Twice Bought by Robert Michael Ballantyne (uplifting book club books TXT) 📖

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 God 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 God'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.'

"`No, mum,' says I, `it can't. You may, if you choose, make a muddle of it without a lawyer, but you can't do it right without one.'

"`Can you recommend one to me?' says she.

"I was greatly tickled at the notion o' the likes o' me bein' axed to recommend a lawyer. It was so like your mother's innocence and trustfulness. Howsever, she'd come to the right shop, as it happened, for I did know a honest lawyer! Yes, Betty, from the way the world speaks, an' what's often putt in books, you'd fancy there warn't such'n a thing to be found on 'arth. But that's all bam, Betty. Leastwise I know'd one honest firm. `Yes, Mrs Buxley,' says I, `there's a firm o' the name o' Truefoot, Tickle, and Badger in the City, who can do a'most anything that's possible to man. But you'll have to look sharp, for if Edwin comes home an' diskivers what's doin', it's all up with the fortin an' Betty.'

"Well, to make a long story short, your mother went to the lawyer's, an' had her will made, leavin' a good lump of a sum to your brother, but the most of the fortin to you. By the advice o' Truefoot Tickle, and Badger, she made it so that you shouldn't touch the money till you come to be twenty-one, `for,' says she, `there's no sayin' what bad men will be runnin' after the poor thing an deceivin' her for the sake of her money before she is of an age to look after herself.' `Yes,' thought I, `an' there's no sayin' what bad men'll be runnin' after the poor thing an' deceivin' of her for the sake of her money _after_ she's of an age to look after herself,' but I didn't say that out, for your mother was excited enough and over-anxious about things, I could see that.

"Well, when the will was made out all right, she took it out of her chest one night an' read it all over to me. I could see it was shipshape, though I couldn't read a word of its crabbed letters myself.

"`Now Mrs Buxley,' says I, `where are you goin' to keep that dockiment?'

"`In my chest,' says she.

"`Won't be safe there,' says I, for I knowed her forgivin' and confidin' natur' too well, an' that she'd never be able to keep it from your brother; but, before I could say more, there was a tremendous knockin' wi' a stick at the front door. Your poor mother turned pale--she know'd the sound too well. `That's Edwin,' she says, jumpin' up an runnin' to open the door, forgetting all about the will, so I quietly folded it up an' shoved it in my pocket.

"When Edwin was comin' up stairs I know'd he was very drunk and savage by the way he was goin' on, an' when he came into the room an' saw me he gave a yell of rage. `Didn't I tell you never to show your face here again?' says he. `Just so,' says I, `but not bein' subjec' to your orders, d'ye see, I _am_ here again.'

"Wi' that he swore a terrible oath an' rushed at me, but he tripped over a footstool and fell flat on the floor. Before he could recover himself I made myself scarce an' went home.

"Next mornin', when I'd just finished breakfast a thunderin' rap came to the door. I know'd it well enough. `Now look out for squalls,' said I to myself, as I went an' opened it. Edwin jumped in, banged the door to, an' locked it.

"`You've no occasion to do that' says I, `for I don't expect no friends--not even bobbies.'

"`You double-faced villain!' says he; `you've bin robbin' my mother!'

"`Come, come,' says I, `civility, you know, between pals. What have I done to your mother?'

"`You needn't try to deceive me, Paul,' says he, tryin' to keep his temper down. `Mother's bin took bad, wi' over-excitement, the doctor says, an' she's told me all about the fortin an' the will, an' where Betty is down at Brighton.'

"`My Betty at Brighton!' says I--pretendin' great surprise, for I had a darter at that time whom I had called after your mother, for that was her name too--but she's dead, poor thing!--she was dyin' in hospital at the very time we was speakin', though I didn't know at the time that her end was so near--`my Betty at Brighton!' says I. `Why, she's in hospital. Bin there for some weeks.'

"`I don't mean _your_ brat, but my sister,' says Edwin, quite fierce. `Where have you put her? What's the name of the school? What have you done wi' the will?'

"`You'd better ax your mother,' says I. `It's likely that she knows the partiklers better nor me.'

"He lost patience altogether at this, an' sprang at me like a tiger. But I was ready for him. We had a regular set-to then an' there. By good luck there was no weapons of any kind in the room, not even a table knife, for I'd had to pawn a'most everything to pay my rent, and the clasp-knife I'd eat my breakfast with was in my pocket. But we was both handy with our fists. We kep' at it for about half an hour. Smashed all the furniture, an' would have smashed the winders too, but there was only one, an' it was a skylight. In the middle of it the door was burst open, an' in rushed half a dozen bobbies, who put a stop to it at once.

"`We're only havin' a friendly bout wi' the gloves,' says I, smilin' quite sweet.

"`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 God.

"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