Chapter Ten.
Desperate Doings.
It is not to be supposed that Mary Franklin could mourn very deeply the departure of Mark Rothwell. Recent events had worn out the old impressions of tenderness. All that was bright and attractive in Mark had melted away before the scorching, withering flame of alcohol. She had heard his cruel taunts to her preserver on the evening of her rescue; she had seen him shamefully intoxicated when ill-using his poor horse. Could she cherish love or tenderness for such a being as this? Impossible! She was thankful to forget him. O misery! Why do so many of the good and noble frown upon those who would keep the intoxicating cup altogether out of the hands of the young? What do the young lose by never tasting it? Not health, not cheerfulness, not self-respect, not self-control. No! And what do they gain by tasting? Too often, habits of ruinous self-indulgence; too often a thirst which grows with years; too often a withered manhood or womanhood, and a decrepit and dishonoured old age.
October was drawing to its close: nothing had been heard of the Rothwells, and their old dwelling was now occupied by another tenant. John Randolph’s visits to “The Shrubbery” began to be more frequent, and were certainly not unacceptable. Gratitude to him for her rescue forbade Mary’s repelling him; and, indeed, the more she and her mother came to know him, the more they learnt to value his manly and Christian character. They began likewise to perceive that he was more than he seemed to be. Mr Tankardew had given them to understand latterly that he was their equal both in birth and fortune. A mystery there was about him, it was true; but the veil was now getting so thin that they could both see pretty distinctly through it, but were content to wait for the proper time of its withdrawal. And so it was felt by all that, in time, John Randolph and Mary Franklin would be drawn together by a closer bond than that of esteem and respect, but no one as yet gave outspoken expression to this conviction.
Things were thus hanging in no unpleasing suspense, when, in the twilight of an October evening, two men of rather suspicious appearance might have been seen climbing the paling fence at the back of “The Shrubbery.” Scarcely had one of them reached the top, when a third person approached, at first hastily; then he suddenly checked himself, and cautiously crept along, so as to keep himself out of the sight of the two others who were climbing into the grounds. This third person was John Randolph, who had lately left “The Shrubbery,” and had come round by the road at the back, to call, by Mrs Franklin’s request, on a poor sick cottager in the village. The road in this part was lonely, and the trespassers evidently imagined themselves unobserved. The first who scaled the palings was a stoutish, middle-aged man: but who was the other? Randolph’s heart beat violently with a terrible suspicion. Did he know this second figure? He could not be quite sure, for he was afraid to approach too near; but he was almost convinced that he had seen him before. When fairly over the fence, both men crept along as quietly as possible under the shelter of a large bank of evergreens. He who had climbed over last led the way, and was plainly well acquainted with the grounds; he was a much younger man than his companion, and seemed scarcely sober, yet without having lost self-possession and the knowledge of what he was doing. John waited till they were fairly out of hearing, and then himself rapidly and noiselessly followed them towards the house under cover of the laurels. It was now getting very dusk, but he could manage to track them till they had reached some outhouses, along the wall of which they crawled, crouching down. And now they had arrived at the rear of the house, and stood in shadow opposite a back passage window. Randolph crept silently up and squeezed himself behind a huge water-butt, where he was perfectly concealed, and could overhear part of the conversation now hurriedly held between the two burglars, if such they were.
“You’re sure the man does not sleep in the house?” asked the elder man.
“Sure,” replied the second, in a husky whisper. John Randolph felt pretty certain that he knew the voice, but he hardly dared think it.
“Where’s the plate chest?”
“Don’t know: most likely in the pantry.”
John was now confident that he knew the speaker.
“Hush!” whispered the elder man, fiercely, “this passage window ’ll do: it won’t take much to prise it open: you’ll look after the women.”
“Trust me for that,” muttered the other; and Randolph thought he heard a click, as of the cocking of a pistol.
“Hush, you fool!” growled the older burglar, with an oath: then there was a few moments’ silence, and the two crept back. They sat down under the shelter of some large shrubs, with their backs to John, who could only just make them out from his hiding-place, for it was now getting quite dark. A little while, and they rose, and passed very near their unsuspected watcher, who could just catch the words “Two o’clock,” as they made their way back to the fence. A few moments more, and they were clear of the grounds.
