Part 3

Replacing the watch, she disappeared with the light into the passage. As the door closed, a man's face glanced stealthily in at the window, and the next moment a rough figure in a long overcoat had crept unobserved into the room.

"Ladies shouldn't leave their jewellery so tempting-like in a poor man's way," he muttered. "What else can they expect but to find their trinkets gone when they come back? Serves 'em right for dangling them in front of a fellow's nose!"

He made his way cautiously to the table and groped about with his hands until he found what he wanted. "Gold!" he ejaculated, "I'm pretty sure of it by the feel, and a gent's too, by the size of it; not to speak of a good thick chain that'll bring in a nice little sum by itself."

He slipped his spoils into the pocket of his coat, and stood pondering for a moment.

"Is there nothing else that I could nab?" he said to himself. "Silver spoons aren't usually found in country lodgings, so it's no use looking in the sideboard, but I think I caught sight of a missionary-box on the mantelpiece which might be worth enquiring into, seeing there's not much else to bag.

"Ha! Pretty heavy!" he added, as he weighed the box is his hand. "With no disrespect to the missionary, I'll relieve him from having to dispose of too much wealth. Pennies, no doubt, mostly, but they tell no tales, and come in handy for a drink."

As he was in the act of putting the box into his other pocket, he saw to his dismay that the light was again approaching the door.

"I've particular reasons for not showing my attractive face in this neighbourhood, lady," he continued under his breath, "so with your leave I'll decline the pleasure of making your acquaintance this evening, and go back by the way I came."

He made his way hastily to the window, and was in the act of getting out, when the light of the lamp flashed out over the garden from the porch.

Madelaine had found her little son fast asleep in the tiny room which opened off her own, and her motherly anxiety being allayed, her thoughts turned again to outside dangers.

"I'll close the parlour window," she said, "as it's getting late, just in case there might be some one loitering about."

By experience she had discovered that to do this efficiently it was necessary to push the sash up from outside, so placing the lamp on the porch-seat, she walked a few steps along the path which led by the front of the cottage, and proceeded to shut up the casement with a bang. The stranger had just time to withdraw his hands from the sill, and to start back into the darkness of the room.

"Look out there!" he growled low to himself, "I don't want to leave the tip of one of my fingers in exchange for what I've taken. Now," he added, "the question is--how shall I get out of this hole? My knowledge of old Mother Sheppard's diggings in the past ought to serve me in good stead to-night. If I can only manage to slip into the dark passage that leads to the kitchen, I know there's a capital hidey-hole under the stairs, where I've lain in ambush as a boy, and into which I expect I could squeeze again at a pinch."

Sure enough, before Madelaine had re-entered the house and reached the sitting-room with her lamp, the intruder had gained the coveted refuge, and was crouching down unseen within the recess. Here he remained, cramped and silent, until the last sounds had died away in the house, and the uneasy watcher had laid herself down to rest. Not till then did he creep forth from his shelter and make his way to the kitchen, into which he walked as one intimate with the place.

"Mother Sheppard generally had a shakedown in the room at the side," he soliloquized. "If she's as deaf as she used to be, there's not much fear of disturbing her, even if I dance a hornpipe on the table. Anyway, there's no doubt she's a good sleeper, judging by the noise she makes over it. Sounds more like a concert of tin whistles and drums, than one old woman snoring!"

The burglar peeped in at the half-open door, and by the light which came from the still flickering fire in the kitchen, he made out the humble couch whereon Mrs. Sheppard lay.

"Wonder if she keeps her hoard under her pillow," he continued. "They say these skinflints usually do. Anyhow it's worth a search, and I'll hope for a bit of good fortune this time."

He went up to the bed and gently inserted his hand beneath the bolster, on which reposed the aged head with its close-fitting nightcap and neat grey hair.

"Nothing there!" he said. "Perhaps it's under the mattress. I'll have one more try, and then I'll go."

