Part 36 (1/2)
”`I don't see no gloves,' says the man as held me.
”`That's true,' says I, lookin' at my hands. `They must have dropped off an' rolled up the chimbly.'
”`Hallo! Edwin Buxley!' said the sargeant, lookin' earnestly at your brother; `why you've bin wanted for some time. Here, Joe! the bracelets.'
”In half a minute he was marched off. `I'll have your blood, Paul, for this,' he said bitterly, looking back as he went out.
”As _I_ wasn't `wanted' just then, I went straight off to see your mother, to find out how much she had told to Edwin, for, from what he had said, I feared she must have told all. I was anxious, also, to see if she'd bin really ill. When I got to the house I met a nurse who said she was dyin', an' would hardly let me in, till I got her persuaded I was an intimate friend. On reachin' the bedroom I saw by the looks o'
two women who were standin' there that it was serious. And so it was, for there lay your poor mother, as pale as death; her eyes closed and her lips white; but there was a sweet, contented smile on her face, and her thin hands clasped her well-worn Bible to her breast.”
Paul Bevan stopped, for the poor girl had burst into tears. For a time he was silent and laid his heavy hand gently on her shoulder.
”I did not ventur' to speak to her,” he continued, ”an' indeed it would have been of no use, for she was past hearin'. A few minutes later and her gentle spirit went up to G.o.d.
”I had no time now to waste, for I knew that your brother would give information that might be bad for me, so I asked the nurse to write down, while I repeated it, the lawyer's address.
”`Now,' says I, `go there an' tell 'em what's took place. It'll be the better for yourself if you do.' An' then I went straight off to Brighton.”
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.
”Well, you must know,” said Paul Bevan, continuing his discourse to the Rose of Oregon, ”when I got to Brighton I went to the school, told 'em that your mother was just dead, and brought you straight away. I wasn't an hour too soon, for, as I expected, your brother had given information, an' the p'lice were on my heels in a jiffy, but I was too sharp for 'em. I went into hidin' in London; an' you've no notion, Betty, what a rare place London is to hide in! A needle what takes to wanderin' in a haystack ain't safer than a feller is in London, if he only knows how to go about the business.
”I lay there nigh three months, durin' which time my own poor child Betty continued hoverin' 'tween life an death. At last, one night when I was at the hospital sittin' beside her, she suddenly raised her sweet face, an fixin' her big eyes on me, said--
”`Father, I'm goin' home. Shall I tell mother that you're comin'?'
”`What d'ye mean, my darlin'?' says I, while an awful thump came to my heart, for I saw a great change come over her.
”`I'll be there soon, father,' she said, as her dear voice began to fail; `have you no message for mother?'
”I was so crushed that I couldn't speak, so she went on--
”`You'll come--won't you, father? an' we'll be so glad to welcome you to heaven. An' so will Jesus. Remember, He is the only door, father, no name but that of Jesus--' She stopped all of a sudden, and I saw that she had gone home.
”After that” continued Paul, hurrying on as if the memory of the event was too much for him, ”havin' nothin' to keep me in England, I came off here to the gold-fields with you, an' brought the will with me, intendin', when you came of age, to tell you all about it, an' see justice done both to you an' to your brother, but--”
”Fath--Paul,” said Betty, checking herself, ”that brown parcel you gave me long ago with such earnest directions to keep it safe, and only to open it if you were killed, is--”
”That's the will, my dear.”
”And Edwin--does he think that I am your real daughter Betty?”
”No doubt he does, for he never heard of her bein' dead, and he never saw you since you was quite a little thing, an' there's a great change on you since then--a wonderful change.”
”Yes, fath--Oh! it is so hard to lose my father,” said Betty, almost breaking down, and letting her hands fall listlessly into her lap.
”But why lose him, Betty? I did it all for the best,” said Paul, gently taking hold of one of the poor girl's hands.
She made a slight motion to withdraw it, but checked herself and let it rest in the man's rough but kindly grasp, while tears silently coursed down her rounded cheeks. Presently she looked up and said--