John Randolph’s mind was made up in a moment what to do. Having cautiously followed the two men into the road, and ascertained that they were not lurking anywhere about “The Shrubbery,” he hurried off at once to Hopeworth, and communicated what he had seen and heard to the police. He was very anxious that no unnecessary alarm should be given to Mrs Franklin or Mary, and that they should be kept, if possible, in ignorance of the whole matter till the danger was over; so he resolved to accompany the constables, who, with the superintendent, were preparing to encounter the housebreakers. It was presumed, from what he had overheard, that an attempt was to be made on “The Shrubbery” that very night, and that the two men seen by John Randolph were only part of a larger gang. Help was therefore procured, and about one o’clock a party of a dozen, including John, all disguised in labourers’ clothes, had noiselessly scaled the fence in different parts by two and two, and, recognising one another by a password previously agreed upon, were soon clustered together under some dense shrubs not far from the passage window before mentioned. It was a tranquil morning, but very cloudy. All was deep stillness in the house. Little did Mrs Franklin and her daughter think, as they read together before parting for the night those comforting words, “The angel of the Lord encampeth round about them that fear Him, and delivereth them,” that such foes and such protectors were so close at hand. But they laid them down in perfect peace, and their heavenly Father’s loving power was as a wall of fire about them. Patiently did the watchers listen from their hiding-place to every sound. Two o’clock, at last, rang out clear from the great timepiece on the stairs; they could hear it distinctly outside. What was that sound? Only the distant barking of a fox. But now there are other sounds. One, two, three, at length six men in all have crept to the part of the yard opposite the back door. All paused and looked carefully round: everything seemed safe.
“Well,” said one who appeared to be a leader, “it does not seem as if we need be over particular: there’s neither dog nor man about, and the women won’t do much. Where’s the crowbar?”
“Here.”
Just at this moment a bright ray of light flashed out along the passage, and a female figure could be seen crossing the landing. The housebreakers shrunk back.
“It will not do,” said the leader, half aloud; “they’ve got scent of us somehow: pr’aps they’ve some men inside to help them, we’d better be off.”
“Fools! Cowards!” exclaimed a younger man, in a fierce whisper, as the others began to slink away; “are you afraid of a parcel of women? But I’ll not be baffled: she’s there:” and he raised a pistol, and pointed it towards the figure which had descended close to the passage window with the light in her hand, and was trying to peer into the darkness outside. His companion pulled down his arm with a savage imprecation. All was still for a few minutes, and the female retired to the landing and then disappeared. The burglars hesitated, when, just at the moment of their indecision, one of the police imitated the low growling of a dog close at hand. Instantly the whole gang took to their heels, closely followed by the constables. No shout had been raised, no word had been spoken, for John Randolph had been most anxious that the thieves should be captured without alarming the ladies. And now in the darkness, pursuers and pursued were scattered in different directions. John sprang after the young man who had raised the pistol, and succeeded in grappling with him before he could mount the fence. The clouds were now dispersed, and there was light enough for one to recognise another. Randolph could not doubt; the intended murderer was Mark Rothwell. Fiercely did the two young men strive together, and at last both fell, Mark undermost; and, relaxing
his hold, John was rising to his feet, when the other drew a pistol, but before he could fire his adversary had turned it aside; it went off, wounding the unhappy young man who held it. Randolph drew back in dismay, hearing the injured man’s involuntary groan, but in another instant Mark had drawn a second pistol and fired. The ball grazed the other’s forehead, and he staggered back stupefied. When he recovered himself Mark had disappeared, and never from that night was heard of or seen in Hopeworth or its neighbourhood. Near the part of the fence where the scuffle took place were afterwards found marks of a horse’s hoofs, and traces of blood. The miserable young man contrived to get clear away: the rest of the gang were all captured by the police.
The day after this adventure old Mr Tankardew and John Randolph paid a visit together to “The Shrubbery.” Of course the wildest tales were in circulation, the central point in most being the murder of Mrs Franklin and her daughter. “I trust,” said the old man to Mary and her mother, “that you have suffered nothing but a little fright. All’s well that ends well, and I’m thankful that my young friend here was able to be of some service; you see, God can take care of His own.”
“It has been so, indeed,” replied Mrs Franklin; “Mary could not sleep, she cannot tell why; she felt restless and uneasy, and just about two o’clock she was crossing to my room, when she thought she heard some unusual sounds in the yard. She looked out of the passage window, but could see nothing; then she heard a sort of scuffle, and, after that, all was still; and, though we were rather alarmed, we heard nothing more. But this morning has brought us strange tidings, and I find that we are again indebted to our kind young friend here for help in time of need, and that, too, I fear, at his own imminent risk.”
“Don’t mention this,” said the young man; “it has been a privilege to me to have been able to render this assistance. I am only too thankful that I was put in the way of discovering what might have otherwise been a very serious business. But we must see that you are better protected for the future.”
“True, true, John,” interrupted Mr Tankardew, smiling; “I see I must put in a word. My dear child, Miss Franklin seems more willing than able to speak just now. Yes; let me make a clean breast of it. Let me introduce our young friend in a new character, John Randolph Tankardew, my only son, my only surviving child.” His voice trembled, and then he added, “He has twice been the protector of my dear adopted daughter, let me join their hands together as a pledge that he may shortly obtain a better title to be her protector while life shall last.”
And so, placing the half-shrinking hand of Mary in the young man’s stronger grasp, he held them together with a fervent blessing.
“And now,” he added, as they sat in a loving group, too full of tearful peace to wish to break the charmed silence by hasty words, “now let me tell my story, and unravel the little tangle which has made me a mystery to my neighbours, and a burden to my friends. But all that is past; there are brighter days before us now.”