Part 35 (1/2)
”You, father, the companion of a burglar and highway robber?”
”Well, he wasn't just that at the time, though both him and me was bad enough. It was my refusin' to jine him in some of his jobs that made a coolness between us, an' when his mother died I gave him some trouble about money matters, which turned him into my bitterest foe. He vowed he would take my life, and as he was one o' those chaps that, when they say they'll do a thing, are sure to do it, I thought it best to bid adieu to old England, especially as I was wanted at the time by the police.”
Poor Rose of Oregon! The shock to her feelings was terrible, for, although she had always suspected from some traits in his character that her father had led a wild life, it had never entered her imagination that he was an outlaw. For some time she remained silent with her face in her hands, quite unable to collect her thoughts or decide what to say, for whatever her father might have been in the past he had been invariably kind to her, and, moreover, had given very earnest heed to the loving words which she often spoke when urging him to come to the Saviour. At last she looked up quickly.
”Father,” she said, ”I will nurse this man with more anxious care and interest, for his mother's sake.”
”You may do it, dear la.s.s, for his own sake,” returned Paul, impressively, ”for he is your own brother.”
”My brother?” gasped Betty. ”Why, what do you mean, father? Surely you are jesting!”
”Very far from jesting, la.s.s. Stalker is your brother Edwin, whom you haven't seen since you was a small girl, and you thought was dead. But, come, as the cat's out o' the bag at last, I may as well make a clean breast of it. Sit down here on the bank, Betty, and listen.”
The poor girl obeyed almost mechanically, for she was well-nigh stunned by the unexpected news, which Paul had given her, and of which, from her knowledge of her father's character, she could not doubt the truth.
”Then Stalker--Edwin--must be your own son!” she said, looking at Paul earnestly.
”Nay, he's not my son, no more than you are my daughter. Forgive me, Betty. I've deceived you throughout, but I did it with a good intention. You see, if I hadn't pa.s.sed myself off as your father, I'd never have bin able to git ye out o' the boardin'-school where ye was putt. But I did it for the best, Betty, I did it for the best; an' all to benefit your poor mother an' you. That is how it was.”
He paused, as if endeavouring to recall the past, and Betty sat with her hands clasped, gazing in Paul's face like a fascinated creature, unable to speak or move.
”You see, Betty,” he resumed, ”your real father was a doctor in the army, an' I'm sorry to have to add, he was a bad man--so bad that he went and deserted your mother soon after you was born. I raither think that your brother Edwin must have got his wickedness from him, just as you got your goodness from your mother; but I've bin told that your father became a better man before he died, an' I can well believe it, wi' such a woman as your mother prayin' for him every day, as long as he lived. Well, when you was about six, your brother Edwin, who was then about twenty, had got so bad in his ways, an' used to kick up sitch s.h.i.+ndies in the house, an' swore so terrible, that your mother made up her mind to send you to a boardin'-school, to keep you out o' harm's way, though it nigh broke her heart; for you seemed to be the only comfort she had in life.
”About that time I was goin' a good deal about the house, bein', as I've said, a chum o' your brother. But he was goin' too fast for me, and that made me split with him. I tried at first to make him hold in a bit; but what was the use of a black sheep like me tryin' to make a white sheep o' _him_! The thing was so absurd that he laughed at it; indeed, we both laughed at it. Your mother was at that time very poorly off--made a miserable livin' by dressmakin'. Indeed, she'd have bin half starved if I hadn't given her a helpin' hand in a small way now an'
then. She was very grateful, and very friendly wi' me, for I was very fond of her, and she know'd that, bad as I was, I tried to restrain her son to some extent. So she told me about her wish to git you well out o' the house, an' axed me if I'd go an' put you in a school down at Brighton, which she know'd was a good an' a cheap one.
”Of course I said I would, for, you see, the poor thing was that hard worked that she couldn't git away from her st.i.tch-st.i.tchin', not even for an hour, much less a day. When I got down to the school, before goin' up to the door it came into my head that it would be better that the people should know you was well looked after, so says I to you, quite sudden, `Betty, remember you're to call me father when you speak about me.' You turned your great blue eyes to my face, dear la.s.s, when I said that, with a puzzled look.
”`Me sought mamma say father was far far away in other country,' says you.
”`That's true,' says I, `but I've come home from the other country, you see, so don't you forget to call me father.'
”`Vewy well, fadder,' says you, in your own sweet way, for you was always a biddable child, an' did what you was told without axin'
questions.
”Well, when I'd putt you in the school an' paid the first quarter in advance, an' told 'em that the correspondence would be done chiefly through your mother, I went back to London, puzzlin' my mind all the way what I'd say to your mother for what I'd done. Once it came into my head I would ax her to marry me--for she was a widow by that time--an'
so make the deception true. But I quickly putt that notion a one side, for I know'd I might as well ax an angel to come down from heaven an dwell wi' me in a backwoods shanty--but, after all,” said Paul, with a quiet laugh, ”I did get an angel to dwell wi' me in a backwoods shanty when I got you, Betty! Howsever, as things turned out I was saved the trouble of explainin'.
”When I got back I found your mother in a great state of excitement.
She'd just got a letter from the West Indies, tellin' her that a distant relation had died an' left her a small fortin! People's notions about the size o' fortins differs. Enough an' to spare is ocean's wealth to some. Thousands o' pounds is poverty to others. She'd only just got the letter, an' was so taken up about it that she couldn't help showin'
it to me.
”`Now,' says I, `Mrs Buxley,'--that was her name, an' your real name too, Betty--says I, `make your will right off, an putt it away safe, leavin' every rap o' that fortin to Betty, for you may depend on't, if Edwin gits wind o' this, he'll worm it out o' you, by hook or by crook-- you know he will--and go straight to the dogs at full gallop.'
”`What!' says she, `an' leave nothin' to my boy?--my poor boy, for whom I have never ceased to pray! He may repent, you know--he _will_ repent.
I feel sure of it--and then he will find that his mother left him nothing, though G.o.d had sent her a fortune.'
”`Oh! as to that,' says I, `make your mind easy. If Edwin does repent an' turn to honest ways, he's got talents and go enough in him to make his way in the world without help; but you can leave him what you like, you know, only make sure that you leave the bulk of it to Betty.'
”This seemed to strike her as a plan that would do, for she was silent for some time, and then, suddenly makin' up her mind, she said, `I'll go and ask G.o.d's help in this matter, an' then see about gettin' a lawyer-- for I suppose a thing o' this sort can't be done without one.'