If a flash-light had been turned at that moment suddenly upon the scene, it would have disclosed the evil look of triumph which just then rested on the man's face. With a sardonic grin he withdrew his arm, clutching in his hand a leather bag, tied tightly up with knotted string. Returning to the kitchen, he quietly let himself out by the back door, after having feasted royally upon goodly slices of the bread and ham which he found so conveniently ready to his use in the old dame's cupboard.

"Now, where are those two nice fat ducks I collared so cleverly before I went round to the front?" he said. "One of them nearly gave me away when I cotched it round the neck. I thought some one would be sure to hear its parting quack. I'll be off with them and the rest of the swag to Westmarket, before the sun is up, and amuse myself there for a few days, before coming back here to pay my respects to the old man. No one saw me to-night, and if I turn up like a good innocent prodigal son in a week's time, not a soul will connect me with this neat little job."

It would indeed be difficult to decide which of the three inhabitants of the cottage was most distressed when the morning revealed to them their loss.

Poor old Mrs. Sheppard sat rocking herself to and fro in her chair by the kitchen fire, her hands over her face, and the tears streaming down her shrivelled cheeks. "It's all my little savin's as have gone," she moaned, "every mortal halfpenny as I've worked so hard to put by. There's naught to keep me out of the workhouse now--not even enough to bury me, if so be as I die of a broken heart to-night."

"I don't believe I should mourn the theft of all the money I have in the house as I do that of the watch," said Madelaine, as for the twentieth time she hunted in every likely and unlikely place in hopes that she might absently have laid it down somewhere the night before. "That which my dear husband always wore, and which was sent to me after he was dead! It may be silly of me, but the face of that watch seemed to me as the face of a friend. It comforted me when I looked at it, and made me feel nearer my lost one than anything else."

As for Robin, he was inconsolable. To think that his beloved Lily and Snowball should have been carried off! His two special pets who were so tame they would follow him all round the garden and eat out of his hand! It was too dreadful to think that their pretty sleek necks had been wrung, and that they would be plucked and eaten like any common barndoor fowl. Such a possibility had never before entered his head. To him they were only the beautiful creatures which the good God had created for his special joy. It is to be feared that the disappearance of the missionary-box sank into comparative insignificance beside this larger grief.

It was vain to recount their woes to the stolid village policeman who came pompously to enquire and make elaborate notes of all.

"He's been a clever fellow, that!" was the verdict. "But whoever he is, he's got clear away, and left no clue either. It's a mystery, m'am, and a mystery it will remain for ever."

"It's a pity I've just come a few days too late," said Benjamin Green, old Timothy's son, as he sat taking a glass at the "Bull Inn," the Saturday after the burglary. "Hopeless stick-in-the-muds you are in this out-of-the-way place. If you want to be wakened up it's to America you should go, where I've been all these years. Away there, they'd have hunted the scapegrace out in no time, aye, and strung him up on the nearest tree too, for daring to rob widows and children in that heartless manner. If only I'd been here in time, I bet you I'd have found him for you! It's just my luck only to have arrived to-day."

"Have you been up to see your old father yet, Green?" asked one of the men.

"No," answered Ben. "I thought I'd fortify myself here before setting out for the affecting interview. It's not every day that a long-lost son returns home, and I always feel the better for a dram."

"What be you a-going to do with him, now you've come back?" continued his questioner. "Be you going to leave him to tumble over the crag along with the house, or be you going to make him move, and take Squire Field's offer before it be too late?"

"What offer is that?" asked Ben. "I haven't heard of it before."

"Mean to say you've been half an hour in the place, and nobody's told you how the squire says he'll give old Timothy one hundred pounds for the bit of ground he owns on the top of the cliff? Which sum he'll pay in solid gold the day the old man quits the house. They say he's wild to pull down the whole place seeing as how it spoils the view from his grand windows."

Ben whistled.

