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.”