Rose Cottage, tired and disheartened, after my interview with Mr. Gordon.

The old couple were at home when I entered, and neither Jabez nor Betsy left the house again. I thought they looked a little more cheerful, and I wondered whether they had succeeded in making some bargain with George and were rid of his haunting presence. Not that I hoped the departure would be final, if he had been induced to go; I felt sure that he would come again when he had spent the money extorted from them, but I resolved that they should not be harassed repeatedly, for, come what might, I would interfere for their protection.

"You have deserted an old friend lately, Mr. John," said Betsy, pointing to the piano as she cleared away the supper-tray. "Now the nights are getting long again, maybe we shall have more music."

"You shall have some to-night, if you like," I said, delighted that I could do anything to give them pleasure.

I would not tell them of old Mr. Burford's illness, for I wished to keep away whatever might darken the little brightness I had noticed in both.

So I played their favourite tunes, and though Jabez did not join in with his quavering voice, his lips repeated the words of hymns that suited them, and I had no doubt he was back, in imagination, in the village choir with Betsy as a listener.

"It has been like old times to-night, Mr. John," she said. "You don't know how nice it has been. It has done us good;" and she looked and smiled at Jabez and me in turns, with a happier expression on her face than I had seen there for some time past.