"I've not been up to see my father yet, but I warrant you, he'll not stay much longer in yonder cottage if that's the way the wind blows. One hundred pounds in solid gold! What can the old chap be dreaming of? Why on earth didn't he move the same hour as the offer came?"

"Says he'll never budge till he's carried out feet foremost," replied another of the company.

"There's no use argufying with him. He's wonderful firm."

"It's not argument I'll use," answered Ben. "It's common sense first, and then force, if need be. You tell me the house may fall on to the beach any day now, and if that happens Mr. Field may cancel his bid for the land. Of course one might draw him again by threatening to build another house a little further back, but that's a risk. If the offer is in writing it would be safer to hold him to it now, so long as the walls are there. Catch me losing a hundred pounds for the sake of an old man's fads. I'll go up to-night, and we'll soon see who's got the strongest will!"

It was a strangely assorted pair that sat opposite each other in the little cottage on the cliff that evening.

Ben's countenance was dark with passion, and his eyes were fixed with a vicious scowl upon his father's frail shrinking form.

"You say you'll not move," he shouted. "You dare tell me that, and a hundred pounds at stake."

"I dare," was the answer, and the quavering voice seemed to take on a new strength as he said the words. "Never will I sleep under any roof but this. Here was I born, and here will I die, and no man has a right to say me nay. Many a time have I prayed for thee, Ben, and longed to see thee again, my only child, but for such a home-coming as this did I never reckon. It had been better that you had never returned at all. Go now, and leave your old father to die in peace, alone with God."

For a moment, even Ben's rough spirit was checked as he heard the quiet decision come from the pale thin lips.

The old man looked up with calm and reproachful eyes into his son's face. "I'm in the Hand of the Almighty," he added. "I'm not afraid."

As he spoke, a sudden sound like the report of a gun made the two men look round, and Ben involuntarily took a few steps in the direction of the door.

"Why, it's a great crack just come in the ceiling beyond the passage," he exclaimed. "The next thing will be that the wall itself will be down. If you don't think it worth while saving your own neck, I certainly shan't risk mine a minute longer. But you needn't flatter yourself that the last word has been said. If the house is still standing to-morrow morning I'll be up by sunrise to carry you out bodily, with or without leave, it matters not to me, and I'll see to it that the money's paid--cash down--before that same sun has set."

With an oath, Ben hastily quitted the house and went back to console himself in the hospitable parlour of "The Bull," where he aired his grievances before an admiring and sympathizing group, only too glad to drink at his expense to the success of his desires.

*CHAPTER VI*

*That Terrible Eye*

The sun rose on Sunday morning in a cloudless sky, and as the day wore on, continued to pour down his golden beams upon the earth.

The bells of the little church rang out their invitation to the villagers to come and worship in the house of prayer, and from far and near quiet groups of country folk wended their way through leafy lanes and ripening cornfields to hold their tryst with God. Robin and his mother were there betimes, and old Mrs. Sheppard took her seat as usual in the foremost pew, her shawl pinned across her stooping shoulders and her old-fashioned bonnet tied with large black ribbon bows under her chin.

Service ended, the little knots of worshippers scattered once more in pleasant anticipation of the Sunday dinner awaiting them at their journey's end, and the hot afternoon wore on to its close, its silence broken only by the low murmur of the tide upon the beach.

The sun was now nearing the end of his giant's race across the sky, but old Timothy still sat peaceful and unmolested in his cottage upon the cliff, untroubled by the angry threats hurled at him by his son the night before.

The truth was that Ben was in no state that Sabbath morning either to carry out his designs against his father or to think again of the tempting bait held out by Mr. Field. His time in the "Bull Inn" the preceding evening had been only too zealously employed, and all that long summer day he lay a useless and helpless log in an upstairs chamber of the little hostelry, sleeping off the effects of his night's excesses.

Another inhabitant there was of that seaside village to whom this day had been a blank. For Julius, the lonely child of Farncourt, Sunday brought no pleasant memories. The Sabbath bells meant nothing to him, for Mr. Field had long since given up church-going, and his little son connected the day only with the dreary fact that even the gardeners and grooms would be away during all the long and cheerless hours.

