A PLEASANT SURPRISE.

I HAD nothing to do with the goods department at Oakhill Station. The traffic was considerable, and the bookkeeper there was a man of thirty, named Rushton.

About a week after my interview with Mr. Burford, Rushton entered the office and said to me, "I have sent your goods to the cottage."

"Goods!" I exclaimed. "I am expecting none. You must have made a mistake."

"Then you will have a pleasant surprise if you are looking for nothing. There is a heavy case, at the contents of which I could guess if I liked, waiting for you at Jabez Harwood's. You will doubtless find it outside the door. Go and look for yourself."

It was just dinner-time, and I hurried home, to find that Rushton had told me the truth. Before me was a huge case, the shape of which suggested that it contained a piano. My address was plainly written on a large card, on which were also the printed words,—

"From Messrs. John Broadwood and Sons—carriage paid."

The address was plain enough. The case could be meant for no one but me, so I was fain to seek the aid of the nearest carpenter, who set about unpacking it under the admiring eyes of a group of children.

It was a piano, or rather a pianette, the smallest instrument obtainable, and one of the best of its kind, evidently purchased with a full knowledge of the scanty space at my disposal. No letter, no message, apparently. Who could have sent it?

Stay. On opening it, I discovered a slip of paper lying on the keys, and read the words,—

"To John Simpson: from a friend. With hearty good wishes.".

That was all. No use trying to find out the sender by the handwriting, for the message was in printing characters.

There was a receipted invoice, but that was made out to Mr. John Simpson, so the instrument had been bought in my name. There were the glass supports too, all ready, so that I could only, with wondering thankfulness, help to place the piano in the best position, run my fingers once lovingly over the keys, and prepare to resume my duties at the office.

I subsequently saw Mr. Burford, whose genuine surprise proved the truth of his assurance that he knew absolutely nothing of the matter.

I wrote to the makers, who sent me the original order for the instrument. It was written in the same style as the message I found on the keys, and merely instructed them to forward a pianette of the best quality to my address, and to place the slip of paper and receipted account where I found them. Bank-notes in payment accompanied the order. They could tell me no more, and I could discover nothing, so I came to the conclusion that some old friend of my mother's had thus shown kindness to me for her sake, and I wished he could know how much happiness he had given.

The delight in this precious acquisition was not confined to myself. Words cannot describe with what pride and exultation old Jabez Harwood and Betsy regarded the instrument. That their cottage-roof should shelter a piano, was a something too good to be true. That in their living-room it should be made to give forth sweet sounds, was so entirely out of the ordinary way, and so suggestive of gentility, that the old couple felt as if they had been lifted into a higher social position by the very fact of its presence.

When I played my more brilliant pieces, Jabez and Betsy would express their surprise that mortal fingers could travel so fast and know all the time where they were going to land. This was the only way in which they were affected by music which required a fair amount of execution. It was when I played simple, old-fashioned tunes on week-nights, or well-known sacred ones on Sunday evenings, that the old folk declared they had a real treat.

Jabez was very proud of the fact that he "had used to sing in the choir" when he was a lad. "Not," said he, "that we had an organ, or even a 'harmonial,' in those days, Mr. John. But it was quite as hard singing along with two fiddles, a clarinet, and a bassoon that disagreed among themselves as ours did—leastways those that played them, and had ought to have kept in tune with one another in more ways than one."

I quite agreed with Jabez, and it was a true pleasure to me to revive such memories, and induce the old man to lift up a quavering voice to a hymn-tune rarely heard now-a-days, but precious in his ears, and never to be forgotten by a former choir-boy. I might prefer the music of the present, but I would not say so to Jabez, who gloried in tunes with many flourishes and repeats, and considered the modern style a sad falling off in every way.

"Not that I can sing 'em now, Mr. John," he would say as he shook his grey head after a vain attempt to get up high enough or go down low enough to meet the requirements of the tune; "but there was a time when my voice rang through the old church, and above everything else, though James Grayson, that played the bassoon, used to try and bray me down, because his lad had a poor, weak, penny whistle of a voice, that could hardly be heard a yard off. Many's the sixpence your grandfather has given me for singing up so well and keeping the other lads going."

The old man's face would light up at the memory of past musical achievements, and Betsy's would reflect its sunshine as she listened.

"I can remember as well as if it were yesterday," she would say by way of confirmation. "There's not much between Jabez and me in age—only a year or so—and I mind hearing him where I sat, and thinking he was worth all the rest of the lot put together."

Then perhaps old Jabez would give a knowing look, and remark—

"You see how it was, Mr. John; she had her eye on me even when I was only a youngster. But, dear heart! it was likely she would look my way, for we lived side by side from the time we were born, and were playmates—all the brothers and sisters of both families—from the days we could toddle."

I liked to hear this well-matched couple talk of their early days, and I wished from my heart, that all husbands and wives were as tender and true towards each other, as this humble pair were.

If it sometimes cost me a little self-denial to play the tunes which Jabez loved, and to hear his vocal efforts, I was more than repaid by feeling that I could in this way give a little pleasure to those who grudged no trouble to promote my comfort.