On this particular afternoon he felt more than usually dull. The glimpse he had got of Robin and his happy home interests made him long to share again in the latter's pursuits. Neither his rabbits nor his dog seemed altogether satisfying after having once tasted the joy of a congenial friend.

"I'll go down to the Cottage," he said to himself, "and see how Peter is getting on in his new hutch. I know father's gone off in the motor to call at the earl's, and he can't be back for an hour at least, so I'm pretty safe not to be caught."

There was no one in the garden as he walked up the little path, but just as he reached the door of the house Robin rushed out with a paint-box in his hand.

"Hullo, Julius, is that you?" he said, coming suddenly to a stand.

"Hullo, Robin," was the reply. "How's Peter?"

Without more ado the two boys made their way to the rabbit's dwelling, and stood for a few moments wrapt in contemplation of their joint handiwork.

"I mustn't keep mother waiting any longer," said Robin at last. "I'm going to paint a text while she reads to me. We're sitting in the summer-house, as it's so hot in the sun."

"What do you mean by painting a text?" asked Julius. "I thought texts were in the Bible."

"You _are_ funny, Julius," replied Robin. "Of course they're in the Bible, but these are printed on cards in nice big letters with borders and flowers. I'm allowed to paint them on Sunday, and they're really jolly to do."

It was not long before Julius was introduced to the series of large outline texts which Robin displayed with pride and the eager energy which characterized his every action.

"If you like," he said, "perhaps mother will let you paint one with her colours. She's lent me her paint-box as it's so much better than mine."

"I've got a far finer one than that," remarked Julius, "with ever so many more paints in it."

Robin looked up in surprise at the unmannerly comment, but his mother signed to him to pass it by, and spread out the texts for the boys to choose.

"I find there are two exactly alike," she said, "suppose you each take one, and we'll see who gets on the better."

Robin read out the words as she held them up for him to see.

"The eyes of the LORD are in every place, beholding the evil and the good."

"That's my favourite verse," he added. "Let's paint that."

"I don't think that's at all a nice one," said Julius. "I don't want God's eyes to be always looking down at me, seeing everything I do."

"It just depends on how you feel about God," said Mrs. Power, "whether you look upon Him as your enemy or as your friend. You remind me of two little stories I once heard. I'll tell them to you and then you'll understand what I mean.

"There was once a prisoner who had been sentenced to solitary confinement in a gaol. He was condemned to live for months in a cell with no window except a tiny grated one so high up in the wall that he could not see out of it. It was bad enough to be obliged to endure this, but there was something else which made it much worse. In the door of the cell a little round hole had been made, and behind it a jailor was always stationed so that he could look in through the hole and watch the prisoner."

"How horrid!" exclaimed Robin. "I wonder how he could bear it."

"The thought of that eye always upon him and taking note of everything that he did, nearly drove the poor captive mad," continued his mother. "Sometimes he would dash up suddenly to the little aperture and thrust his face close to it, if by this means he could perhaps startle the jailor and make him withdraw if only for a moment from the unceasing watch. 'That terrible eye,' he would call it, when he was at length released, and could recount his experiences to his friends."

"I'm sure God's eye is terrible," said Julius. "It makes me frightened when I think of it."

"Listen to the second story then," answered Mrs. Power, "and you'll see the other side.

"My mother used to tell me that when she was quite a little girl she was dreadfully afraid of two things--a brindled cow that had been known to run at a child, and the butcher's large black dog. My grandfather's cottage was at the side of the road, and there was a straight piece that led from its door to a small shop just at the entrance of the village. You could see the entire length from the corner of the garden, and it would not take you more than five minutes to run the whole way between the two houses. One day my mother was sent to fetch some groceries which had been ordered at the store, and as the sister who usually went with her was ill, she had to go alone. Now this was very alarming to her, as the brindled cow's field lay beside the road, and she had never been quite so far by herself before. 'Don't be silly, Lizzie,' said her father, who was smoking in the porch. 'You're getting too big a girl to be frightened at nothing. I'll watch as you go along and see that no harm comes to you.' So off she started with her pennies in her hand, and a very anxious little heart beating beneath her white pinafore. To her dismay, just when she had got about half-way, the head of the brindled cow appeared above the hedge, and a moment later the creature had forced its way through and was standing in the lane. The child turned, and would have fled homewards, but there, trotting leisurely towards her in the middle of the path, whom should she see but none other than her second enemy, the butcher's dog."

"What did she do?" asked Robin breathlessly. "Did she climb up a tree and get safe?"

"There was no tree to climb," replied Mrs. Power. "The only thing she could do was to crouch down, crying and trembling on the ground, and try to hide herself under the brambles by the road-side. Her one thought was, 'I'm so glad father's looking, for he'll be sure to come and help.' Sure enough before either the brindled cow or the dog had reached the spot where she lay, her father's hearty voice was calling to her not to fear, and the next moment she was safe in his strong arms, clinging to him with all her tiny might."

"What a good thing he kept his promise and didn't forget to watch!" exclaimed Julius. "Supposing he'd been looking the other way when the cow got out!"

"There's my lesson," said Mrs. Power, smiling. "To know that her father's eye was following her all the time was the greatest comfort she had. It is just the same with us in regard to God. If we look on Him as our kind, loving Father and Friend, ready to help and to save, it will only give us joy to think of His watchful eye upon us, noticing everything that happens to us. It will make us more careful than ever not to displease Him, but all the same it will cause us to feel very safe and happy. It is a perfectly different case to that of the poor prisoner living in constant dread of the terrible eye of his jailor."

"I think I'll paint the verse after all," remarked Julius after a pause, in which the boys had been silently considering the matter.

"I'd like to feel God was my Friend," he said to himself as he walked home. "But all the same there's a heap of things I wouldn't like Him to see."

Mr. Field drove up in the motor as Julius arrived at the door. A glance at his face showed the boy that his father had not returned in the best of tempers. His eyebrows were drawn together in a nervous frown, and his voice, as he gave some orders to the chauffeur, was harsh and imperious.

"Did you see the earl?" asked Julius.

"No, I didn't," was the abrupt reply. "Don't come bothering me with questions, Julius. I haven't time to listen to your chatter just now."

The truth was that Mr. Field's visit to Lanthorne Abbey had not turned out so successful as he had expected it to be. The interview with Judge Simmons had given him the opportunity to call which he had so long and vainly sought, and it was under pretext of seeing him once more that he had set off that day.

"I'll be certain to find them all in on Sunday afternoon," he meditated, as he made his plans, "and as I know the judge is leaving to-morrow early, it will only look neighbourly if I run over to give him a few more tips about that mine before he goes."

It was therefore a great disappointment to him to find that the earl was not at home, it being his invariable custom to walk over to tea with his mother every week, at the Dower House about two miles away, where she had resided ever since his father's death. The countess too was absent, so he was told, when he enquired for her.

Only Judge Simmons was in, and his manner towards his visitor was chilling, to say the least of it. Mr. Field could not get rid of the impression that the American was trying to read him like some enigmatical book, of which the title-page had given him a distaste. It was with feelings of relief that he once more found himself leaning back in his car, and speeding swiftly down the long avenue.

"Queer fellow, that judge," he mused. "I was rather an idiot to run my head against him unnecessarily. I'd sooner have his room than his company any day."

It was not till Julius came to say good-night that his father deigned to take notice of him again.

"Well, what have you been doing with yourself, my boy?" he said. "I've hardly set eyes on you since morning. Been up to any mischief, eh?"

"I wish I had," answered Julius, "but I've no such luck. It's awfully dull, father, playing all alone."