Old Jabez's voice might be cracked and tremulous, and Betsy's resemble the least tuneful notes of which bagpipes are capable, but I was sure that their hymns of praise went up from thankful hearts.

"What matters it how your voices may sound in my ears?" I asked myself. "You are singing and making melody in your hearts to the Lord, and your notes will join with those of angels, and cause no discord."

I even went so far as to teach old Jabez to play the "Old Hundredth" on the piano. He only used one finger, which looked about as flexible as a stumpy carrot, and his time was "ad libitum." But he got through it somehow, and at the close looked up from the piano with as much pride as if he had played a fugue of Bach's or a sonata of Beethoven's.

Betsy was quite lost in admiration the first time he went through his tune without a mistake, and remarked—

"If you'd ha' learned young, you'd ha' made a grand player, Jabez."

My old landlord only performed in private, but I could name a country village in which, some twenty years ago, a schoolroom was used for service, because there was no regular place of worship within reach of a large portion of its population.

The people subscribed for and bought a harmonium, and then found they had no one on whose attendance they could depend, to play it for them. So for a time a lad, with a correct musical ear acted as stop-gap, and led the singing by playing the hymn-tunes on the harmonium with one finger only.

My piano did not suffer from being in a cottage house-place. Betsy was most careful to preserve its polished case from speck or spot. She turned a wonderful piece of patchwork, a triumph of her girlish days, into a cover for it, and whenever sweeping or dusting had to be done, it was put on to keep the piano from the chance of a scratch.

One evening we were talking about voices and singers, when Betsy remarked, "What a sweet voice George had, and stronger than yours!"

She spoke to Jabez, but I asked, "Who was George?"

She seemed strangely confused at the question.

And turning to Jabez, I noticed that his face had lost its ruddy colour, as he replied in a low, unsteady voice—"He was our only son, Mr. John."

I was greatly surprised, for I had always thought there had been no children born to Jabez and Betsy.

"I never knew you had a son. Is he—"

I began the sentence, but Jabez interrupted me by saying—

"We—we lost him a many years ago, when he was only twenty, and before you were born. It was a great trouble—the worst we ever had; and although it happened so long ago, it upsets me to talk about him."

"We don't talk," said Betsy; "only I forgot myself at the minute, for I seemed to hear his voice that was like what his father's was when he was young, only stronger."

Then Betsy turned away, and I saw her dash the gathering tears from her eyes; whilst Jabez sat still where he was, but silent, and there was no more music or talk about it that night. The unfortunate allusion to their lost son had brought sad memories, and I too felt that the brightness had left the fireside for that night at any rate.

I went early to my room, and I heard Jabez go upstairs directly afterwards.

Then came a light tap at my door, and on opening it, I saw Betsy.

"Excuse me, Mr. John," she whispered, "but I want to ask a favour. Please do not let on to anybody, either in the house or out of it, that you know about our lad. I forgot myself to-night, for we never mention his name even to one another. Jabez cannot bear to hear it, for it seems as if a word is enough to bring back all the old trouble again. People are very kind; they know how my poor old man feels about this, and they say nothing. You could see for yourself that the loss of the lad is one of those things that can never be got over. I was so vexed with myself for naming him to-night that I could almost have bitten the end of my tongue when I had done it."

I readily promised that I would not mention the lost son, "either in the house or out of it," as Betsy requested.

And she left me with a look of infinite relief on her face and a cordial "Good-night, and may God ever bless and keep you, Mr. John!"

I could not quite shut out the memory of what had passed as easily as Betsy closed the door behind her, and the thought would come into my mind again and again—"How strange it is that even this little cottage has its closet with the proverbial hidden skeleton, and that I never dreamed of its presence until to-night!"

I could not rid myself of the feeling that there was some mystery connected with the lost son, or else his death must have occurred under peculiarly painful circumstances. Only such a supposition could account for the ashy paleness which spread itself over the face of Jabez, at the mere mention of his name, and Betsy's regret for having caused him pain, and fear lest I should again allude to what had passed.

I began to calculate dates and ages. Jabez was sixty-six, his wife a year younger, so they must have lost their son when they were both under forty years of age; and George, were he living, would now be seven or eight and thirty, at least. But no doubt, in the minds of his parents, he would be endowed with lasting youth, for he died in all the freshness and glory of budding manhood, at twenty years of age. And he was all they had. Still, in such cases, time generally exercises a healing influence, and as the years pass, the parents wipe away their tears, and love to dwell upon all the qualities which made their lost ones so dear to their hearts. It was strange that Jabez and Betsy could not bear to speak of their boy to each other, and that in all my life, I could not remember that I had ever before heard his existence mentioned.

There was certainly no stone in Oakhill churchyard which bore George Harwood's name, and I well knew the spot where lay his kindred on both sides the house. I also knew every monument in our country "God's acre," and could have repeated all the quaint rhymes which told more in favour of the virtues of those who lay beneath, than of the poetical taste of the survivors who composed or selected the inscriptions.

"Perhaps," thought I, "the young man was drowned, and his body never recovered, or he was the victim of some fearful accident, or—"

But before I had come to the end of my guesses, sleep, happily, cut them short, or I fear I should have been ill-fitted to begin my work in the morning.